Summary: The war between the Greens and the Blacks has begun and the youngest of the Stark heirs is sent on a secret mission to King's Landing. In its course, she will learn to accept the power that was never meant to be hers and the love she never thought she deserved.
Tags & warnings: 18+ only; enemies to lovers, slow burn, angst, fluff, smut; explicit adult content, swearing, explicit depictions of violence, unhealthy relationships, systemic sexism, patriarchy. Heed additional tags and warnings in each chapter.
series
Scratch That | Ao3 | Aemond Targaryen x Sister!Reader
Part 1: Scratch That
Summary: His sweet little sister has an itch only he can scratch.
Tags & warnings: 18+ only; smut, fluff; Targcest/incest, sexually suggestive underage thoughts and behavior, grooming, Perv!Aemond, Manipulative!Aemond, purity culture, Aemond likes that she is naive and takes advantage of it.
Summary: A tough week of classes has made you tense and stressed. There’s really only one thing that can help you let go and relax.
Tags & warnings: 18+ only; fluff, smut; filthy explicit sexual content, unprotected oral sex, slut-shaming/degradation kink, rough oral sex, rough sex, slight dom/sub dynamics, very light spanking, too many pet names.
Laced | Ao3 | Tom Holland x Reader
Summary: Entry for @worldoftom’s writing challenge #lolbrosgetsicktoo. Based on the following prompt:
» NSFW! Tom has some tummy issues and misses y/n's bday party. He is feeling really sad about it, so after the party is over he video chats with her. She asks him if he'd like to see all the presents she got for her bday. He says yes. Turns out she also got some sexy lingerie. Cheeky Tom, now feeling a bit better, asks her if she can put them on for him to watch. And she does. note: it can be either sexy video chat time or 'i'll be over at yours in a bit, don't take that off’
Tags & warnings: 18+ only; fluff; smut; very explicit sexual language, heavy dirty talk, phone sex, masturbation.
blurbs
Flying Fun | Ao3 | Tom Holland x Reader
Summary: You’re flying to the next press location with Tom and a few members of his crew and you all have too much free time on your hands.
Tags & warnings: 18+ only; fluff; crack; explicit sexual language.
summary: after the incident at the brothel, Aegon sends his brother a gift to make amends. but who would want an apple after someone has already taken a bite?
tags: aemondxf!reader, fingering, hand job, m!oral, virgin bedding, brothel worker, aemond being kind of a bully but it's just aemond really, references to madam sylvi, mild references to voyeurism.
You weren’t sure what you were supposed to be doing. Should you lay down? Sit alluringly amongst the furs? Should you be sitting at all?
It was your first time doing this, which seemed unbelievable for a woman who worked in a brothel. But everyone had to start somewhere, right? It had to be the first time some time. Yours was supposed to be some weeks from now. Madam Sylvi selecting your maiden bid date and starting to pass the word around to her most loyal, valued customers that you would be on the docket soon. The chatter was quite electric. Maiden bids, to be a lady’s first time, were highly sought after. Even in brothels. It had been sometime since the Madam had had one for a new girl; or a girl that was untouched.
Yet, despite the anticipation, the Madam appeared in your room one night and let you know that your services were needed. Next thing you knew you had been dressed in some of your finest attire and whisked away into the night for parts unknown. Coming to realize after your blindfold was removed that you were in the palace.
In the quiet dark you sit patiently. Picking at the sheer fabric of your dress. An odd whisper of cloth that covered yet left nearly all revealed. It was meant to be enticing and did nothing for the chill in the air. Perhaps you could wrap yourself in a blanket quickly. You could look alluring in a blanket, right? Surely blue skin was not appealing at all.
Suddenly, the doors open. The loud bang of the heavy wood startling you as your pulse quickened. The rush of adrenaline warming you up quickly.
A man came into the room as the doors closed behind him. His pace slowing as his gaze landed on you, the stranger in his bed. “How are you?”
“I…I uh…” You forget your own name for a moment as you stare back at the hard, fierce looking face of Aemond Targaryen. You recognize him from his visits to the Madam. Suddenly recognizing the gravity of the situation of her sending you here and what personal request might have had you brought to him.
Quickly, you remember your name and give it to him. Along with a note the Madam had given you before your departure.
The prince studied you for a moment with his single sharp eye, before he stepped forward quick to snatch the note from your hand and read it. “A gift from my brother.” He summarized with a sneer. “An apology. He sent you to me?”
“I…I don’t know…” Truly, you did not know until this moment under what circumstances brought you here.
There was a sharp, quick sound of heavy boots across the floor, and suddenly your face was in Aemond’s large hand. Gripping it hard as he turned it up towards him. “And I am supposed to be impressed with this? Thrown his scraps and say thank you.” His fingers dig into your cheek hard enough to cause tears to prick at your eyes. “Who would want an apple after someone has already taken a bite?”
“N-No on has taken a bite, your grace.” Your words are muddled through the forced pucker of your lips, but the prince seemed to understand enough to let you go. You look up at him cautiously before explaining further. “Madam Sylvi selected me specifically for that reason, your grace.”
Aemond examined you again. Seeming to look for any hesitation or tick of a lie. “She did, did she?” You nod your head fervently. “And no one has touched you?” You shook your head.
He examined you again. This time more than just your face as he looked you up and down. His face was placid. His expression hard to read as you were taught because he barely had any. “Alright.” He finally said. “Turn around.”
You blink in confusion but then slowly turn your back on the prince. You stare at the intricate design of the headboard in the dark as you hear the rustle of clothing & buckles behind you. The bed shifts. You force yourself to stay put and cautiously to look over your shoulder to see what was going on. Stiff and frightened, as if looking back might turn you into a stone.
It does not, however, and the prince is now sitting beside you in the bed. His back against the headboard and pillows. His eye patch gone to reveal his sapphire catching the low light in the dark. Naked. “You are untouched but not untrained, I take it?” You nod again slowly. “Well then, get to work.”
You gulp softly and slowly crawl over to the prince’s side of the bed. Aemond was correct. You were untouched but not untrained. Madam Sylvi would not send her girls out into the world unprepared. Their safety and her reputation depended on client satisfaction. You had been trained in all manner of ways to please a man. Conversation, music, and of course your body. Every man is different, she told you once, what they need can change as quick as the wind blows. You must be prepared, she said.
As you get closer, the prince parted his legs, and you can tell what he needs now. Carefully you reach out to grasp him. Shy and tentative. His cock was limp but stirring at the touch of your hand. It was warmer than the marble phalluses you had to practice on. More malleable too. “You really are untouched, aren’t you?”
You turn to look at the prince at his question, that was not really a question, and blush in shame. “Am I…not doing it right?”
“No.” Disappointment filled you at his harsh criticism. “Your hand is clumsy, and too soft.” The prince sighed through his nose and pushed his hair back. “Try your mouth.”
Your blush deepened and eyes went a little wide at the blunt request. But you had been trained for this. You should feel lucky that he even asked instead of just shoving your head down there like some clients did with the girls.
Grasping the partially aroused shaft at the base you adjusted yourself down until you were eye to eye with it. The first cock you would have in your mouth. You gulp again and carefully flick out your tongue to lick the tip. Nothing happened. You do it again and again, nothing changes. So you wrap your lips around it fully and give it a suckle.
“You’re clumsy at this too.” Aemond criticized again by the time you fit most of it in your mouth. “You probably can’t even take all of me. And you don’t even know what to do with your teeth.” You whimper pathetically. Feeling ashamed and embarrassed. “What manner of whore will you make if you can’t even do this?”
You pulled back from the prince’s member. All wet and breathy. Not nearly as demure as the other girls made it look. “Do you wish me to stop…your grace?”
He looked at you for a long moment. His head lulling to the side to look at you with his good eye. “I didn’t say that.”
There was a flutter in your chest and stomach. Something that shouldn’t be there for a woman whose manner of profession this is, but you couldn’t help it. You lower your mouth back down on his member and get to work again. “You need practice.” The prince told you. His hand reaching out to brush the hair from your face. Pushing it to the side so he could get a better view. “But you’re not…terrible.” The small hitch in his breath as he spoke filled you with glee. Almost as much as the praise.
Joining your hand with your mouth you continue to work over the prince’s cock. It was incredibly hard now. Much like the marble you had practiced with. You taste salt and musk on your tongue, which you have been told is a sign a man is near climax, and you weren’t sure what to do. Were you supposed to pull back? Just use your hand to keep going. Should you ask?
It was a moot point as not long after the hint of salt hit your tongue the full wave burst against it. Your mouth quickly overloaded with cock and cum. It caught you by surprise. You weren’t sure what to do, so you just swallowed.
“Did you swallow that?” The prince asked as you pulled away from his cock. Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.
“Well…it seemed rude to spit it out, your grace.” Aemond scoffed at your bashful honesty but smirked.
“Lie down.” You do as you are told, and the prince came over to your side of the bed now. Looming over you in the dark. “Spread your legs.” You do as you are told again. The sheer fabric of your dress falling between them before Aemond pushed it aside and exposed your apex. “Sylvi taught me a few things as well.” Your breath caught and back arched a little as his fingers brushed against you. Soft at first. Then one long, thin digit sliding in.
“You really are untouched, aren’t you?” The prince seemed surprised as his finger worked inside you. “You can lie about your skills and be a poor actor, but you cannot lie about this.” You whine as another finger slid inside you to stretch.
“I…I wouldn’t lie your grace…”
Aemond scoffed. “Please. Your profession is lying.” You whimper and squirm as his thumb brushed against the bundle at the top of your sex. “But you cannot lie to me.”
His fingers continued to please you. The wet slick of your sex running out. Your breath quickening. Your nipples hard and pointed against the sheer fabric. You dare not look at the prince as your eyes twisted shut in pleasure. “Spread your legs wider.”
You force your eyes open. Looking at the prince and his hard body between your knees. The terrifying hard lines softening in your mind at the warm feelings swirling in your body to think of alabaster in the light. You shift your legs further apart and Aemond slid further into them. “Don’t be afraid.” He told you. You weren’t sure why. Maybe because so many people were afraid of him.
The head of his cock kiss your entrance, then pushed in past your opening. It hurt, but Madam Sylvi had prepared you for this. It hurt much less than you expected since Aemond had opened you; a blessing most women at their first did not receive. Still his member was much larger than his fingers and there was a burning stretch as he entered you fully.
“You’re a woman now.” The prince told you once he was fully seated in your cunny. “How does it feel?”
“G-Good…” Men liked to hear that it felt good.
“Liar.”
The prince pulled back and thrust into you. You yip at the pain of the movement, but it continues. A burning pain but not entirely unpleasant. The longer it goes on the less of the pain there was. You grip on to Aemond’s shoulder and try to roll your hips back against him. It was clumsy, like the rest of your practice, but he at least groans. “How does it feel now?”
“Good…” You weren’t lying this time or playing it up for his benefit. “Good your grace.”
“Good.”
He kissed you, which was not something you were supposed to do. Kissing was for lovers. Brothels were for sex. That was what you were told. But when a prince wants to kiss you, you have to abide, right? What the client wants after all….
You let go of Aemond lips with a moan as you felt his fingers on your nub again. “Have you ever cum before?”
“Y-Yes…mhm!” Part of your training was to be versed in your own pleasure. Though you were untouched there were other ways you could make money for the brothel. Self-pleasure shows were quite popular with some men. Eager to watch and pleasure themselves with their own hands.
“Has a man ever made you cum?”
“N-No.”
“Then I will be your first for that as well.”
His cock and fingers continue to ravage your sex. Overwhelming you with pleasure. Your writhe and buck against Aemond despite yourself. Awash in ecstasy before the seas finally crash on your body as you tremble violently. “My prince!”
There was a grunt from Aemond before his hips finally stopped. In your fog you feel something warm & wet spill out of you onto the fine bedding. His seed inside you. Would you get pregnant? You heard there were girls in the past who his brother had ruined this way. That they were carried off to parts unknown with their Waters. You were suddenly afraid. Would that happen to you?
“Do you know how you are getting back?” Aemond suddenly asked you.
Your thoughts return to the present and you realize that you are done. The prince sat with his legs off the side of the bed with his back partially towards you. His good eye on the opposite side.
You nod but realize he can’t see you. “Yes, your grace. I do.” There was a panel outside the hall you were to return to. Your escort was to be waiting there for you to take you back to the Streets of Silk and back home to Madam Sylvi.
The prince gave a grunt and sat there for a moment before he stood. “See to it that you are gone when I return.” He then walked naked into another room through another hidden panel, and you were alone again. The room suddenly felt colder than it had before all this.
Gathering yourself, you come off the bed with a little hop and wince at the pain between your legs. Nothing you couldn’t manage but noticeable. You then make your way back towards the secret panel, let yourself be blindfolded, and escorted home. When the blindfold was removed you were back in the warm low light of the brothel with the Madam standing there in front of you.
“How was it my dear?” She asked as she handed you a warm cup.
“It was…fine.” You tell her. Taking the cup and drinking it.
“Good girl. Discretion is the better part of our service.” She told you. “Now, drink your Tea and get a bath. You will have the morrow to rest and prepare. You will be on the docket come six suns pass.”
As you looked into your tea cup you now realized this was your life. Taking men into your service. Taking men into your body. You knew that before you came here but it all seemed so real now. You felt overwhelmed. You felt you might cry.
“Madam.”
The lady in question turned when a new man appearance in their enclave. Dressed as a pauper but doing a poor job of it. He handed the Madam a note and then left as quickly as he had appeared.
Madam Sylvi read the note, scoffed, and then seemed a little miffed as she turned to you. “Well, it seems your training was not all for naught.” She told you. “Prince Aemond has requested that you be his private paramour moving forward. How nice.”
“Private?”
“It means you will be the highest paid, least working woman in my employee, girl.” The Madam clipped and crumpled the note before throwing it into the fire. “Just don’t forget who got you here.” She then left with a flourish of her cloaks. Leaving you alone with your tea and a bath and presumably to get some rest.
You just stood there dumbfounded.
You were to be Aemond’s private paramour now? All of a sudden? The only one you knew him to frequent was the Madam herself, hence her ire. You grip your teacup and down the rest of it fully. While your stomach still had the nerve.
A tenday later you were dressed in another fine, sheer garment, waiting in a private room of the brothel when the prince arrived. “I’ve come to further your training.” He said as he took off his belt. “Let’s get started.”
Aemond Targaryen x Venice Targaryen (sisterwife!reader)
Despite her marriage with Aemond, Venice normally seeks comfort and love in her other brothers arms. Until Aemond suddenly comes up with a wicked idea...
warnings: incest, (oral) sex, cheating, swear words
author's note: hey, sweet people! i haven't actually finished the show yet, so I'm asking you (very hopefully) that you'll kindly ignore if storywise my oneshot doesn't make sense. another thing is that english isn't my first language, so I apologize in advance for any spelling or grammar mistakes. aside from all that, I hope you enjoy reading it. Much love 🤍 Lana.
"Are you anywhere near close?"
Her brother pulled his head back with a frown and tilted it to the side. The expression in his eyes was nothing short of confused, but there was a hint of pain there, she could tell.
"I cannot remember a time before when you asked me something like that", he murmured and averted his gaze.
Wonderful. Just wonderful.
Venice quickly tipped up his chin, her touch gentle and affectionate.
"You know that is not how I meant it", she muttered. "But Aemond might come back any minute now."
It was no secret that Aemond spent most of his time in either the training yard or the library. But sometimes, on rare occasions like that day or well, in the evenings, he managed to make his way back to his sister-wife, obviously one thing in mind.
Conceive.
So far, it hadn't worked. It had been nearly two years of trying. She would have lied, had she claimed to be displeased about it. Having a child, an heir, with Aemond wasn't exactly her dream. But sometimes she asked herself if maybe there was something wrong with her...With her body. Or her soul. Did the Gods think she wouldn't make a good mother, so they kept her from becoming one? Venice wanted children. Desperately. Just not with Aemond. But that wasn't up for debate, since Alicent made it so abundantly clear that they were to wed. And that was the end of it. Which it was. Except, it didn't really end things between Venice and Aegon.
"Fucking hell", Aegon murmured and rolled off of her, his gaze directed at the ceiling. His chest rose and fell hard with each breath and his eyes were nearly unfocused as he kept his gaze averted.
"Please, I...That is truly not how I meant it", she said gently and attempted to touch his cheek. He caught her wrist in a firm grip before she could and he turned to face her.
"Is he still fucking you every night?"
She felt her face flush at the bluntness of his words and coming from him, they stung.
"That is not how this is and you know it", she murmured in a mixture of shame and embarassment. She tried to shrug his hand off, but he was stronger than her and she wasn't really trying all too hard. She sighed and averted her gaze.
"He is my husband after all."
Aegon let out a laugh. A cruel, mocking sound. It was her own fault, she thought. After all it was her who angered him in the first place.
"Yes. And Helaena is my wife. Do you see me up on her every night?"
The flush on her face deepened. "No."
"Maybe I should."
"Aegon!"
"What?" He snapped and shot her a deep glare. "Is it not true? I have not attempted to touch her in years. I thought we were on the same page, but maybe..."
"You have the twins", she interrupted him firmly. "Do you think I enjoy being with him, Aegon? I do not. But he wants an heir, of course he does. Every man does, do they not? And by law, I owe him one. Or at least, I have to try."
His frown deepened and he released his grip on her wrist.
"Yes, well, whatever", he said coolly and got up to get dressed. He slid his breeches back on and kept eyeing her with a hard look.
Venice stayed seated on the bed and met his angry look with a soft, guilty one of her own.
"Please", she said gently. "Do not leave like this. I could not bear it. I will not sleep a wink."
His own expression softened, albeit barely.
"I hate that he gets to touch you", he suddenly said. "That he gets to have you. Every night. While all I get are stolen encounters and Are you anywhere near close?" He mocked openly.
Venice could feel her cheeks burn in shame and she lowered her gaze down to her hands. She looked at the intricate bracelet Aegon had given her many years ago, as a name day gift. He followed her gaze and sighed.
"Do not make that face. You know I cannot stay angry when you make that face."
She looked up at him and it was as though only one thing had stuck with her from the conversation.
"Please, do not touch her", she said quietly.
Aegon's expression softened even more. He stopped fidgeting with his buttons and sat down beside her, gently placing his hand on top of her own. His fingertips ran over the cold metal of the bracelet, a subtle smile on his lips.
"Stupid girl."
That made her smile and he smiled in return. He pressed a kiss to her forehead and murmured: "I will not. I promised you."
Venice gently closed her fingers around his own and whispered: "And I promised you, the moment I am with child, he will not get to touch me ever again. And I meant it. I just...need to get pregnant. Maybe I will some day."
Her eldest brother regarded her with a long, thoughtful look, before he nodded and instead cupped her cheek in his hand. She leaned into the touch without thinking about it and her eyes fluttered shut.
"You will", he whispered gently. "Maybe it will be me who makes sure of it."
Venice felt her breath catch in her throat and her eyes widened almost comically. He had always pulled out so far. The thought of deceiving Aemond like that, of having him raise his brothers son as his own, it felt wrong. But then again...What if it wasn't Venice who was unable to procreate? If it was Aemond, what then? And would it truly be all that bad? He would have his heir and it wouldn't be any less of his child. Aegon wouldn't risk the entire legacy of his family by speaking the truth. And also, how would they even know who the father was? They both had silver hair and amethyst eyes.
"You left me highly unsatisfied", he finally purred and his breath tickled her ear. "I cannot tell if you are familiar with the male body enough to know, but that is rather unhealthy for me. You will have to make up for it by tomorrow."
She grinned and pinched his side.
"As you wish, my prince."
He gave her a warm smile, before he leaned in and captured her lips in a tender kiss.
"I love you", he breathed.
She smiled against his lips. However jealous she was of Helaena for being his wife, she knew she was special for him.
She knew he had never said those words to anyone else. And he wouldn't.
Two hours later, Aemond and Venice made their way back to their chambers from the dining hall. They had hardly spoken a word, as they rarely did as of late. A little bit of polite chatter about his training and her embroidery. Idiot. He didn't even know how she despised embroidery.
It hadn't always been as cold and calculated between them.
Back when he was her brother more than her husband, she had truly adored him. Aemond had been the one who had taught her how to read. She remembered vividly, the day he lost his eye. She had been young, yes, but mostly had she been furious. Like it was yesterday, she remembered the scene infront of the whole family. Rhaenyra had demanded for Aemond to be sharply questioned and before she even realized it, Venice called out the dreaded words.
He is your brother, you wretched whore.
For anyone to hear. Aegon had pulled her back and given her a rough shake. Of course she had expected to get her tongue cut out, insulting the rightful heir so openly. But no. All she got was a good scolding from her nursemaid and Ser Criston had escorted her back to their quarters, before anyone else had to leave.
But aside from that, she recognized the silent pride in her mothers eyes, Aemonds quiet gratitude.
Her engagement to Jacaerys had immediately been broken off and she got betrothed to Aemond instead. She never spoke to either of the bastards again. The bastards of Dragonstone and their miserable mother were all dead to her. Aemond respected her for that.
Things changed when they married though.
At first, Venice tried to be a good wife. She really did. She cut off the intimate encounters with Aegon, calling their relationship sinful. She was a married woman now. She wanted to be proper and good for her husband.
But it didn't work. The consummation had been odd enough. There simply was no...passion. It had felt as though they were trying to weave a shawl. Mechanical. Cold. Calculated. It felt awkward enough for them to kiss, but the moment he slid off his belt Venice had felt cold sweat on her forehead.
Aegon was as much her brother as Aemond was, but to her it felt different. With Aegon she could argue all day, they insulted each other and fought it off, but at the end of the day, they made up and things were good again. They got jealous over each other and they were fiercely protective. Sometimes, a little too much. It was pretty obvious to someone who paid close attention.
It had always been obvious how they had always been in love.
But Aemond...Aemond. Things simply got awkward between Aemond and Venice. She tried for a few months...but eventually, she ended up in Aegon's embrace and she found he was what she needed to be happy. To feel alive. To feel at all.
Venice blamed their mother. Of course she had begged and pleaded for her to let them wed. But no. Tradition.
Aegon The Conqueror had wed Visenya. It was tradition.
But what about the part, where he wed Rhaenys, too?
Venice was the youngest. And by far the greatest troublemaker. She just couldn't keep her mouth shut for her life. After all, she insulted Rhaenyra terribly when she was only seven.
Aemond was far more quiet. That didn't mean he was softer, no. He had this front, these mile high walls, he didn't break them down for anyone. Not even his wife.
There were some rare moments of tenderness. Sometimes when he took her to bed, he would look at her for a while and gently touch her cheek, kiss her forehead and then her lips. It was rare, but it happened. Or whenever he spoke of the eye incident or the things he considered weaknesses. These were the moments when Venice' guilt grew unbearably. She felt always guilty. Always. He was her husband and she was deceiving him, cheating on him with their own brother. And even worse, they were deceiving Helaena.
She didn't do it out of malice. She simply loved Aegon. He was her soul, her heart. She couldn't breathe whenever he was angry at her, truly angry. She feared for his life at all times. She adored everything about him. And she trusted only him in this crude, godforsaken castle. She loved him.
But Gods, she felt guilty about it.
Aemond suddenly spoke up and his voice made her jump. She had hardly noticed that they had finally reached their chambers.
"What?"
"I wanted to know how you feel." He raised brow. "You seem distracted. Are you well?"
"Forgive me", she murmured and rubbed her temples. "I was just lost in thought."
She went over to the dresser and began rummaging through it for a nightdress.
"Anything interesting?"
"No", she murmured absentmindedly. "I guess I simply am tired."
"Too tired?", he asked calmly as he began to fumble with the buttons of his shirt. His skilled hands, most skilled with a sword, trembled whenever he attempted to undress. He was sure it was because of the angle he had to take, looking down with the missing eye. He had to tilt his head in an unnatural manner. Before he could finish, gentle fingers took hold of his own and swiftly undid the rest of his buttons. He gave her a subtle nod.
"So?" He asked calmly. "We must not try tonight. Tomorrow will do fine."
She looked at him thoughtfully. She wasn't really in the mood, but she was never really in the mood with him. Still, the guilt weighed hard on her.
"No, darling. Let us try. I have a feeling it might work for us tonight."
Aemond raised a brow as he slid his breeches off, leaving him only in his smallclothes. He took the eyepatch off and set it aside on his bedside table.
"What makes you think that?"
She shrugged off her current dress and hummed softly.
"Just a feeling I have."
She was about to put on her nightdress, but eventually decided against it. He would slide it off of her anyway in a minute. She placed the dress on a nearby chair and grabbed the big candle in order to light the others.
He couldn't help but stare at her form while she did. She paraded around the room naked and lit the candles like she was some kind of wicked maid. The thought made him smirk to himself.
Aemond slid off his own smallclothes and went to lay on the bed while he waited for her to finish. He hummed softly.
"You look...pretty."
His voice was like silk, so gentle and sweet that it nearly made her cry. His words were what surprised her, he wasn't usually so open for compliments.
She stopped fidgeting with the candles for a moment and looked up at him. Her face flushed slightly as her gaze roamed his naked form. He was lean, but oh-so fit and he was already hard and waiting for her, simply by watching her light the candles that way. Two years later and she still blushed. The thought made his smirk widen.
"Thank you", she murmured.
"Are you trying to set us on fire?" He teased. "Come, get over here." He wasn't normally this impatient either. Sure, he was a man and he had needs obviously, but they were normally rather casual about it. Like it was something that needed to be done. It could be nice at times, but on most days it was simply duty. Or so she thought.
She set the candle aside and slowly approached the bed.
"How should I..."
He caught her wrist and pulled her down, causing her to let out a startled gasp as she stumbled forward and landed on top of him. He looked up at her with a smug expression. Calm as always, but she could see the hint of mischief in his eye.
"Like this", he purred.
Venice opened her mouth and closed it again. She normally wasn't on top. She didn't even know how.
"Are you...sure?"
Instead of answering, he gripped the back of her thighs and tugged her legs apart. She felt her face flush even more as she felt his hardness pressed up right against her.
"Not yet", he whispered. "I want to try something."
She frowned slightly in confusion. "And what?"
"Stay like that", he commanded lowly. "And let me know if you want me to stop."
Her frown deepened and she was about to ask further, when suddenly he disappeared underneath her and into the covers. She froze when she realized where he was headed and her heart skipped several beats. His grip on her thighs stayed firm, but before she knew what was going on, she felt his hot breath wash over her heat. That alone was enough to make her moan.
"Are you sure?", she gasped out breathlessly. "You have never before-"
He quickly closed his mouth around her, taking her in and began teasing her with his tongue. The sound she made was something between a moan and a shriek.
Her fingers clutched at the bedsheets tightly as she tried to keep her balance, all the while his tongue flicked over her wet folds like it was made for that.
Venice quickly forgot who and where she was and the only thing on her mind was Aemond.
Her eyes shot open in surprise.
Aemond. This was Aemond.
She felt herself grow closer and closer to the warm, blissful feeling that his tongue provided. Her moans grew louder and more breathless, while she tangled her free hand in his hair and her nails gently grazed his scalp.
She never ever came before, not with Aemond. But now it felt as though, even if she wanted to stop herself from going over the edge, it was impossible. He licked and lapped at her most sensitive skin, until she felt a white wave of bliss wash over her, so hot and good that she found herself mumbling out Oh Gods, oh Gods, oh Gods- until she went completely still.
He was still underneath her, gently nipping and kissing at her skin, until he felt her shudder and nearly recoil in overstimulation. He slowly pushed himself back up and looked at her with a satisfied smirk.
"How was that?"
Venice couldn't help herself, she collapsed next to him like a puddle. She tried to speak, but all that came out were ragged breaths.
He was very perceptive and most likely knew that she had never reached the peak before, despite her relentless attempts to make it seem like she did. She had never enjoyed their mingling too much, but it would have killed her to purposely hurt him by letting him know the truth.
And still, that night was different. He had caused her to tug on his hair while her eyes rolled back and she nearly screamed out his name. Very uncharacteristic for them.
Eventually she found her voice back.
"That was...insane", she breathed out exhaustedly. "How did you..."
"Your taste is exquisite", he said bluntly and propped himself up on his elbow.
Venice felt herself blush furiously at his words. Just a minute ago, he had buried his tongue in her and now she blushed.
She was sweet, he suddenly realized. His sweet wife.
"I..."
"We can stop for tonight", he interrupted her gently. "I do not wish to overwhelm you."
She stared at him with a soft frown. "Where did you learn that?"
Aemond. Great, stern Aemond. And now it was him whose face was covered in the softest blush.
"I...", he cleared his throat. "I read it. In a book."
"In a book?", she asked incredulously. "What kind of book?"
"Well, none of those you will find in our library", he said matter-of-factly. Then he sighed and lay back down on his back.
"I wished to make you happy. That is all."
She suddenly felt like someone had punched her gut. Make you happy. No, she felt like the worst person alive. A terrible, terrible whore she was. Not Rhaenyra. No. She was the whore.
"But you always make me happy", she choked out barely audibly.
He cocked a brow and shook his head.
"You always compliment my intellect as well as my brains and yet you did not think I would figure out how you pretend to feel pleased for my sake?"
Her cheeks burned hot in embarassment and guilt.
"Aemond, I...I truly did not..."
He gently pressed his index finger against her lips.
"I am not angry. I promise."
When he pulled his finger back, she bit her lip and regarded him with a careful look.
"Please, forgive me. I simply thought, there must be something wrong with me and I did not wish to hurt you. I do enjoy our..."
He raised an expectant brow.
"Our encounters."
Aemond let out a sarcastic laugh and shook his head, his gaze glued to the ceiling.
"Yes. As do I", he murmured sarcastically.
She knew she had no right to feel hurt. But she did, oh Gods, how she did. Before she even realized it, she already wiped a tear off her cheek. He caught the movement and his eye widened in horror.
"No, no, no, I did not mean it like that!" He quickly sat up and took her hands in his. "Venice, that is not what I meant. You must believe me."
She stared down at their intertwined hands, the look in her eyes far away.
"Then how did you mean it?"
"Of course I enjoy being close to you", he murmured and gently wiped her face dry with his palm. "But I always thought something is missing."
Now it was her who raised a brow and he sighed.
"Passion, Venice. The fire. Your pleasure. I might have spilled my seed, yes, but I never felt truly satisfied", he explained quietly. "Because you did not."
Her expression immediately softened and she gently squeezed his hand. After a long moment, she whispered: "I think I know what the problem is."
He looked at her, obviously curious.
"All we ever did was try to conceive", she said quietly. "There is no romance in that."
He hummed softly. "What do you suggest?"
She regarded him with a thoughtful look, before an idea struck her. She bit her lip and gently pushed him back against the pillows.
"What are you doing?", he murmured.
"Shhh." She gently cupped his face in her palms. "Just...stay still and let me try something."
He wanted to question her further, but the second he felt her lips against his neck, he was done for. His good eye fluttered shut and a soft breath came over his lips.
"You do not have to do this", he whispered. "I did not mean it like that when I said I was not satisfied. I am now. I am because you are and-"
When she slowly sunk her teeth into the skin of his shoulder, he broke himself off with a soft groan.
"Oh Gods. Do that again."
She smiled against him and began to gently nibble on his skin like before. She took her time, exploring every inch of his bare chest. He brought up a hand to the back of her head, his fingers gently combing through her hair as his eye stayed shut.
By the time he felt her glide her tongue down his stomach, he shuddered and couldn't suppress the small sound of pleasure.
"Fuck, yes", he breathed out. And when she licked him again, he moaned even louder.
His hardness was so apparent now, she was sure she had never seen or felt him like that. It felt as though the softest touch might cause him to burst.
Venice hummed softly as her tongue rolled along his waistline and her hot breath caused him to inhale sharply.
"Tell me that you want it", she breathed out. "Please, I need to know."
"Want it? Fuck, yes, yes, darling, please."
It was enough to make her smile, but not enough to have mercy. She kissed her way down his thigh, which caused him to whimper.
"I did not tease you like this", he murmured.
"No, you did not." She breathed a puff of hot air against him, causing him to moan loudly. Gods, she had no idea how badly she had craved that sound. "But you caught me off-guard. And this is my way of retaliating."
"If you are trying to get me to beg, Venice-"
"No", she whispered instantly. "You are my leader."
Her words made him pause, then filled him with a sudden rush of power and dominance.
"Open your mouth."
That was more like it.
Slowly, and a little nervously, she parted her lips. Not much and she swallowed down a nervous lump.
He reached down his free hand and gently cupped her jaw.
"Look at me", he commanded softly. And of course she did. She stared up at him with wide, dark eyes as her heart pounded wildly in her chest.
He gently held her in place with one hand, while the other one slowly treaded through her locks. Before she realized it, she felt him press his hardness against her lips, silently begging for entrance. Her breath hitched and she slowly parted her trembling lips even wider, allowing him to inch forward into her mouth, very carefully. When he felt her soft lips and the warmth of her mouth envelop him slowly, he let out a low groan.
"Ah, fuck."
She kept staring up at him with wide eyes, while her body seemed to be on fire. She could feel the dampness between her legs grow into a pool of heat.
Aemond gently tightened the grip in her hair and carefully pulled her closer, which caused her to take him even deeper into her mouth. His eye fluttered shut and he didn't even try to suppress the sounds of pleasure he made, much to her pleasure.
"Let me feel your tongue, darling. Lick it for me."
The heat between her legs grew even hotter and she slowly pushed her tongue forward, carefully running it up and down his tip. She flicked it against him and involuntarily clenched her lips around him, sucking gently.
The sound he made was sinful. And she nearly came again, just listening to him.
"Yes", he breathed out. "Yes, my darling, my sweet. Just like that. Do not stop. Do not..."
He carefully bucked his hips up, causing her to take him in almost all the way. She let out a soft moan and ignored the tears that pricked her eyes. She couldn't focus on that. All she could think about was how she slowly slid her hand between her thighs.
"My good girl", he purred breathlessly. "My beautiful, good girl."
He bucked his hips up and pulled them back and then anew, causing her to whimper.
"Fuck-"
When he felt her gently sucking again, he nearly lost it.
"Harder, darling. Just a little harder."
She immediately obeyed and while her fingers worked on herself relentlessly, she moved her head and took him in as deep as it was possible without being forced to gag. She felt him twitch and throb between her lips and it made her melt.
"Oh darling, I am so close. So close", he gasped out. He moved his hips, gently and carefully, but the grip on her hair was tight, almost bruising. It nearly brought tears to her eyes. And at the same time she knew, she had never felt this aroused before.
He began moving his hips more and more urgently, until he was ready to burst.
"Pull your head back, sweetling. I do not wish to...ruin you."
She looked up at him with the utmost tender care and respect and whispered: "I am your wife, Aemond. Ruin me."
These words were enough to force him to move again. And then he did. He did ruin her. His entire body froze, except for his hardness. He let out a shuddery breath and he throbbed and throbbed until he was sure he had spilled himself in between her lips. He had half a mind to find a napkin for her, but-
Gods, the sound of her swallowing forced him to moan again.
"You did not have to do that", he breathed out and gently held her chin.
Venice could barely open her eyes. The second she felt him go over the edge, her fingers drove her past the point of no return again, causing her to writhe and moan beneath him.
Eventually she pulled her head back and whispered: "But I wanted to."
He gently cupped her cheek in his hand and guided her to come back up to him. When she lay on her side beside him, he kept staring into her eyes and gently caressing her cheek.
"That was...insane."
She smirked. "I thought you were more creative."
He laughed. A rich sound. A sound she hadn't heard in...ever.
Her eyes widened when she realized she wanted to hear it again. And again and again and again.
"Listen, Venice. I know we did not start on the best terms", he said quietly.
Her chest felt tight as she nodded.
"But that...tonight, it showed me that I feel more for you than I initially thought and..." he cleared his throat. He wasn't used to this. Feelings.
"Just...give me a chance." He murmured.
Her eyes widened even more and despite herself, she felt herself nod again.
Aemond pressed a long kiss to her forehead and sighed contentedly. He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her closer, closer, closer.
She felt like she was about to suffocate. But...what...Aegon...
And despite herself, she pushed the thought away.
She was in bed now, with her husband. And suddenly she realized she owed him far more than just an heir. She owed him loyalty and a lifelong marriage.
summary | When rumors questioning his wife's fidelity reach the king's ears, Aemond seeks out answers in his own ways.
pairing | king!aemond targaryen x wife!reader
tags | 18+, MINORS DNI!, oral (f), rumored infidelity, exhibitionism, forced voyeurism, jealous and possessive king aemond 🫦, porn w little plot
wordcount | 2.1k
note | this is in the same realm as The Way to a Man's Heart but can still be read as a standalone :) next part will be a backstory for context.... maybe
likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!
“...and some sprouting qualms over the Reach over farmland disputes, but I have good faith in the Tyrells to see the problem squandered before the need for the crown’s intervention…”
The late afternoon sun beamed warmly in soft rays into the small council chamber. The young king leaned against his spacious chair, rolling the green marble around in its plate as his men droned about the most minute details unworthy of his attention. Being king meant putting out small fires before extinguishing larger ones, done with a simple word or a nod, often by a wave of his hand.
“Whatever you deem a suitable course of action has my approval, Lord Hand. Just see it done, yes?” Aemond ordered, satisfied when his trusted advisor nodded at his words. The assembly soon adjourned, and the council filtered out of the chamber, leaving the king be. Though he was not alone for long, for his wife soon walked through the same doors, sworn guard in tow. Aemond beckoned you forward with a nod, good eye running down the length of your embroidered gown. He noted his gifts adorning parts of you— the rings on your fingers, the gleaming sapphire around your neck, even the Myrish lace that adorned your overskirt.
“You called for me, my king?” you asked softly. Always so prim and proper, with your hands clasped on your front and your spine erect like a doll on strings while stood a respectful distance from your husband.
“I did, wife. Some whispers have reached my ears, regarding an occurrence between you and one of your ladies. The Lady Wylde, I heard,” he spoke, observing as you started to fidget, bright eyes trailing away from his sight. “Do these whispers bear any truth?”
It was silent as Aemond waited for you to speak, as calmly as his meager patience would allow him. “They do, my king. She… The lady said some things that threatened to taint my good name,” you said, head slightly bowed in shame. His face remained stoic, not betraying the sliver of surprise at your easy admittance. Perhaps he would get his answers quicker than he intended.
“I am curious to know what brought this on… if you would indulge me,” he urged, shifting to sit taller while his elbows leaned onto the table’s edge. Aemond noted the slightest flicker of your eyes towards him, before returning to your feet once more.
“I-I do not wish to trouble my king with trivial nonsense whispered between women.”
“They are serious enough if it moved you to strike her across the cheek,” Aemond pressed before you could wave him off. In the corner of his lone eye, he observed your sworn shield. A knight from your region, sworn into the Kingsguard as part of your lord father’s negotiations for your hand. He didn’t think much of it then, but the growing whispers around court about the kinship between his queen and her knight were starting to unnerve him, like an incessant ticking in his ear.
He won’t pry for now. Not directly at least, not while your knight stood tall by the chamber’s doors, eyes cast somewhere in the distance and avoiding his sharp stare. Still, the king would get his answers in some shape or form.
“It is no matter now, but I fear my emotions got out of hand and I acted out of turn by striking her. ‘Twas a shameful act for a queen, I am sorry,” you expressed, slightly pouting. Your honesty seemed to be sincere enough, eyes bright as you raised your head to look directly at him.
“What do you apologize for? The lady displeased you, did she not?” he questioned, brow raised in perplexed interest. Aemond would admit though the rumors seemed rather farfetched in his imagination, though the probability of its actuality not so much. It was not as though you were in his bed every night, nor him in yours. Despite the barriers that had been toppled in the course of your marriage, Aemond had never been one to adept in proximity. His expertise lay in keeping people within an arm’s reach, even in his marriage. Yet you never complained, and he presumed you were happy enough. Perhaps that happiness had been earned elsewhere, and the thought of it made his chest thump with an ugly heat.
“W-well, yes, but House Wylde is a trusted ally of the crown. I understand our need for their support and their lord’s wisdom on your council. I fear that I may have tainted that pact with my actions–”
Your words were cut short by a raise of his hand, flush lips clamping shut. The king could smirk at how obedient his sweet wife was, a dutiful little thing that never wished to displease him. It was a funny thought to imagine you capable of seeking a lover, in all your sheltered upbringing and devout faith, though it was too soon to dismiss such a thought. “No lord on my council comes before their queen. You have no need to fret over this, wife. In truth, I am pleased,” he said, smiling crookedly as confusion painted your handsome features.
“You are?”
“Yes. I have hoped for you to find your voice— as sovereign, as my queen, and it seems you are growing the courage.”
Hearing his words made your face brighten in surprise, before warming to a timid flush at his praise. He raised his hand to reach for you, beckoning you closer. Taking short steps forward, your ringed hand fit smaller in his broader palm when you placed it in his hold. His grip was firm, though not overbearing, as was his other hand that gripped your waist to pull you closer.
“You would tell me if there are any secrets you hold that could harm the crown and its reputation, yes?” he asked, soft tone bearing a sharp edge that noted his warning. The implications of his words were evident in the way you obediently nodded, visibly gulping in his tight hold. He knew his wife was smart enough to not consider him a fool.
“Of course, husband. There is naught I wish to do that would be an insult to my king, I promise you this,” you uttered, sealing your vow with a kiss on his ring. Aemond leaned back with a pleased sigh, sneaking a glance toward the door where your knight still stood. He bit back the mischievous smirk that threatened to lift his slim cheeks, fingers thrumming on his thigh.
“Good. Sit.” Your husband nodded towards the table’s edge. Your mouth opened to voice your confusion his intent, but the stern look in his eye left no room for question. You slid through the space between his legs and the wood, tucking your skirts beneath your bottom as you perched on the grand oak. Aemond hummed in satisfaction at your pliancy. Very obedient indeed.
“What are you…” you started, interrupted by the king finding the hem of your skirt and lifting it to your hips. Panicked, you clamped a hand down to save yourself some decency. A moot attempt, for his grip was stronger than yours, and he had already exposed your smallclothes to his eye. “Aemond!”
“I wish to please my queen as she has pleased me. Think of it as a present of sorts,” he said, smiling casually as though his calloused palms weren’t caressing the exposed flesh above your stockings. His amusement only heightened at the flush starting to color his queen’s cheeks as you stammered.
“You are most gracious, my king, b-but here?” you questioned, head quickly turning to look at the two knights standing by the doors. Both your sworn shields were adept in playing invisible, expert in finding something else to cast their eyes upon unless they were needed. They would not react to whatever the king did with his wife in their privacy, even if he took her right before them.
“I do not see a problem why not,” Aemond shrugged. You started to voice another attempt of reason, but he had already made quick work of loosening the ribbons holding your smallclothes together. The king was efficient in all things, wasting no time to dive head first into your lovely cunt.
With every sigh he coaxed from your lips, the more your resolve started to crumble, and the more it spurred him on. Mewling, your dainty hand grabbed his silver tresses, pulling on his roots to urge him away. Your husband lifted his head to look at you, with your breasts pushed flush against your neckline as you heaved, and eyes starting to grow glazed with desire. “What is it? Do you want me to stop?” he asked, tilting his head in teasing.
Your teeth caught your plump lower lip as you bit them in thought. Your hold was tight on his mane, a grounding pressure that kept him from devouring you the way he wanted. Wordlessly, you pushed him back between your thighs, giving him full reign to do with you as he wished.
Saccharine essence started to coat his tastebuds, your flower nice and warm against his tongue. The extent of your experiences in the ways of the flesh as man and wife was limited, he’ll admit, seldom venturing past the goal of planting his seed in your womb by the end of it. The king’s wife was virtuous and proper, unfamiliar with seeking her own pleasure when she was so deserving of it. Aemond had started to give you a taste for it, on the nights when his blood ran hotter for you and he let himself indulge in all that you would give him. Those evenings would end with them slick in sweat and rightfully flushed, and you would always turn so timid as he cleaned you up, right before he returned to his chambers for the night. You would never say it out loud, but he saw it in your eyes— an insatiable fire starting to be stoked.
Your voice started to grow in volume the deeper his tongue prodded into your slit, a sweet song floating through his ears and rushing straight to his cock. His thumb soon found your pearl, rubbing tight circles on your nubbin. This only served to heighten your arousal, moans now properly echoing through the vast chamber. The sound of it made him smirk triumphantly against your folds, feeding the fire that had him eating you like a man starved. Your fingers never left his hair, using it as leverage as you started to ground your hips against his face. His eye flickered to catch a peek, and he found you with your head thrown back and mouth fallen agape.
It didn’t take long for you to start gushing out your release, nearing the point of screaming as you did so. Your voice all but shook the stone walls, reverberating through the vast chambers while you trembled underneath his hold. It was the loudest Aemond had ever heard you, even more than the night he had let you ride him in the bath. A sick pride swelled in his chest while he lapped up your sweet honey, hardened length jumping in his breeches as it demanded reprieve.
Aemond opened his mouth as he pulled away to voice a teasing remark when you grabbed the leather of his doublet and pulled him up, smashing your lips against his in a hungered frenzy. You palmed at his bulge, rubbing him through his breeches. A knock on the council doors echoed through the room before you could start unlacing him, your sworn shield swiftly moving to open the entrance before the king could bark out in anger.
Fucker.
Your handmaiden moved to enter, but quickly bowed her head upon seeing the compromising position she found you in. “M-my deepest apologies, Y-your Graces,” she stuttered. Aemond had opened his mouth to scold, but your hand on his chest stopped him before he could spit out his wrath for the disturbance.
“It’s alright, Ada. Was something the matter?” you said softly. Ada remained with her head bowed, shoulders slightly quivering in fear under the king’s deathly stare.
“Her Grace wished to be notified when princess Jaehaera’s lessons finish for the day. Afternoon tea has been prepared in the gardens, as her grace requested,” she squeaked. The reminder seemed to make you remember yourself, returning to your feet and letting your skirts fall back to the floor.
“Right. Thank you,” you sighed. The young handmaiden curtsied in haste, before scurrying off when you dismissed her. Your gaze turned back to your husband, who still had his eye narrowed somewhere by the chamber’s entrance. His attention returned as you softly caressed his clothed chest, smiling up at him sweetly. “Come join us?”
It was then that Aemond made his decision. He would let the rumors be. He had no wish to prod nor question his dear wife, but let it be known that he was never one to share, in spite of his reservedness and outwardly cold nature. His answer would come on the nights you begin to seek him out, singing your sweet song of pleasure beneath him as he spurred release after release from your sweet cunt. For now, he was pleased, smirking devilishly at the sight of your knight’s clenched jaw as he left the small council chamber with his queen’s hand nestled in his elbow.
Summary: His wife had returned, alive and with a newfound fury.
Author's note: I am relatively new to the fandom, so not everything may be book accurate. I've also made a few things specific to the reader's circumstances for the sake of this plot. I have only written fanfictions a few times, so bare with me. Enjoy!
𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃
"You there, the hour is late. What are you doing?" He called out to her hooded figure in the dark. She stood in the opening of some hall and realized it was too soon and that she was in the presence of Aemond Targaryen, the One-Eye prince, the most fierce dragonrider, her once beloved husband. The most ruthless man she'd come to know.
She pulled back her hood, letting it fall away from her face. The prince was stunned, breath caught in his throat. It was her- his presumed dead wife. Rhaenyra's eldest daughter, his niece, the woman he'd been betrothed to and married just months before the war had begun.
They were an unlikely match, a bond forged out of duty and necessity. The princess, a young, timid, and shy mousy girl with wide eyes who barely spoke above a whisper. Her gentle nature made her seem almost fragile. In contrast, Aemond's cold exterior paid her little mind. He saw her as a little girl, naïve and sweet, with none knowledge of the loneliness and and coldness and horrors to which he'd faced as a boy.
He hated her for it. She was everything he was not and could never be. Her innocence, her softness—they were foreign concepts to him, relics of a world he could not afford to inhabit. Her heart and unwavering kindness stirred something within him, something he did not want to acknowledge and pushed away. It wasn’t just that she was different; it was that she was better, untouched by the cruelty that had long shaped his life.
And then there was Lucerys. Every time he looked at her, he saw the ghost of her brother, the boy who had cost him his eye and left him scarred in more ways than one. Her presence had only been a reminder of his pain, he thought. He resented her for it, for being the living embodiment of everything that had been taken from him. And for being the prettiest girl in all seven realms.
In the time of their marriage, it was one of silence and awkward glances. She kept to herself, moving quietly through the castle, her head always bowed, her words always few. Aemond was always distant, only coming to her as his duty, his gaze always hard. She was simply a symbol of his family’s desire for unity that he had never wanted. Her legitimacy and that of her brothers was a constant source of contempt, a wound that never seemed to heal.
But slowly as the days passed, something began to shift. It was so subtle that Aemond hardly noticed it—a fleeting glance, a moment of unexpected softness and caring in his wife's eyes. Spending time with him encouraged her to speak more, her voice still quiet but growing steadier, bolder. She had a quiet strength he had not seen at first, a resilience that defied her gentle nature. And slowly, against his will, he found himself drawn to her.
He began to see beyond his anger, beyond the bitter resentment that had long poisoned him. He saw the way her laughter could subconsciously make his lips curl up into a slight smiles as well. All throughout childhood to when they are of age, she'd always been kind to him, not out of weakness, but out of a strength that he had never known despite all his trainings with Ser Criston Cole.
Aemond began to soften. He became a man he could not recognize. He found himself seeking her out. Calling for her when he wanted to speak, taking walks in the garden, discussing and reading high Valaryian literature to her while she slept peacefully under his arm at night. He wanted to know her, to understand the way she saw the world. He watched her as she moved through the castle, her presence like a soothing balm to his wounded soul. In her, he saw something he had never known before—hope, forgiveness, the possibility of a life beyond the bitterness that had long consumed him.
His little wife had awakened something in Aemond that he had buried long ago. At times she made him chuckle, a sound that was as foreign to him as the feeling behind it. She taught him to smile, to care, to feel something other than anger or ambition. For the first time in his life, Aemond felt love—a deep, strong love that took him by surprise and filled him with a sense of purpose he had never known.
He came to cherish his wife, to love her with a fierceness that rivaled the fire of a dragon. She was his world, his anchor in the storm of his life, the one person who saw him not as a warrior or a prince, but as a man. In her arms, he found a solace he had never known, a peace that seemed almost impossible in the turbulent world around them.
But that was before the war, before the throne had tore them apart and almost turned everything to ash. Everything had changed with the death of King Viserys and Aegon's usurpation of the throne. The realm was plunged into chaos, and the fragile peace between them had shattered. Aemond had been torn between his loyalty to his house and his love for his wife, whose own loyalties were divided between her birth family and the one she'd married into. She had wanted to stand by his side, to be the wife he needed, but Lucerys's death had been a wound too deep to bear.
In the wake of Lucerys's death, Aemond grew ashamed and colder, his heart hardened by grief and anger. He'd become a man consumed by his desire for power. She had watched in despair as the man she loved transformed into a stranger. She could not understand whether the war had changed him or revealed who he truly was. Did he value the blood of kin and the Iron Throne more than the love they had shared, more than the promises he had made to her?
After the bloody confrontation with Aegon and Aemond's rise as prince regent, she'd reached her breaking point. Their arguments began, filled with words that cut like blades. Aemond demanded her loyalty, her presence at his side, but she could not abide the path he had chosen. In the dead of night, she had made her escape, fleeing to Dragonstone and faking her own death in the process. The castle had been thrown into turmoil, but eventually, she had been presumed dead, freeing her from the chains of her marriage.
In Dragonstone, she reunited with her family, seeking solace in her mother's embrace and her brothers' company. She grieved for Lucerys and for the life she had lost. But now, duty had called her back to King's Landing, to confront the man who had once been her husband. She sailed and entered the castle unnoticed, her heart heavy with the weight of what was to come.
Now, she stood before him in the great hall, the man she had once loved more than life itself.
Aemond's single eye was wide as he took her in. For a long moment, neither of them spoke, the silence stretching between them like a chasm. Her gaze was steady, her resolve firm. She came here for a reason, though what would happen next was still uncertain. The past hung heavy between them, a tangled web of love and betrayal, of promises made and broken. She had come to face him, to see if anything of the man she had once loved remained. Or if he had been lost to her forever.
His jaw clenched at the sight of her, his eye narrowed ever slightly. He never expected to see her again.
Her name leaves his lips like a whisper. A prayer or curse. Even he wasn't quite sure which one it was. His hands fist at his sides. His mind was practically blank as he took in the sight of her standing there before him, alive and well. And beautiful.
The storm outside raged with a fury that mirrored the turmoil within him. Anger, betrayal, relief, desire, regret—all swirling in his heart as he took a step closer to her. The thunder rolls like a dragon’s roar, echoing the tempest of his soul.
His gaze never wavered from her's, his single eye searched desperately for answers, for an explanation, for her. A part of him longed to reach out, to touch her, pull her smaller frame into his arms and hold her so tight, to confirm that she was truly there. But his pride, the sharp sting of pain in his heart, kept his arms locked rigid at his sides.
A wry, bitter smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he looked at her, the storm outside seeming to echo the conflict that raged inside him. It’s a dark, twisted sort of humor, to find you here, alive and unbroken, after all this time.
“You’re alive…” he said, his mind struggling to comprehend the reality of her presence.
He studied her intently, taking in every detail, every flicker of movement. He remembered how clever she always were, how beneath that shy, mousy exterior there was a spark of fire-a sharpness that he had come to admire, even love. It was one of the things that drew him to her, one of the reasons he'd fallen so deeply. And now here she stands, perhaps to propose a threat or a challenge.
He couldn't help but be impressed, despite the bitterness that twisted in him.
“That’s my sweet girl," his voice dripped with sarcasm, a dangerous glint in his eye. “Always a few steps ahead.” The words he spoke were laced with both admiration and menace.
She removed her cloak and tossed it to the ground, no longer dressed in the fine, elegant gowns of forest green he had gifted her during their marriage. As a prince, he had always given her whatever she desired-the finest jewels and dresses, anything for his little princess. But now, she stood before him in a dark, flowing gown, subtly embellished with red and gold. In her hand, she held a dagger, one that was strikingly similar to the kind he always carried-and then he realized, it was one he had given her before the war. One that he told her if she were in any harm due to the state of their worlds, she could use it at any time.
She raised the blade and pointed it at him. "Do not mock me, husband," she said, her voice slightly shaken but underlined with a fierce strength.
"And who are you to give me orders?" he replied, his voice cool and controlled, masking the storm of emotions that churned beneath the surface.
“Don’t act so shocked. You gave it to me,” she countered, pushing the dagger closer to his neck, their close proximity forcing her to look up at him. She had to lift her arm to reach his throat, the blade millimeters from his skin.
Aemond’s gaze hardened as he felt the cold steel against his neck. The blade was dangerously close, a silent threat hanging between them.
"I gave it to you as a token of my love," he said through gritted teeth, his jaw clenched as he struggled to keep his emotions in check. "Not so you could turn it against me, wife."
“Is that what matters to you right now, Aemond?” she asked, her voice tinged with incredulity. “I, your wife, have shown up alive, and your life is in my hands this very moment—”
He scoffed and shook his head.
"Is that what you came here to do? Threaten me? Kill me?"
“If it comes down to it,” she said plainly. She could feel her heart hammer through her chest and he gazed down at her.
"Is that what you truly want, my love?" he asked, his voice betraying a trace of vulnerability.
She met his gaze steadily, her expression unreadable.
“You should be asking yourself that question, husband.”
Aemond's jaw clenched at her words, his gaze hardening as he struggled to contain the conflicting emotions swirling within him.
"What I want is you. I still want you," he said, his voice raw and filled with emotion. His large hand came up to caress her cheek, and the familiarity of his touch and scent put her in a trance-like state.
“What…” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.
Aemond’s expression softened momentarily as he looked at her, the mask of anger and indifference slipping away for a heartbeat. He cupped her small face in his hand, his eye taking in every detail, as if trying to make sure she was truly there, that this wasn’t a of dream.
"Come with me. Rule by my side. I will give you anything you want. I will give you peace." his other coming to hold hold her face. "Say you'll return to me as mine, and I will end this fight, one way or another."
He could feel the weakness in her stance, the way her knees buckled under the weight of emotions. He could see the internal conflict written all over her face, the battle between love and duty, hurt and need. And for a moment, he almost smiled, the thought of how easy it would be to disarm her, take control, and end this here and now. But then he looked into her eyes, saw the fire still burning deep within, and all he could think was mine.
Her mind drifted back to the night he'd practically begged her to stay, just before one of their many fights before she had "died." She closed her eyes at the thought, trying to ground herself. When she opened them again, she faced his intense gaze, feeling his breath on her skin.
"I cannot," she whispered.
Aemond could see she was no longer the sweet, innocent girl he had once known. A devilish smirk flashed across his face as he grabbed the dagger from her hand, moving her fumbling arms aside and pressing the blade against her neck.
Aemond's smirk widened as he took control of the situation in a matter of seconds. The cold steel against her skin only made his triumph grow. He saw the realization in her eyes, the knowledge that she was now completely at his mercy.
"And why not, my sweet little wife?" he murmured, his voice low and dangerous.
“My mother is to be on that throne. Not Aegon, not you,” she said, her voice shaking, breathing heavily after the struggle.
Aemond laughed in response, his grip on her tightening just a fraction as he pressed the dagger a little harder against her skin. He could feel the fear and anger coursing through her, the determination and loyalty to Rhaenyra and her cause.
“So the little lamb has grown some spine. I should have expected this,” he sneered.
"Aemond, you will relinquish the throne. You will answer for your deeds. And you will accept Rhaenyra as your rightful queen!" she demanded.
Aemond’s expression darkened as she kept speaking, his grip on her bruising now.
“I will do nothing of the sort. This is my rightful claim, and I will defend it with my last breath. And as for you, wife, you will do as I say.”
“I am dead across the seas. I am no longer your wife, husband. Not to the gods, not to the kingdom,” she said, pushing him off and grabbing the sword hanging from his hip. With a grunt, she backed up, pointing the sword at him.
For a moment, he stood there, dumbfounded, watching her with a mix of anger and confusion.
“And you... you are no husband of mine,” she said, looking up at him as she held the sword.
Aemond’s expression darkened at her words, the anger in his eye growing even stronger. His jaw clenched, and he took a step closer to her, his hand moving to the pommel of his sword.
“Is that so, wife? You dare deny me after everything I have given you? Everything I have done for you?”
“Don’t be a fool, uncle,” she scoffed, looking up at him defiantly.
At her words, Aemond’s jaw clenched, his anger reaching its boiling point. He grabbed a sword from a nearby display and swiftly moved toward her, his eye narrowing dangerously.
He raised his blade, the sound of metal clashing against metal filling the castle as the sparring began. But this was far from a lighthearted exercise or a practice session with the master-at-arms. This was a fierce and intense fight between two people who were once deeply connected, now standing on opposite sides of a war.
She grunted with every blow he landed, finding it increasingly difficult to keep pace and dodge in the right directions.
Aemond could see the strain in her movements, her breath growing heavier with each passing second. Sensing her fatigue, he pressed forward, his attacks becoming fiercer and faster, fully aware that he held the advantage.
"How long do you think you can keep this up?" Aemond taunted, his voice dripping with mockery as his blade rained down on hers with relentless force.
"Until one of us is dead-" her breath hitching as his sword came perilously close, tearing through the fabric of her gown.
Aemond’s eye narrowed at the sight of the exposed skin, a flicker of something unreadable flashed in his gaze. For a moment, he hesitated, the grip on the sword faltering. It was all the opening she needed. She lunged, her sword darting forward like a striking snake. Their blades met with a deafening clang, the hall echoing with the sound of steel on steel.
They moved like dancers in a twisted, deadly waltz, their bodies weaving in and out, each step charged with intensity. It reminded her of the dances they had shared at feasts and name day celebrations, their wedding. Though this was a far cry from those days of laughter and light. Her stamina was weakened, her defenses crumbled under his onslaught. Aemond pressed his advantage, forcing her back, his strikes pushing her closer to the cold stone wall.
She stumbled on the hem of her gown, falling back, her sword slipping from her grasp and clattering to the floor. She lay there for a moment, disoriented, gasping for breath, her heart pounding. Aemond’s gaze darkened, his eye raking over her as she lay vulnerable before him, her chest rising and falling with each labored breath.
The sight of her at his mercy, helpless and breathless, only stirred something deeper within him. His expression was dark, hungry, the storm within him matching the tempest outside. He stood over her, his breath ragged, a predator savoring his victory.
Aemond watched as she struggled on the cold stone floor, her fingers clawing desperately toward the fallen sword. He moved swiftly, kicking the weapon away, sending it clattering into the shadows. Towering above her, his blade hovered just above her throat, its steel glinting in the dim light of the hall. His gaze was sharp, eye burning with a mix of fury and a strange, bitter affection.
"You've always been so stubborn," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "So determined to defy me, no matter the cost." He stared down at her, the sword steady in his grip, though his heart was in turmoil. A war raged within him, torn between punishing her defiance and the painful pull of his love.
"Then end it," she hissed, her voice breaking with a mixture of anger and desperation.
Aemond’s jaw clenched at her words. He had expected many things tonight, but not this—the raw defiance, the fearless demand for her own death. His grip tightened on the sword, his knuckles white as he gazed down at her, confusion and rage boiling beneath his calm exterior.
"Do it!" she screamed, her eyes wild, her chest heaving with emotion. "Kill me, Aemond! If that's what you want, then kill me!"
For a moment, Aemond faltered. Her voice, filled with both fury and pain, cut through him like a knife. He remembered that fire in her eyes, a blaze that had once drawn him in, that had burned so brightly even on the night of their wedding, when she had looked at him with a mixture of fear and fierce resolve.
"You would rather die than stand by my side?" he asked, his voice a low, trembling whisper. "After everything we shared, everything we were?"
"I would rather die a traitor to your false king and remain loyal to my blood than live as your prisoner," she spat, her voice cracking under the weight of her words. "I could never stand beside you. Not after what you’ve done… not after—"
"You would forsake all we had?" Aemond’s voice was a dangerous whisper, trembling with barely contained emotion. “Forsake me, just to see me dead? Is that what you truly desire?”
"Would I rather die than watch you spill more innocent blood for a throne that is not yours?" she shouted, her voice sharp and unyielding. "Yes, Aemond, I would!"
Aemond’s eye narrowed, his face twisting with a mix of anger and hurt. Her words struck deep, each one a dagger to his heart. His grip tightened on the sword, the blade wavering as he grappled with the storm of emotions within him, torn between the fury of betrayal and the agony of lost love.
For a moment, the weight of his own rage and grief threatened to overwhelm him, and he hesitated, the sword trembling in his hand as he looked down at her, his breath ragged, his soul torn between vengeance and longing.
"As for what we had, I have said my piece," she spat, her voice trembling with barely suppressed fury. "I told you what would happen the last time you saw me. You should not be shocked. Do you take my words lightly? You broke everything, Aemond. You. My trust—the promises you made. Our love. My family. When I was gone… when I was 'dead'... did you shed a single tear for me, husband? Did you? In that moment, was it worth it? Was it all worth it?" Her voice cracked, the pain of her memories washing over her like a wave. "And here I find you, carrying on with your duties as if I meant nothing. I know where your true loyalties lie."
Aemond's expression darkened, her words slicing through him like a blade. He knew she was right. He had shattered everything between them, chosen power over love, ambition over loyalty. But knowing this did not make it any easier to bear. His guilt and pain swirled in his eye like a tempest, a storm of emotions he could barely contain.
She stared into his one good eye, searching for any sign of the man she once knew, waiting for him to press the blade to her neck and end it all. Yet he did not move.
Aemond’s jaw clenched, her bitter truths cutting deep into his soul. Words failed him. A fierce battle raged within—a primal urge to reclaim what was his, to prove his strength and control, clashing with a buried, forgotten part of him that still loved her, that wanted nothing more than to keep her safe.
"Kill me," she cried, tears welling up and threatening to spill over. She wept for herself, for her treacherous husband, for her brothers and mother, for all that had been lost in the war. But still, Aemond did not move.
Aemond’s hand shook as he looked down at her, the sight of her tears tearing his heart to pieces. He stood frozen, paralyzed by the maelstrom of his own emotions, caught between his desire to grant her wish and his desperate need to protect her.
Then, slowly, he pulled his sword back, sliding it into its sheath.
"W-what… what are you doing?" she stammered, confusion and anger mixing in her voice.
Aemond didn’t answer. Instead, he dropped to his knees before her, his eye dark and holding pain and guilt. He reached out, as if seeking a lifeline in the tempest of his soul.
Aemond's voice was rough and broken, the words barely escaping his throat, choked with a mixture of anger and desperation. "You need to go. If anyone finds you here, they will kill you."
"What-I do not understand!" she exclaimed as he hauled her to her feet.
"You don't understand? You don't understand? You just asked me to kill you, and now you don't understand? Are you mad?"
"Aemond," she murmured, her voice uncertain, unsure of what had just transpired, unsure of what he meant—of what this meant.
Aemond clenched his jaw, wanting to pull her into his arms, to protect her from everything, to keep her safe. Yet, there was a part of him that wanted to destroy, to tear apart everything and everyone that had caused her pain.
"What do you not understand?" His voice cracked, the words filled with a raw intensity.
She looked up at him, her eyes wide, holding that hopeful and innocent gaze that she use to give him. Something inside him broke. He grabbed her shoulders, his fingers digging into her skin, his grip almost painful in its urgency. "Yes, you sweet little fool."
"Aemond," she whispered, his name a breathless prayer of disbelief. She could feel the gravity of the moment, knowing this would change everything.
He stared down at her. His voice was raw and filled with remorse, his guilt palpable. "I have failed you, wife. My selfishness overpowered my love for you. I owe you a debt I fear I can never repay."
Her brow furrowed, her eyes brimming with tears. He guided her toward the darkened halls, pushing her gently toward a hidden passage.
"Aemond," she whispered again, the name heavy with sorrow and disbelief, like a fragile plea.
Aemond's heart clenched at the sound of his name on her lips, a mixture of sadness and disbelief that pierced him to his very core. He halted in the shadowy passageway, pulling her closer, his hand tenderly brushing away a tear that rolled down her cheek.
"I... I-" she stammered, her voice barely a whisper.
"Shush," he murmured softly, his voice thick with emotion. His thumb caressed her cheek, catching another tear that slipped from her eyes.
They stood frozen in the dim light of the old passage, the only illumination a flickering torch above. Nothing existed in that moment but them, the world beyond fading away.
Aemond's gaze roamed over her face, absorbing every detail in the muted light. The sadness and turmoil in her expression made his chest tighten painfully. He drew her closer, his arm wrapping around her waist, pulling her against him. His hand cradled her face, the pad of his thumb brushing gently over her bottom lip.
"Do I have your word?" she asked, her voice no longer that of a princess to a prince, but of a wife to her husband. She sought his promise not for her family, not for the Blacks, but for herself.
Aemond's eyes narrowed as he gazed down at her, his hand still cupping her face, his other arm firm around her waist. "You have my word," he said, his voice unwavering, the words carrying the weight of an oath sworn before the gods.
He felt the gravity of her farewell in her gaze, the sadness and love in her eyes cutting him deeper than any blade. Tightening his hold, his arms encircled her with a possessive strength, as if by sheer force he could keep her safe, keep her by his side.
"You have to go," he whispered, his voice rough and hoarse with emotion.
She lifts herself up, pulling on the back of his neck, bringing his lips down to meet hers. The kiss is soft, yet fierce with emotion. He can feel the wetness of her tears against his mouth, mingling with the salty taste of his own.
The sensation of her lips against his sends a jolt through Aemond, a shock of electricity that nearly leaves him breathless. His arms tighten around her, pulling her closer, his hand threading through her hair as he tilts her head back to deepen the kiss. There’s a desperation to his touch, a frantic need to hold on to her, to memorize the taste of her lips, the feel of her body against his, as if this moment might be their last.
He breathes her in, feeling her sob into the kiss, her breath shuddering against his lips. It feels as though he's drowning in her, in the scent of her hair, in the softness of her skin beneath his hands. He wants to lose himself in her, to take her and keep her with him forever, his little princess.
Aemond feels a storm raging inside him, a whirlwind of emotions that he can't contain. Desire and desperation mix with a raw, possessive hunger, a need to claim her, to make her his again. His hands roam over her body, pressing her back against the cold stone wall behind them. His kisses grow rougher, more insistent, a fierce expression of everything he’s feeling—anger, fear, longing, and that lingering, aching love.
He traps her between the wall and his body, his hands moving over her as if trying to imprint the memory of her into his very skin. He kisses her with a fervor that borders on madness, desperate to hold on to her, to keep her from slipping away again. Every touch, every kiss, is a promise, a plea, and a confession of the depth of his feeling for her.
watching shoguns beautiful meticulously crafted high wire act of depicting women navigating patriarchal power structures while balancing high concept political intriguing and riveting character based storytelling without bombarding its audience with dumbed down exposition and flat uninspired writing really brings home the point how much of that hotd isn't
bro I know I said I was done with the anti show discussions but I read smt in here and didn’t reblog at the time but….. they made Rhaenyra’s arc a feminist struggle and they might just be starting to show she was never a worthy ruler afterall… therefore…. confirming the assumptions…. of the patriarchy…..
what clowns and what a terrible tragedy to feminist stories this show has become
Rhaenyra is quite literally a useless leader of the black faction. It’s so irritating to watch her try to have her “girl boss” lines peppered in when she does absolutely nothing.
She’s passive, indecisive and shows no real concern or sense of urgency for…anything at all. She just walks into rooms looking completely apathetic, protesting action being taken whilst failing to realize that by dragging her feet, it’s causing her supporters to lose everything they have.
Her response to their rightfully dismissing her at the war council meetings because she says and does nothing of substance? She goes into another room and bitches about how it must be because she’s a woman that they don’t respect her…no it couldn’t be because you are indecisive and completely ignorant to war strategy so you just expect everyone to sit on their hands while their banner men are slaughtered and their ancestral homes are sacked and destroyed.
Couldn’t possibly be because you are not only tone death, arrogant and entitled but you show a concerning lack of empathy and understanding for your supporters, that you don’t even acknowledge how your refusal to actually do something is costing everyone around you their homes, their wealth and their men.
But this is who condal and hess want us to root for and try to present her as this feminist figure? This show feels like a parody that takes itself entirely too seriously.
Well… she kinda is like that in the books when she’s not actively making bad and often cruel choices. And it’s why she was never one of my favorite characters and I don’t think she was meant to be a likable character originally. But the book never hid that, so it sure is frustrating for the show’s narrative to have been pushing something - Rhaenyra being the most fitting, honorable heir with the exclusively honorable motivations and who’s being held back solely because of patriarchy - when the plot around this character fails to sustain it, as you describe in detail above.
It’s not like we’re seeing a plot twist where we find out, via the plot, that “oh, she is not actually a good leader after all”, like we had for Daenerys in GOT in some ways, even though a lot of people still weren’t happy with the way it evolved.
And to try and argue that the show is trying to reflect the uncertainties and unreliability of the books just won’t stick either. To me, for this reason and so many others (don’t get me started on the Nettles-Velaryon discussion, or the Daenyra romantic arc), the show’s writing demonstrates a shallow interpretation of the key themes of the original source and an extremely poor adaptation of them and the original story to the modern, tv series audience.
I love that the writers decided that having a woman disclose being a victim of csa and abuse and immediately after getting horny and making out is a realistic human interaction
by @flower-cage
Ao3 | Masterlist
Aemond Targaryen x Servant!Reader
Summary: That morning, the crown Prince entered the young Queen's chambers and changed your life forever.
Words: 3,768
Warnings: explicit sexual content, dubious consent, power imbalance, humiliation kink, voyeurism.
Minors, do not interact.
Your new role of serfdom started not unlike that of attending to the needs and whims of the Dragons.
Up before dawn, you ensured that dresses were washed and perfumed, jewelry and shoes polished. In the late morrow, you served tea to the Queen and her mother. At luncheon, you would have taken the chance, in their absence, to clean and tidy their chambers, had it not been for your newest promotion.
That morning, while his sister and mother broke their fast, the crown Prince entered the young Queen’s chambers and changed your life forever.
He had always paid you close attention. In truth, only seldom were you ever in the presence of the one-eyed Prince, but whenever chance brought you together, you felt his lingering, insistent gaze on the hairs in the back of your neck.
Always.
It did not take long for others to take notice of it, too. Often the maids would tease you for the interest you had awakened in the Prince known to be harsh and cold and cruel like a winter storm.
“You are fortunate he does not take after his brother’s depraved malversations,” you would often hear.
This was what the whole of Westeros knew of him back then, before the Dance.
That morning, you had twisted your hands in your apron, standing outside his door and garnering the strength to raise one of them to the wooden slabs.
“It is unlike my son to show interest in a lady,” the Dowager Queen had told you, clinking a silver teaspoon against fine porcelain, “or anyone at all, for that matter.”
Your guts knotted of their own accord. Your spine shuddered cold.
“I would like you to tend to his needs from now on,” she had announced easily, breaking apart a piece of crusty bread. “All of his needs.”
Now, you often wonder if she would have offered you so unashamedly if she had known he would mature into such an unscrupulous man. Or, you wonder most often, perhaps she had always known. Perhaps she had hoped he would satisfy his dormant savagery, then inhibited by a pretense of duty and propriety, if only she delivered him a feast before it fully wakened.
And feast he would, though his hunger would never be sated.
In the end, he would teach you everything you learned of this world of carnal indulgences.
That morning, he had risen leisurely from his seat of leather, strode to you lazily, smiled self-assuredly. You stood stoic, hands fidgeting and sweating behind your back, a half-step past his chambers’ door after courage and fear had finally coaxed you in.
He stalked toward you until his nose brushed yours faintly and your back rested against the cold wood. His eye roamed you freely, his masculine scent of leather and cedar crowded your senses, and your body shuddered beneath his desirous stance.
“I shall not take that which is not freely given,” his whisper tickled the shell of your ear, “and I shall not award what is not yet desired.”
His promise stretched on for days on end.
You tended to him much like you had his sister: tending to his chambers, washing his clothing, learning his habits. You served him wine at supper and tea in the morrow. You dressed him before Small Council meetings and bathed him after his daily practices.
Until you didn’t.
“Prince Aemond requests your services,” a familiar knight announces after rapping on the door.
You rise from where you have been sitting at your vanity table, combing your hair to a shine as is your Prince’s preference. You fix the sleeves on your dress, but it does not grant you any decency whatsoever, not when its translucent, iridescent silk ostensibly reveals the shape and shades of your bare body, not when the slit that travels up your right thigh cuts up to your hip bone.
Such are and have always been your Prince’s preferences.
“Where is your uniform?” he asked you sternly when you met him at the training grounds.
He took the cup of fresh water from the tray you carried, gulping down its contents to then wipe his face and short hair with the towel you brought him.
“M-my Prince?” you asked timidly, breathless at the abrupt inquiry and at the sweat that glistened his pale skin.
“The dresses I gifted you,” he pressed, displeased. “I thought I made myself clear - you are to wear them henceforth. You are to solely wear them.”
His sharp gaze was menacing, surely, but the disappointment was there, too, hidden in the glint of his blue eye to chastise and guilt you. Though mortified at the improper implications of his demands, the thought of disobeying him was what truly shook you to the core.
The White Cloak takes you to a set of heavy doors which he pushes open to reveal King Aegon II’s Small Council. He was once the depraved son of King Viserys I, but he is no longer the exclusive bearer of such a title.
Your Prince sits to the left of the King now, across from the Lord Hand, in a great position of power. The Dance had reshaped many things in the Realm, and he had been no exception.
He doesn’t cover his monstrous gash and sapphire stone like he used to when his mother was still alive. He hasn’t held many habits of propriety since. More scars cut across his milky skin, some even crawling from beneath his collar, and the long white mane he used to proudly maintain in honor of his heritage is kept short to enhance all of his additional, menacing features.
His body is that of a man, now: no longer slim and taut but large and burly from battle, and yet his most striking transformations had not been merely bodily.
You walk toward him surely but quietly, eyes fixed on him whilst he does not award you a single glance. He is engrossed in the scheming that does not halt at your entrance, but you know he wants you when you see his parted knees, when you see leather pulled tight over his stiff shaft.
His jaw is clenched tight and the fingers on his right hand fiddle around thin air, so you know to step silently between his parted legs and descend to your knees underneath the table. The rough fingers that do not worry over it snake around the back of your head to gently thread through your hair. He needn’t say nor command anything else.
You stroke him to full hardness, grazing your teeth against the base and running your nose along the shaft, to then unbutton him quietly.
He is as silky and warm as always against your tongue. He drags against your cheeks when you hollow them and his skin, taut around his swollen tip, pulls back and forth when you suck on it. You don’t recall when you first enjoyed his weight in your mouth this much.
You risk a glance at him. He pays you no mind, and his stoic façade gives away nothing, but his chest moves up and down rapidly and you know it means you’re being good. You suppress a whine at his modest appreciation.
He is impossibly handsome as he towers over you, gaze sharp and jaw tight as he ignores you. You want nothing more than his praise and attention, so you lick and please him slowly, lazily and patiently. He is busy, you remind yourself, and he will reward you when the time comes. He always does.
Between your thighs, your skimpy dress slickens with your arousal as it builds steadily to an insatiable ache. It has become second nature for your body to give in to him in this way, even when he has yet to touch you. He has trained you this way.
“Have you kept it wet for your Prince?” he whispers against your neck each time he comes back to his quarters in the early evening.
The question is often accompanied by a slithering hand, like a snake that seeks warmth, it buries itself in your cunt to confirm it is to his standards. He hums in satisfaction each time.
“When in my presence,” he had told you once, depositing you in an armchair across his desk, “I want to marvel at my cunt freely,” he explained as he hooked your knees over the armrests and bunched your skirts around your waist.
And you awakened breathless, hours later, with his tongue licking inside you and his nose on your pearl of pleasure.
You had stood no chance. To you, he is intrinsically bound to that feeling that crawls under your skin, that under his touch erupts in elation.
Now, you are wide awake and it is you who tastes him eagerly.
When he begins to drip, hot and salted, your fingers grip his thighs harder as your own quiver in a need you haven't been able to control in a long time. You look at him again. His cheeks are hollowed, jaw locked shut, eyes slitted in fury.
The lords in the Small Council haven’t halted their discussion despite your interruption and it is clear what they discuss displeases your Prince greatly. If not, he might have not summoned you.
This is not the first time the Prince has had you in their presence, it is not the first time he has had you in the presence of others at all. If it had been, perhaps you would have been capable of greater shame.
When he took you in and you proceeded to tend to him exclusively, little of your customary routine changed. But when his demands started to reflect his true intentions, his true desires, it couldn’t be said you were a simple maid of the palace.
That first time, you had been brushing your hair at your vanity, as you often now did, and applying to your skin the feminine oils your Prince preferred. In an immodest lavender dress of his choosing and delicate jewelry he appreciated, you tended to yourself as he demanded.
The doors to his sleeping chambers push open to allow a small entourage of maids to set his breakfast - your breakfast. Your jerk reaction is to look away from them, the people who had once been your colleagues, and hide your healthy, pampered face.
Your eyes land on his lavish, sunny balcony where he leans against the railing directly across from you. He loves to watch his beast terrorize the city below with her sky-bound rounds first thing in the morrow. But he watches her no longer.
He shines brightly and god-like under the sun; his messy short hair glows a halo above him, and the sapphire lodged on the left side of his face glints to highlight the cut of his scar like thunder. Despite the warmth of the morning shine, he is cold, white-cold, with his silver hair and porcelain skin, his milky chemise that reveals his milky chest, and his silky pants that bulk to reveal his salacious musings.
Your breathing quickens as you take him in fully, in all his terrifying, improper glory. Your hand holds your brush halfway through its path and your lips hang parted as he holds your gaze intently, as you watch him with a hunger that escapes your agency.
When he pushes off the stone ledge, you let your brush hit the floor. Such is the effect he has on you, such is the extent of his influence.
He drops to frame you within his arms, leveraging against the cushioned seat of your vanity desk, to take your lips in sloppy teasing, giving you just enough of a taste that something within you quivers wantonly.
Behind you, the porcelains and silvers continue to clink against the wood, chairs scrape across the stone, and heavy cloth slaps in the still air.
“What’s this, then?” he whispers and deprives you of his tongue too quickly. You grasp onto his strong arms to center yourself, breathing heavily against him.
Fingers run up your inner thigh and you shiver violently, desiring him violently.
“Are you ashamed of serving your Prince?” he grins maliciously.
“O-of course not my-” you choke on a gasp when he brings his hot lips to your neck, sucking on the spots that have you dripping under your skimpy gown.
He takes your left knee and hooks it around his hip, pulling you flush against him as he presses you down on the long chaise. A yelp escapes you when you feel his hot girth against your cunt.
“Or are you ashamed of how thoroughly you enjoy it?” he grunts against your lips, thrusting his clothed bulge against you. You bite your lips closed painfully as you are painfully aware of the people behind you.
“I didn’t say you could leave,” he barks, glancing upward to your utmost horror. You hear the servants scurry behind you, imagining their bowed heads and embarrassed looks. Your own embarrassment grows until tears gather in the corners of your eyes.
“Not until she comes,” he adds, looking at you, grinning widely, while he snakes a hand between your legs and burrows his fingers deep inside in a swift stroke.
You burn in shame when your eyes roll to the back of your head and a long whine is forced out of your lips.
“It won’t be long now,” he continues, watching your tears spill, fucking your cunt fast, “she is wet and swollen already.”
Indeed, the noises coming from between your legs are excessively obscene. And he is right, he knows your cunt - his cunt - too well.
When he plugs you with his thick girth, you whine and moan in complete abandon. And when he plows you fast enough to make the chaise scrape against the floors, you scream and beg for him before soaking his cock in your unlimited ecstasy.
The first time he’s ever had you in the presence of others was long ago.
Now, you know that when his fingers tighten on your nape you are to release his hard cock quickly. You know to mount it instead.
You make quick, silent work of it not to disturb him and the processes of the court that still unravel behind you. You straddle his thighs, tuck your toes behind his knees, grip his leather vest tightly, and hide your face in the crook of his neck. The hand that had been in your hair now rests on your hip, thumb hooked under the scandalous slit of your dress to bury in the crease where your thigh meets your hip.
You count the time that passes in the drops of sweat that roll down your temple, in shaky breaths you rein against his skin, in the thrums of your blood.
Your cunt, dripping and dripping, quivers weakly around him. Though you refrain from moving and driving yourself to your insanity, it throbs on his shaft as you feel the mere ghost of his touch on your most pleasurable spot.
Your body aches with the effort of keeping composure, keeping quiet, keeping from breaking. And every time your Prince has input on the session that stretches on, his chest rumbles and you must refrain from mewling in satisfaction.
It is not until your mind is hazy with exhaustion and your eyes spill tears of agony that the heavy chairs start to scrape against the stone floors, one by one. Your heartbeats pick up their rhythm from where they had rested in patience.
And when footsteps follow, he pulls your face from hiding by the sweaty hairs on the back of your neck.
A small yet immensely condescending smile plays on his sculpted lips. It makes you aware of your humiliating conditions: a servant, chosen to fulfill the pleasures of her liege Prince, at the brink of insanity from entertaining her own pleasures instead.
You are lost in his mismatched blue eyes, so much so that you are caught off guard when he starts shoving your hips back and forth to grind on his cock. Instantly, it drags a long gasp from you, crosses your eyes, waters your mouth.
“Hm?” he questions patronizingly, looking down with a raised eyebrow that mocks your lustful reaction.
His ministrations are excruciating, his cockhead bullying hard and unforgiving on your most pleasurable spot. In this way, you are violently driven to ecstasy, just shy of peaking with the same intensity, when he halts all movement without warning.
But you are given time to neither cry nor beg for his mercy, for he hugs you tight to his chest, angles your hips up and away from his cock, and thrusts.
You gasp painfully against his leather-covered pecs when he does, and he soon pulls your head back by your hair to place your chin against it instead.
Through your pleasure-hazed eyes, you see his mirth and his composure. And it is always this way: regardless of how eagerly he takes you, no matter how passionately he desires you, you are always the one debauched and he is always the one untarnished, always viciously becoming of his royal status.
“Go on then,” he murmurs when he watches your tears roll the sides of your face, your lips parted in unbearable pleasure. “Go on and cream on it.”
Because his growl electrifies you from within, because you’ve learned to be promptly obedient, because you cannot help it, you do as he commands.
Your cunt contracts so tightly, for a second his cock gets trapped mid-thrust before he repeatedly shoves himself inside you to forcefully ride the surges of your orgasm. Your loose chin bumps against his chest, leaving sloppy trails behind, and your breasts spill, little by little, from the flimsy restraint of the fabric that skates down between your bodies.
He loves to debase you in this way.
He doesn’t stop, and you are unable to determine when your first orgasm ends and the second starts to mount.
But he can.
He hisses when he feels it - your cunt throbbing again, dripping relentlessly - and bares his sharp teeth in a sneer, watching your glimmering, dopey eyes.
His grip on your hip strengthens, the arm that loops around your back to grasp your hair tenses, and he rises to his feet only to drop you unceremoniously onto the stone surface behind you.
“Gods,” he growls, slows his ministrations, and you savor every excessive inch of his, so evident now your cunt is hot and swollen from the long wait, from the incessant grinding. “I would keep you on my cock from sunrise to nightfall.”
He holds onto your hips, forcing them down against the table so that you don’t slide away from his calculated, powerful pushes, and watches his shaft disappear within you attentively.
“I would keep you on it,” he licks his lips, “at tea with my sister,” he meets your eyes again, after appreciating the uncoordinated bouncing of your breasts.
“On my morning flights,” he continues, lowering himself to hover above you, a hand pressed next to your head. “And I would carry you, and display you on my hard cock, all over this castle.”
He picks up his brutish pace again and you gasp and whine unabashedly, and new tears spill from your unfocused eyes, and your bottom lip quivers. Such is the effect of his praise.
“What’s that now, huh?” he coos, forcing a little sob from you, but you are unable to communicate. Instead, you part your lips and plead with big, wet eyes.
He lets go of your hip to support himself fully on his forearms, hovering a bit closer now. You can feel his warmth, now, you can scent his luscious exertion.
His nose brushes lightly against your own, just beyond reach, and you can’t avoid bending your back, tilting your chin, or your tongue poking out between your teeth, desperate for a taste.
His eye darkens significantly and he tuts in feigned disappointment.
“Needy little thing,” he murmurs, only to plunge his soft tongue right where you yearned for it.
His kisses are supple and sloppy and not enough to sate you. When he pulls away and you whine in agony, he lets his drool slide down his tongue and onto yours. And the debauchery of the act drives pathetic moans from your lips and desperate rolls of your hips.
Above you, your Prince moans and hisses, then plunges himself against your sweetest spot with renewed, unstoppable vigor. And yet again you cry pathetically, eyes crossing and mouth hanging open, tits flying and slapping, cunt gushing and thrumming.
“I fucking love it when you get like this,” your Prince grunts viciously behind gritted teeth, shoving his girthy length in and out without mercy for your sanity.
“Wet,” his hand lowers to grope your plump bottom, “hot,” he forces you against his unforgiving plows, “utterly dimwitted for your Prince’s cock.”
He loves to debase you in this way, and the response you manage is a string of blabbering, dimwitted pleas.
“If I didn’t know any better,” he grunts again, panting above you as his crazed movements and your lascivious reactions burn his muscular body, “I’d think you’re falling in love with it.”
“Oh, I am!” you yelp, long and loud, mind entirely lost in the bliss he fucks into you. “I love it… I love my Prince’s cock,” you whimper timidly against his lips and he angles his cock to bully that spongy, swollen button of yours.
“Yeeess,” you moan again. “There, there,” you beg with your cries and beseeching eyes.
You come on a scream that reverberates through the tall, stony walls of the Small Council room. And though your walls contract viciously, your Prince pushes through them determinedly, driving you to an immediate third peak that absolutely floods your cunt before he even dumps his hot seed inside you.
You come on his cock long and hard, and you come still when he too finishes. And when he drops his weight onto you, finally, and his head thumps against the table next to yours, your cunt still flutters from the sensorial memory of the onslaught it endured.
Your skin is impossibly hot and sweaty, and your body impossibly exhausted.
And yet.
“Tonight,” your Prince starts after long moments of silence, raising his head only to meet your eyes, “we will hold a private audience for the King.”
Your body shivers cold, your eyes bulge out, but your cunt contracts around him meekly.
He watches you closely, with his eye delighted and a wide grin, malicious.
“I want you just like this,” he warns, taking your jaw in a firm grasp, “on your best behavior.”
He loves to debase you, and you love to serve him.
