the pawn in every lover's game (lannister!reader x aemond targaryen)
When you’re ten, your father sends you to King's Landing to befriend a princess and woo a prince.
A lioness growing up amongst dragons is a dangerous thing indeed.
aemond targaryen x female!lannister!reader oneshot
When your brother is stolen away by the newly arrived King Aemond, First of His Name, you ride to Storm's End to plead his case.
crossposted on ao3
masterlist
content warning: explicit sexual content, piv sex, cunnilingus (f receiving), praise kink
word count: 12.4k
notes: i eventually keep my word!!! i promised this a million years ago and here it is! my dear beloved aemond as faegon au (:
lannister!reader bc i have a brand and i must maintain it
On the ride from Riverrun to Storm’s End, you repeat all you know about Aemond Targaryen until it begins to ring in your ears even when you sleep.
Aemond Targaryen, the only son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell. Aemond Targaryen, the heir to the heir of the Iron Throne during Robert’s Rebellion. Aemond Targaryen, the babe your father’s dog had smashed against the wall with his bare hands. Aemond Targaryen, the viscera that had coated Gregor Clegane’s hands as he had raped Elia Martell. Aemond Targaryen, the littlest of the bundles that had been presented to Robert Baratheon, the littlest of the ghosts to haunt your eldest half-brother.
Aemond Targaryen, the dead prince.
Dead. Dead. Dead.
Until he had come from the East, atop a dragon, and rooted Mace Tyrell’s army from its perch in Storm’s End, claiming the first part of Westeros for himself.
There had been whispers about him before the dragon. His aunt was the main threat in the East with her three beasts but still - some would talk about the boy king that the Golden Company had sworn for, would whisper about the sole survivor of the slaughter at the hands of the Lannisters.
Unless the boy walks with a smashed-in skull, he’s a pretender being hoisted up by sellswords your uncle Kevan had insisted, his eyes dull with the memory of having been witness to the atrocities committed onto the Princess Elia and her children.
Then the dragon.
There had been no whispers about that - there had only been screams. The bards had written their songs, the smallfolk talked about the Targaryens being reborn, the dragons being brought back to bring peace to Westeros.
You hadn’t cared much even with that - you hadn’t had the time. With Jaime in the Riverlands and Tyrion lost to the winds, you bore the brunt of Cersei’s paranoia and your time was spent trying to help your uncle reign her in, trying your best to be the silk glove to your sister’s steel fist that threatened to punch right through what little power the Lannisters had left. You had sang a pretty song for the Tyrells, swearing your allegiance, swearing your house’s allegiance, offering your own hand in marriage up to use to tighten your alliance even further. You had tried to loosen the grip the Faith Militant had tightened on the city. You had soothed the worries of the court, trying to convince them that the Lannisters still had power and dominion in the capitol.
You had tried.
And you had failed.
The instant the Faith had seized your sister, Kevan had spirited you out of the city. You’re the last of Tywin’s blood, he had insisted. You and Jaime both. Ride to him. Find him. It is the only hope our House has left.
You had taken a host of Lannister men with you. Ostensibly, you were riding to provide your brother with more soldiers. In truth, you were fleeing, fleeing to the only man left who could provide you with the illusion of protection.
When you had arrived in Riverrun, you hadn’t found your brother. You had found your aunt.
And she told you Jaime had been taken.
Aemond Targaryen, it seemed, had claimed his first prize.
The letter came after. It declared that Aemond Targaryen, the first of his name, was the true king of the Seven Kingdoms. Tommen Baratheon was a bastard born of incest. Jaime Lannister would die for his crimes - both the crime of being a kingslayer and the crime of being Tywin Lannister’s son.
Unless you went to plead his case.
You’d have guest right. You wouldn’t be harmed. Aemond Targaryen swore that on the honor of one of his most trusted advisors.
Tyrion Lannister.
There had been little to decide after that. Aunt Genna had urged you to ignore his summons. If Tyrion really had joined up the new Dragon King, it’d be far more prudent for you to head to Casterly Rock. Cersei was tied to the throne, her claim dependent on her Baratheon marriage, her marriage contract having removed her from the line of inheritance. Jaime was sworn to the cloak. Tyrion was a kinslayer.
By all rights, the Rock was yours and, if you had any hope of pressing your claim, you’d return to your home and make your plans from there.
But you’re a fool. A silly little girl who still cries for her big brothers. A silly little girl who longs for her older sister to show her even a flash of affection. A silly little girl who will ride into the dragon’s mouth if it means she has even half a chance of keeping her family alive a little while longer.
You are a fool.
But you will not be unprepared.
——————————–
You enter Storm's End feeling vaguely like a drowned cat. Your cloak hangs heavy on you, threatening to pull you straight down to the stone floor in a puddle composed of Lannister and fur. Next to you, your cousin, Ser Addam Marbrand, stamps his feet on the ground, muttering under his breath a choice string of curses as he throws a baleful glare at the guards that surround you in the entrance hall.
They're golden, laden in bangles and arm rings and silks, their armor itself glinting in the torchlight, casting the hall in a shimmery glow. Fitting, you suppose, for an army of mercenaries named the Golden Company.
It's naked wealth and you wrinkle your nose at the sight of it. You are, after all, something of an expert on the subject and even this pushes at your delicate sensibilities.
"My lady," a man says as he approaches, bowing his head. He's tall, towering over you, with a clear warrior's build that hints at the strength in his body. Even his hair, ridiculous as it is with red roots and faded blue at the strands, does little to diminish his presence. "On behalf of His Grace, Aemond Targaryen, I welcome you to Storm's End."
You nod slowly, scanning his body, eyeing the sword he carries on his hip. Carefully, you straighten up, trying to claim every inch of your height even if it pales next to him. "I thank you, Lord…"
"Connington. Lord Jon Connington."
Prince Rhaegar's friend. Following Robert's rebellion against the crown, Aerys had named him his Hand— a gift he promptly squandered during the Battle of the Bells. Last you heard, he had drank himself to death in Essos for the shame of having failed his prince and his king.
And yet…
You smile faintly, curling your fingers around the edges of your soaked cloak to pull it closer to yourself. "Funny how life works, my lord. Here you are again. Surviving under another Targaryen King. Has this one named you Hand as well?"
Connington's lips press together in a grim line. He doesn't like you. The feeling, you want to assure him, is more than mutual. "No, Lady Lannister, he has not. He's named your brother that honor."
"How fitting," you murmur. "I always felt that dear Jaime deserves more than a white cloak. Unless, of course, you mean my kinslayer brother. Tyrion's more than clever enough for it, I assure you, but I'm sure you're well aware of both my brothers' records with kings. I'm one behind as I see it."
"Is that a threat, my lady?" Connington asks and, all around him, the Golden Company reaches for their swords, their bangles jingling as they do. Behind you, Ser Marbrand stiffens, his own hand flying to his weapon.
You shake your head, smiling still. "There would have to be a king here, I fear, for me to get such a chance. As I see it, me and my brothers are the only ones with royal blood. My dear nephew, King Tommen, rules in King's Landing. No, I am here to see Aemond Targaryen and negotiate Ser Jaime Lannister's release. I am Lady of Casterly Rock. He is under my protection."
"He's facing the block for his crimes."
"Whatever he stands accused for, it does not change that he's a member of House Lannister. I'd be a poor Lady if I allowed such a thing to occur unmet." You glance behind him, at the meek servant girl carrying a plate of salt and bread. "Your lord will honor guest rights, I assume. The armies of the Westerlands are prepared to move to action if not."
"Tyrion has sworn you will receive it," Connington grinds out, looking as if he's growing less and less inclined to offer it to you, even as he gestures the servant forward. "Even if it means little and less to the daughter of Tywin Lannister."
You grimace, reaching for the chunk of bread, quietly motioning Addam to move up to his collect his own piece. "That was the Walder Frey's dirty work, my lord. Robb Stark hurt his pride by scorning his daughter. The old lecher wanted his pound of flesh for the insult. The Red Wedding bears his awful signature."
And yet, your father's mark is written all over it.
You know the truth of it. Lord Walder Frey is a cradle-robbing pervert, a disgusting old man who made more eye contact with your chest than he ever had with your eyes when you first met him at four-and-ten.
But he is a craven. A cowardly craven who would prefer to stew over perceived insults than rise to action over them. He is not nearly bold enough to slaughter the Starks and their vassals at a wedding.
But Tywin Lannister is.
Was, now, you suppose.
You bite into the bread, the salt heavy on your tongue. Next to you, Addam does the same. It's a poor shield, especially after your father had blast it to shreds at the Twins, but it is a shield nonetheless. Even a flimsy one is better than none at all.
"The King and his Hand wait for you in the throne room," Connington says, his eyes looking over the pair of you with barely concealed disdain.
As he leads you through the halls of Storm's End, Addam catches up to you, ducking slightly to meet your ear.
"My lady, can we trust Tyrion to protect you?" He whispers, uncaring that as he does, every single guard eyes him with open suspicion. "He killed Lord Tywin in cold blood. Who's to say he won't do the same to you to garner trust with his dragonlord?"
"He's my brother," you say, a knot tight in your chest. "He taught me how to read. He will keep me safe. He will."
You wish you were confident. Tyrion had always been the easiest of your siblings. Jaime and Cersei had always felt far away in King's Landing. When you had moved to the capital, they'd been distant even if Jaime would try to bridge the gap. But Tyrion? Tyrion was always there, making you laugh, comforting you when your Father had snapped at you, encouraging you to be a bigger voice and presence in the court. He'd been your best friend. When he'd been accused of killing Joffrey, you'd stood for him, even if it had only resulted in Cersei's furious rage finding its target in you.
But then he had killed your father.
Tywin Lannister wasn't a comforting man. He wasn't even a good man. Truthfully, sometimes, you felt like he regretted ever having you. You hadn't been the male heir he needed after Jaime joined the Kingsguard. You'd been the daughter of a woman who wasn't Joanna Lannister and that was all he really needed to write you off.
But he'd been your father. Yours. Your mother had died in labor. Tyrion had cared for you since childhood, yes, but he was your older brother. Tywin was your father. You'd loved him with a desperate force, hungered for the rare times he had praised you, fought and pined for his approval.
And Tyrion had shot him on the privy after you and Jaime had freed him.
You sigh, tightening your fingers into a fist at your side.
You would free Tyrion again. You would always choose to free him.
You just wish he would have spared you the pain of being an orphan.
The throne room rises up fast, the hallway opening up to a massive room. It's nothing like the opulence of the Iron Throne, especially after your sister had had her way with it. It's cold, stark, looking as if it's been carved out of stone and built for war. It's cavernous, each footstep of yours echoing in the silence, ringing in your head like a funeral bell.
Tyrion stands at the foot of the throne, his hands held tight in front of him. He looks stressed and overwrought, staring at you as if the mere sight of you hurts him. You want to run to him, fall onto your knees and throw you arms around him and feel like a little girl seeking comfort. You want to hit him, want to dig your nails at him and tear at him, wail and beg and ask why he had hurt you so deeply when you had only ever tried to love him.
You turn away from him, unwilling to decide yet what to do with him.
And there, on the stone throne, Aemond Targaryen waits.
He's lean and graceful, long silver hair falling free around his face, sheets like silk framing his features. He's dressed in black leathers — riding clothes you realize — with a sword on his hip and he stands tall at the throne, not sitting like you had expected. It, somehow, is far more intimidating. It shows he's a man of action, that if you anger him, he'll just as easily run down to tear into you rather than ordering one of his men to do it for him.
He's pretty.
You wish you didn't notice. You wish he was ugly.
But he's so painfully pretty it'd be impossible not to notice. His features are fine and delicate, as if carved out of stone by a mason's steady hand. His thin lips curl up into a perpetual smirk, smug in a way that would infuriate you if it wasn't so damningly attractive. A scar cuts through his face, over an eye, leaving it narrowed in an eternal glare.
You hate him, you decide. Which, admittedly, isn't the best option for your negotiations but it's the one you've landed on. How dare he look that good when you've already decided to hate him for eternity?
"My prince," you say as you bow, deciding to make your stance clear. He is no king — not while your bastard nephew rules. "Welcome to Westeros. I hope you've found our courtesy welcoming."
He smiles. "It was courteous enough, my lady. Mace Tyrell was happy enough to see me. Until, of course, he met my lady Visenya. He didn't much seem to enjoy that."
Mace Tyrell had been fed to his dragon if the rumors are to be believed.
You return his smile, refusing to let him see you flinch. "A plentiful meal, I'm sure. Perhaps sour and overripe but filling nonetheless."
Aemond laughs, loud and sharp, and he settles into his throne, spreading his legs wide as if to take up as much room as possible. He sinks into the throne as if it were a plush bed, resting easy. Your mind, without your permission, inserts his image onto the Iron Throne. He'd suit it — far more than your sweet nephew with his round cheeks and bright eyes. "She did enjoy the feast. I'm not yet sure if she'd enjoy lion."
You laugh. "We're notoriously tough, my prince. A bit stingy. Surely not a sumptuous meal by any means."
"Seems plenty sumptuous to me," he hums, eyes roaming over you shamelessly. "Any dragon would love to make a meal of you."
Heat explodes over your body and you shift in place, pulling your cloak tight against you again. You've been flirted with before, of course you have, but never by a man like this. You expect bugs to explode over your skin, to feel the familiar nasty, dirty feeling of a man looking at you and trying to find your shape underneath your clothes.
It doesn't come.
Instead you feel warm, overheated. You want to take your cloak off. You want to take your gown off.
Surely this is Targaryen magic. Surely this is some spell he's brought over from the East. It cannot possibly be him.
Behind you, Connington clears his throat. "She's come to negotiate for the release of the Kingslayer, Your Grace."
A cold shiver brings you back to Earth and you straighten up. "Ser Jaime Lannister falls under the domain of the Westerlands. He falls to me. I ask you release him to my own judgment. Any punishment should be dispensed by the Lady of Casterly Rock. Not by a Prince of Dragonstone."
"A king, my lady. And your brother, if I recall correctly, is sworn to the throne. To my throne. Justice is mine," he drawls, voice hard and unyielding despite his almost lazy lounging.
You loosen your grip on your cloak, hands flying out in a pacifying motion. "Is it, my prince? My nephew Tommen holds the throne. He's given me the right to dispense my own judgment."
He raises a singular eyebrow. "Your nephew, yes. The Kingslayer's nephew, yes. But he is also the Kingslayer's son, is he not?"
"I'd thank you, my prince," you immediately shoot back, stiffening. "If you would not repeat Stannis Baratheon's lies. King Robert claimed him. He is trueborn. The matter has been settled. I, myself, look like my own mother rather than my father. Tommen is the same."
Another lie. You know the truth of Jaime and Cersei. You've always known the truth. Everything that everyone says about them is true.
But you will not admit it to these strangers,
He looks at you longer, his eyes boring into yours. Finally, his eyes flick over to Tyrion, who, unexpectedly, is utterly silent. Finally, Aemond speaks: "It is as you say, I suppose. I could hardly fault a sister coming to fight for her brother. I would do the same if my sister had survived your father's treachery."
You wince, looking down at your feet. It's impossible for you not to flinch at the mention. In your mind, you remember the few times Jaime had talked about Elia Martell and her children. He had seen Rhaenys's corpse, had seen how her little body had been destroyed by Amory Lorch. He had seen Aemond's, the little babe, how there had been nothing left of that sweet little child, or, at least, whatever babe had been in his place. It doesn't matter, you suppose. A dead babe is a dead babe.
"I am not my father," you say quietly, feeling your body chill and go cold. "I… I would not have allowed that happen. I do not hold you responsible for Aerys Targaryen's horrible crimes. I ask you to do the same to me."
It's as much as you're willing to say. Your father was cruel. He was cruel to his children and crueler to the rest of the world. He's alive still, you want to say. He lives in my mind, in the cruel voice that haunts my every move. He hates me and I hate him and I miss him more than I've ever missed anything else.
You say none of it. He doesn't deserve your pain. "It is as you say, my prince. I want my brother. I protect my brother. That is all I ask."
"Even after his crimes?" Tyrion asks, his voice loud in the quiet in the throne room.
You hate that the sound of it causes tears to rise up in your eyes. You've missed him. You've missed him so bad. "Even after everything, my lord," you reply, wishing your voice were stronger still. "He is my brother. He is my subject. He is mine to command."
"I am King," Aemond says, voice sharp enough to cut through you. "You are mine to command."
You shake your head. "You are not my king. I obey Tommen. I do not obey you."
Immediately his eyes flash and he rises back to his feet. He loams, tall even from your distance, and he stands firm at his throne. "Perhaps, my lady, Visenya should have a talk with you. She would love to explain your place in this kingdom."
"My place," you say, feeling your rage rise up inside your chest. "Is in Casterly Rock. I am Wardenness of the West. Even if you are a king, you will not cow me. King Loren Lannister bowed to three dragons. I will not bow to one."
He steps down from his throne, walking closer and closer to you. None of his guards move with him, thankfully, and he walks towards you. Behind him, you vaguely recognize Tyrion following in his wake but your eyes stay glued to him.
Finally, he stands in front of you. His eyes, you finally realize, are amethyst. They glow in the light. He's even more beautiful up close.
Your hatred grows at the observation.
"Not even to me?" He asks quietly.
"Not even to you," you reply just as soft. "I only want my brother. I will leave you in peace. The Westerlands will not declare war if you seek to claim the Iron Throne from underneath Tommen."
Aemond looks down at you, his eyes shining in the light, a hungry glint shining in their deep color. "What if I want more than peace?"
You take a deep breath. You had expected it. You had. It doesn't mean it is anymore easier.
"I am unmarried," you say after a moment, voice steady. "If you wish for my hand, I will give it. The Westerlands will fight for you. Most of the Crownlands, excepting King's Landing, will fight for you. I will help you claim Westeros."
Behind you, Connington scoffs. "He will marry his aunt, Daenerys Targaryen. He does not need an Usurper's dog to help him."
You roll your eyes. "His aunt will not have him. Prince Aemond's claim is stronger. If she marries him, she loses her right to the throne. Waiting for her hand in marriage is like waiting for the sun to rise in the west."
"Still," Tyrion says. "You offer little. The Westerlands do not even belong to you. I am Tywin's heir as much as he hated to admit it."
You shake your head, refusing to turn to answer him, keeping your eyes on Aemond's disarming gaze. "The Westerlands will not accept you. You are a kinslayer. The Gods themselves have abandoned you. I am Lady of Casterly Rock. I am Wardenness of the West. Aemond Targaryen, if he wishes to claim the throne, will not find a finer match than me. Sansa Stark is lost to the winds. Margaery Tyrell is already married to little Tommen. The Riverlands are burning as we speak and have no lady to offer to him. The Vale is mad with only a sickly boy to lead them and the less said about the Iron Islands the better. Dorne is already yours, my prince. I am the only who can bring you more power."
Aemond smiles, slow and snakelike. "I have plenty power. I have a dragon."
"Aye, you do," you agree easily. "So did Aegon the Conqueror and his wives. And then Rhaenys died in the deserts of Dorne. You have one dragon to their three. I can only bring you more power when that is what you sorely need to claim the Seven Kingdoms."
"And your brideprice, my lady?" Aemond asks. "What do you ask for?"
You want peace, you want to say. You want all these wars to end. You want Stannis Baratheon to freeze in the North. You want Euron Greyjoy to drown before he ever reaches Oldtown. You want Daenerys Targaryen to burn in the East and stay lost in the Dothraki deserts.
"I want my brother," you say instead. "I want my brother to stay safe and whole by my side."
"And your sister?"
When you were young, Cersei would allow you to stay in her room as she prepared herself for feasts. You would sit by her side and watch, eyes wide and hungry, as her maids carefully brushed makeup on her pretty features, as they pinned her curls up in beautiful styles. She was perfect, you had used to think. Completely and utterly perfect.
Two days before the Faith had taken her away, she had slapped you clean across the face in front of Margaery and her ladies. 'You are aiding Tyrion,' she had hissed, her features twisted in rage. 'Our crippled brother killed our father and you still help him. Traitor is too small of a word for you.'
You had cried. You had cried and the next morning, you had come to her door with wine and cheeses. She hadn't accepted you in but you had waited the entire day for her to do so. When you had finally abandoned your plan and slunk back to your room, you had prepared to spend the next day waiting for her again.
You had never gotten the chance to do so. The Faith had taken her before you had gotten the chance to try again.
"My sister," you say, wishing the words didn't feel like a dagger in your chest, "has made her bed. I will negotiate her surrender. I will beg for it. I do not expect her to listen but I will try nonetheless. My devotion, if you agree to my proposal, will belong to you."
Silence reigns in the throne room. Behind you, Addam shifts, his armor clinking, as if he expects to have to fight his way out of here to bring you to safety. You stay still, keeping your eyes solely on Aemond.
Finally, Tyrion speaks.
"She speaks the truth," he declares, voice steady. You don't look at him. You don't think you can bear the sight. "My sweet little sister is loyal. She always has been. She will fight for you if you just give her Jaime."
"Will her brother cuckold me like he did Robert?" He asks. His eyes roam your body, greedily digging underneath your cloak and your gown. The familiar itchy feeling never arrives.
You shake your head immediately. "No. No. He is my brother."
"That did not stop Cersei," Tyrion fires back.
"That will stop me," you hiss. The very thought makes you nauseous. "I will be loyal to my husband. I would never cuckold him, let alone with Jaime."
Again, there is quiet.
He shouldn't believe you. You are Tywin Lannister's daughter. You are Cersei Lannister's sister. You are, like everyone else in your family, an ugly, spiteful creature. No one should trust you. He should send you to the gallows or the block.
But Aemond Targaryen, beautiful creature that he is, does not.
"I will have you," he says even as Connington groans behind you in dismay. "You will be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. You will be Lady of Casterly Rock. Our sons will rule after us."
"And my brother?" You ask, voice soft.
"Your brother," he replies. "Will walk you down the aisle."
——————————–
Jaime is, miraculously, none the worse for wear. He sits in a cell, dirty and dank, but, somehow, he is golden and beautiful as usual.
It angers you more than it should.
"I am to be married," you complain as you stare at him in his dank cell, fingers curled around the bars, wishing you had had the foresight to ask for the keys to his chains. "I am to be married to Aemond Targaryen and it is because you couldn't help but to be abducted."
"You'll have to forgive me, sweetling," he says in response, a smile playing on his lips. "They didn't exactly stop to ask me for my opinion."
You roll your eyes, wishing you weren't melting with relief at the sight of him. He's chained to the corner, covered in filth, and the smell of him makes you want to gag.
But he's your brother. He's your brother. He taught you how to ride a horse. When you were five years old, he had snuck you into a feast past your bedtime, leading you past your scowling father, smiling and laughing as you had bounced and cheered and danced.
Just seeing him makes you feel better.
"I am to marry King Aemond in a few short hours," you say after a moment, trying to make your tone light and airy. "Your sister will be Queen."
"Our sister is already Queen," he shoots back, quirking up an eyebrow, looking both vaguely amused and baffled by your declaration.
Tyrion snorts, the sound startling you. "Cersei is the Queen of Whores, mayhaps. Our sister, our youngest sister, will be Queen of Seven Kingdoms. We'd be so lucky."
It's almost embarrassing how fast you turn to stare at him. He stands at the entrance of the hallway, up the stairs, hands tucked behind his back, looking down at the pair of you as if you're dirt beneath his shoes. The sight of him angers you. The sight of him comforts you.
You choose your anger instead.
"This," you start quietly, your voice growing in both volume and aggression as you go. "Would have never happened if you hadn't killed our father. We'd be together if you hadn't been selfish."
"Selfish?" Tyrion scoffs, walking down the stairs to come and stand by your side, the two of you just in front of Jaime's cell. He's defensive, that much is clear, but his words, as harsh as they are, aren't angry with you. No, his ire seems to be directed at Jaime if the way he glowers at your older brother is any sign. "Selfish? You came in asking for just Jaime — Jaime of all things — and you walk away a future Queen. You cannot speak to me about selfish, little sister. You shouldn't have come in the first place. You should have gone straight to Casterly Rock to press your claim!"
"You asked me to come!" You burst out, feeling like you'll die if you don't say your piece. "I don't want to be Queen! I barely want to be Lady of Casterly Rock! I just… I wanted you two. I wanted you back. I wanted my family! But you both left me! You left me and now we're here! I have to marry a Targaryen, I have to be the Queen, because you two are fools!"
You want to swing on both of them, on Tyrion and Jaime both. You want to give them matching black eyes, tie your family together with injuries and pain if your blood isn't enough. You want to go home.
Instead, you stand there, in the dungeons of Storm's End, stewing in your anger and hatred.
Neither of them respond for a moment, just looking at you like they want to understand you.
They don't. Gods, you wished they did. Maybe all of this would be easier if they did. Maybe you would be happier.
"I did not think our aunt would let you out of her grasp," Tyrion says after a moment. "When Aemond first came up with the plan to avenge his grandsire, I agreed to send the letter because I… Foolishly, I thought you would stay with our aunt or, even, with Uncle Kevan in the capital. You… I did not want you involved in this. I wanted you safe in Casterly Rock with your claim to protect you."
"Casterly Rock is mine," you murmur, your voice cracking to your eternal shame. "After what you've done, Casterly Rock is mine and I… I would have traded it for you. It should be yours but it's fallen to me and I…"
No tears, you think. What would Tywin say if he saw you? You cannot shame him. You cannot. You are the Lady of Casterly Rock now. You are House Lannister's shield and sword alike. The legacy of Tywin Lannister, of all of House Lannister, lands on you now.
"It is done," you say after a moment, squeezing your eyes tightly closed, hating how your chest tightens at the words. "I am doing what I must to save and preserve our House - it is what Father would want by any means. We are now thrust in Aemond's war. And you two… And you two will stand by my side. My side. You will follow me as head of our House."
"I am Hand of the King," Tyrion reminds you, an edge to his voice now.
"And I will be his Queen," you shoot back, opening your eyes just as you can glare at him, hardening your heart as Tywin would want. "I will be Queen and if I wish, I will beg Aemond to give me your head as a wedding gift. A woman's embrace is warmer than your damned useless advice."
Tyrion doesn't reply, just looking back at you with sad eyes.
"You left me," you murmur quietly, swinging your gaze between the two of your brothers. "Both of you left me. I was alone. And now I am here and you both are here and now this is it. This is it."
"I had to fight a war, sweetling," Jaime murmurs from his spot in the cell. "I… I was fighting for Tommen's claim."
You shake your head, laughing, partially wishing you had never poked at this bruise, that you had just told them to prepare for the wedding and left to do your own preparations. "I told you not to go. Our forces were doing well enough without you and Cersei was already going mad and I needed you. But you went and fought for a claim that we all know is baseless because our sister kicked you out of her bed."
"Swee-"
"Enough," you cut Jaime off, fighting the urge to clap your hands over your ears like you had when you were a child and someone tried to give you bad news. "Enough. I… It doesn't matter anymore. It doesn't. In a few hours, I will be wed to Aemond Targaryen and we will follow a new King. That is the price I paid for us to survive. I've secured pardons and safety for Tommen, Myrcella, and Cersei if only they yield and renounce their claim to their throne. All you have to do now is stand by my side. That is all. I'm sure even the pair of you can manage that."
You spin on your heel, turning away from both, and heading up the stairs.
On your way out, you quietly whisper to a guard to unchain your brother and let him clean himself. It wouldn't do start your marriage with Jaime reeking of death.
——————————–
As a little girl, you had always imagined your wedding to happen in the Great Hall of Casterly Rock. It didn't make much sense — you'd likely be marrying out of the family and your wedding would be in whichever holding your father had seen fit to tie you to — but it was your girlish fantasy. In your dreams, all of your family would be there, your siblings would love you, your father would be proud of you, and your mother would be alive. It would be perfect and golden and you'd marry a man of honor that loved you with reckless abandon.
But that was a little girl's fantasies.
This is real life and in real life, you're standing just outside the Storm's End throne room while wearing a borrowed dress from the Baratheon ladies that used to live here. It's too tight around the chest and too loose around the stomach and the fabric is itchy against your skin. There is no maiden cloak to be had — not here — and there's not near enough time for you to even attempt to embroider one. In its place, you've borrowed a soldier's cloak, the Lannister sigil austere and small.
Jaime's washed, at least.
"You don't have to do this," Jaime tells you when you walk up to him. He's been scrubbed and shaved and all it does is highlight how gaunt he looks now, a distant memory of the golden figure of perfection he had been when you were a little girl.
You smile sadly. "Yes, we should just tell the Targaryen king and his dragon that I won't be his bride and leave him waiting at the altar. Surely, that would have no repercussions for our family's continued survival."
"That is not what I mean," he whispers back. "I want you safe. I want you happy. You are my little sister. You deserve more than marriage to a Targaryen whelp. You're the last good Lannister left to us."
You shake your head, looping your arm through his, holding him tight to you, resting your head on his arm for a moment. "Does such a thing exist? This isn't about deserve. This is just… This is what needs to be done for House Lannister. I do my duty. I've always done it."
He looks at you, his green eyes looking you over carefully, scanning for a crack in your armor. He's always done this, always cared for you. There was a time when you never felt safer than when you were in his presence. Nothing could hurt you if Jaime was there to protect you.
If only it were true.
The doors finally creak open and, without pomp and circumstance, Jaime begins to lead you in. It is a far cry from all the weddings you've attended in the past. There are no banners or flowers or musicians singing soft love songs and hymns. There are some soldiers watching, a few lords and ladies scattered throughout, but it is still the smallest wedding party you've ever seen. A septon waits at the foot of the throne, Tyrion and Jon Connington clustered to his right and Ser Addam at his left.
And there.
Aemond Targaryen stands, his back facing you. His silver hair falls straight down his back, held at bay with a careful twist of braids. He's changed, wearing a tunic and pants, and, somewhere in the back of your mind, you mourn the loss of the riding leathers. The sword remains at his side, its golden hilt gleaming in the dim light, the belt cinched tight at his waist.
Gods, it's insufferable.
All too soon, Jaime walks you up to him and, when the septon announces your approach, Aemond turns to receive the pair of you.
His eyes glint at you knowingly, a pleased smile resting easy on his face. He looks you up and down, taking in your frumpy dress and your mismatched cloak, and, somehow, finding it attractive if the way his tongue comes out to wet his lips is any indication.
And then, just like that, you pass over into Aemond's care.
The ceremony goes fast, leaving you feeling like you're not in your own body. You move through by instinct, barely aware of the words the septon is saying, let alone the words that you parrot back. At some point, Jaime comes up to unclasp your cloak and you quietly help him, saving him the embarrassment of fumbling with his one hand.
The blessed few moments when you stand free of any familial obligation — just you in a borrowed dress — go by too fast for you to truly enjoy.
With a dramatic flair, Aemond pins his cloak to your throat. You don't get much of a chance to look at it, to see what symbol if any are stitched on it, but it doesn't matter soon enough.
"With this kiss," he murmurs, voice low so only you and the septon have any hope of hearing. "I pledge my love, and take you for my Queen and wife."
"With this kiss," you whisper back. "I pledge my love, and take you for my King and husband."
The septon, his voice loud and clear, declares you to be one flesh, one heart, one soul, but you barely register him.
Because Aemond Targaryen is kissing you.
You've been kissed before. Once, as a small girl in Casterly Rock's gardens, you had kissed the steward's daughter, the two of you giggling relentlessly the entire time. In King's Landing, you'd kissed Tyrion's squire, a quick little peck, and had been all aglow about it even if he had been shipped off to the Riverlands with Jaime's lady knight the very next day.
But you've never been kissed like this.
Aemond kisses like he has something to prove, like it isn't enough to have already claimed you in the eyes of the Gods and Men. He has to claim you here and now. One hand settles on your waist as if it was always meant to find its way there while his other hand rests on your jaw, pulling you closer until you're molded to the front of his body, helpless to do anything but dig your fingers into his tunic to find some ground.
He pushes into your space, bending you backwards, and you kiss back just fiercely, feeling that fire from earlier erupt all over your body again, heating you up and burning you completely until you don't know where you are. You don't know anything except how good he feels and how you never want this to end.
But end it does and, when he pulls away, he presses his forehead up against yours, his breath warm across your face. Slowly, the rest of the world comes back into focus, the sound of the audience cheering and whistling coming back like a symphony of its own. You breathe heavy, your hands shaking, as you fight to find your own standing again.
Your eyes slowly open.
Aemond is already watching you, his amethyst eyes dark with desire and want.
You think he wants to say something, his eyes digging deep into yours, but he doesn't.
He just leans closer, pressing a kiss on your lips once more, this time gentle and sweet.
There is no grand feast like any normal wedding — not even a play at one. It's a simple dinner, you and your brothers with Aemond and his advisors, with all of you seated in a small dining room. There can be no big show of opulence, Aemond had told you as he lead you through the halls, not while his people were starving and dying in wars.
You had agreed with him, your mind flashing back to the bread riots in King's Landing when the smallfolk had seemed ready to eat the nobility if no relief came for them.
The dining room is almost painfully awkward in its silence. Jaime sits by your side, quiet and sullen, and, by Aemond's side, Tyrion isn't talking for once, drinking goblet after goblet of wine to the point the servant serving them is just stationed behind him. Connington, as expected, is stewing in his anger, shooting you glares as if he can make you vanish with his eyes alone.
That only leaves you and Aemond to carry the conversation.
And, well, Addam and Ser Harry Strickland of the Golden Company. Those two, at least, seem to be getting on like a house on fire, laughing and drinking, gossiping like a pair of old fishwives. They, somehow, make enough noise by themselves to fill up the small room, making it seem like a full feasting hall rather than a table full of unpleasantly unhappy people.
"At least someone is enjoying themselves," you grumble under your breath, shooting them a baleful glare.
"Strickland never misses a chance to remain seated," Aemond scoffs, making you jump slightly in nerves at the sound of his voice in your ear. "It's miracle he made it across the Narrow Sea in the first place."
You wrinkle your nose, bringing your wine glass up to your mouth to disguise it. Your eyes swing over to Strickland, to his portly shape and balding head. "It's a small miracle then, I suppose, that he managed to lead the Golden Company."
"It's politics, my lady," he responds, laughing slightly. "He's good at contracts, good at organizing men and managing logistics like housing and transportation. That's just as important as swinging a sword."
"So he's a steward," you hum, turning your gaze back on Aemond and all his amusement. "Still — hardly how I'd expect a Captain-general of the Golden Company to be. Bittersteel surely was not like that."
He thrums his fingers on the table, an endless beat for himself. "Bittersteel only loved war. Stewardship was a distant second for him — just a way for him to make more war."
"And you, my king? What do you love? Will you hunger for war or will you sue for peace?"
He doesn't respond, not right way. Aemond looks at you for a beat longer, breathing slowly as he thinks. Finally, he turns back to the table, reaching for his goblet, his rings clinking against the burnished gold as he does.
"Connington told me about my mother when I was four," he says quietly, his voice low enough that you have to strain to hear it. "He didn't know her very well, not like how he knew my father. But he told me of her kindness, of her grace, of how thankful she was to have me and my sister. And then he told me how the Mountain raped her with the blood of a tanner's son on his hands."
You stay quiet, thinking about Jaime and his guilt, thinking about the horror that had lingered in Uncle Kevan's eyes at the memory.
"I've heard they sent the Mountain's skull to Dorne, to my uncle Doran. It isn't enough. The Cleganes should have been ripped out root and stem, their lands salted and burned so nothing can grow, so it can be left as a reminder of their treachery." He leans in closer, his hair falling over his shoulder in a silky wave. "And your father, my sweet lady, should have met the same fate. Gregor Clegane is a dog and your father was holding the leash."
You smile, faintly and without much humor. There's nothing you can, or are willing, to say to defend Tywin. "My brother stole your revenge. And now Lord Tywin's daughter and heir will lie on her back for you."
A grin breaks out on his face, leaving him looking particularly rugged, more a mercenary than a king. "His daughter will do more than lie on her back for me. She will beg me for her pleasure. I hunger for vengeance, yes, my lady, but look at what allowing peace has brought me."
He snatches your hand, pulling it up to his mouth to press a kiss against your knuckles, holding it there against his lips.
You shiver, your mind fizzling out to nothing, as you meet his eyes. His gaze is half-lidded, lazy almost, as if he knows he has all the time in the world to look at you and take you in. It is far too intimate of a look to be had at a dinner, where your brothers sit on either side of you, but he's a king. Who would dare to scold him?
This close, the scar stands in more stark contrast, carving through his face in a treacherous path. It must have hurt, you realize as your brain slowly comes back to life, to have been hurt in such a way. Whoever it was would have needed to be close, far closer than any enemy would normally be.
You suck in a deep breath, pulling your hand away and looking back down at your plate, your hands fiddling with the fork at its side. "I am glad you're level headed, my king, in your approach to justice," you manage out, trying to calm your speeding heart. "My father and your grandsire ruled by fear and look how that ended out. You have to be better."
"We have to be better," Aemond shoots back. "You are my Queen now. I expect more out of you than birthing heirs and handing them to wetnurses. The greatest king in my House's past was Jaehaerys the Conciliator and Good Queen Alysanne was part of his strength. You'll be part of mine. You'll sit on the council with all the other advisors — with your own opinions and not just to parrot my own."
Coming into this marriage, you'd been prepared to argue for your right to speak, to invite Aemond into your bed repeatedly and often if it meant that he would grow to favor your council. Failing that, you'd been prepared to raise your sons and daughters with your own opinions in mind.
You hadn't been expecting to just be handed the power you craved.
You look over at him, searching for a hint of a lie in his face. He's a king, you wager, lying must come easy to him.
But there's no sign of it. He meets your eyes steadily, his breathing soft and regular, his face expression open in his honesty.
He means it, you realize. He actually means it.
"I might anger or frustrate you," you reply carefully. "You might not like what I have to say. I've fought with everyone in my life at least once or twice. We might make Jaehaerys and Alysanne's Quarrels look quaint."
He snorts, shaking his head. "Good. I hope we do. It'll mean you don't fear me, that you're strong enough to stand up to me and be your own person with your own mind, that you are honest. I will not suffer a weak or feeble Queen. I will not force you to be small nor shame you like my fath-" Aemond cuts himself off, leaning back in his seat as if his own words had been a slap across his face.
Elia Martell.
Rhaegar Targaryen had humiliated her, first by naming Lyanna Stark Queen of Love and Beauty and second by kidnapping Lyanna to take as a second bride, throwing his wife to the side. Elia was clever, Jaime had told you one night over dinner. Not that it had mattered much to Rhaegar and Aerys — her purpose had been to birth heirs and she had only given the Targaryens two children with only one of them being a boy.
It takes you a moment but you nod. "You'll have my opinions and my council," you promise, a small smile flickering on your face when his eyes jump up to meet yours. "Though you may eventually wish you had never asked."
You look at him for a while longer, at the boyish satisfaction that glows on his face. You know he's pretty — the Gods know he's pretty — but, in the candlelight, he looks… cute.
It makes your next move easy.
Easy as can be, your hand flies out to grab his, pulling him up to standing alongside you. "Well, my lords," you announce with as much cheer in your voice as you can conjure. "This has been a very lovely dinner with you all — honestly, we should do it more often — but my King and I would like to spend the rest of the night in our chambers. Discussing policy and the sort."
"Policy?" Tyrion asks, looking seconds away from becoming sick on the dinner table. "Discussing how the line of inheritance will continue from here on out?"
"Of course," you reply cheerfully, dragging behind you a stunned Aemond. "That falls under policy, does it not?"
——————————–
Your confidence quickly deserts you the further you get from the dining room. At some point, humiliatingly enough, Aemond notices you have absolute zero clue where you are and he openly laughs as he moves to pull you along, leading you towards where his chambers must be.
This is, also like the rest of your wedding night, completely at odds from what you expected of it since you were a child. You'd grown up hearing about beddings and, consequently, grown up being terrified of beddings. The idea of men pawing at you, leering and ogling, made you ill to your stomach but everyone always said it was to be expected. It was simply what was.
Cersei's own bedding had been relatively pleasant all things considered. You'd been a babe when she had been married to the newly-crowned Robert Baratheon but Jaime had kept her safe during it, delivering her to Robert's chambers with no one ever laying a single hand on her. Your various cousins from the endless branches of House Lannister, however, have not fared as well.
In all the weddings you've gone, more often than not, the women would end in tears when all the men would take advantage, pinching at them or groping as they stripped them of their clothes. The men would always yell obscenities; laughing with their friends about what they would do to the brides, wondering out loud if she would cry when her husband entered her, debating over how much she would bleed.
At eleven, you had hesitantly asked your father if you would have to go through one, if your future Lord Husband would allow you to forgo it.
Tywin didn't even dignify you with a response, waving you off and telling you to stop asking stupid questions.
In your most fantastical daydreams, you imagined someone giving you the courtesy Tyrion had given Sansa — when he had refused to allow the bedding and, more surprisingly, when Tywin had allowed him to do so.
You never quite imagined the bedding with a king and him allowing you to be so bold as to decide when it began.
Even with your bravery flailing and nerves appearing when he reaches his chambers and ushers you inside, you realize how much of blessing it is that you're here like this. Even if he is cruel like when wives and maids whisper about brutish men or if he's rough like the septas warn, you much rather it be like this — alone with him where you can lick your own wounds and hide your pain from your family and the court alike.
"Where will my chambers be?" You ask quietly as Aemond pulls the door open, leading you into a spacious room, lit and warmed by a blazing fireplace.
He shoots you a look as he moves to the jug of wine. "Here, my lady," he replies, his tone implying he's completely baffled you're asking, as he pours out a drink. "Were you expecting your own?"
You trail behind him, reaching for the goblet in his hand to take a long sip. "It is what is expected in Westeros, Your Grace."
"Aemond," he says, shaking his head as he grabs his drink back, eyes flashing at you over the rim. "Call me Aemond, my lady."
You look at him in the dim light with the fireplace throwing him into contrast. You've never called a man you weren't related to by their given names. Not even Tyrion's little squire — which was, likely, problematic seeing as now you couldn't remember it even though he had been your first, proper kiss. "Call me my name too, Aemond," you reply quietly, reaching for the goblet, letting your fingers curl around his. shivering at the heat radiating off of him.
He says your name quietly, trying it out on his tongue, savoring it like it is a delicious meal.
When he acts like that, you really can't control yourself.
You pull the goblet from his hand, fumbling for the table behind him, distantly aware of it crashing to the ground. Shaking only slightly, you reach for him, hands curling around his neck, and you push yourself up just as he leans down, one of his arms winding around your waist, pulling you into him.
Your lips meet in the middle.
It only takes you a moment to realize that he was actually holding back during the ceremony. He kisses you like he's starving, like he's leaving in the morning and he needs to burn this moment in his memory. You're adrift in him, clinging to him to stay afloat, and the fire that had tickled before sets you ablaze.
His tongue pushes into your mouth, the wet heat sending your head spinning when his tongue messages yours. Aemond's arm pulls you up, his arm other reaching below your bottom to tug you up, rucking your skirt up to your waist, pulling your legs tight around his torso, no room left between the two of you.
Your dress — your thrice-damned-Godawful dress — pulls tight around your chest, making you gasp into his mouth, the lack of air dizzying you even more until the only solid thing you can focus on is his mouth on yours, his body against yours. He pulls back for air, only a breath, but you whine, chasing his lips, so desperate for him that it doesn't even occur to you to worry whether or not you're being wanton.
"I had to have you," he whispers, breathing his words into your mouth, his breath mixing with yours in a way that shoots directly to your brain. "When you walked into the throne room looking you had swam through the Narrow Sea to get here, I knew I needed to have you."
You laugh, one hand coming up to play with his hair, inordinately satisfied to finally know how silky it really is. It feels like liquid silver in your hands, smooth and cool to the touch. "Was my king charmed by me?"
"You walked into the mouth of a dragon for your traitor brother," he hums, sending vibrations straight to your core. You can feel it, you realize with a growing sense of neediness, from your apex pressed against his stomach, only a thin layer of dampening fabric separating you. "And you didn't come to whimper or beg or seduce. Your first words to me were 'my prince' as if you didn't even fear dragonfire. You told me you wouldn't bow."
"I still wouldn't," you reply, tightening your grip on hair and pulling it back tight. His head jerks back, revealing the underside of his jaw, the threaded muscles of his neck. You lean in close, your tongue coming out to trace its way up the middle, tasting the saltiness of his skin. He groans, his grip on you tightening until it almost hurts, squeezing whatever air is still in you out.
"Good," he rasps out. "You should never bow to me. You should kneel."
"Kneel?" You ask, pressing your mouth against his throat, feeling his pulse jump and stutter underneath your lips. "What do you mean kne-"
Before you can finish your question, he moves, carrying you towards the bed, tossing you down with enough force you bounce slightly on the cushioned mattress. The lack of his body pressed against you leaves you shivering in the cold but, before you can think to complain or whine or even kick at him, he kneels on the hard floor, grabs your legs, yanking you to the edge of bed towards him and —
The first lick sends a sea of stars bursting behind your eyes and you keen, your back arching off the bed, your shoulders slamming into the mattress as your entire being is launched towards the heavens. You can't think suddenly, can't stop to even catch a breath, because he's licking your cunt, lapping at it like it's a meal and he's starving.
He's moved your smallclothes aside, the fabric digging into your inner thigh, but even the stretch of the cloth does nothing to bring you away from the heat building up in your core. Your quim is wet, dripping and sopping, and you can hear the sound of his tongue flicking out to taste the juices.
But then shame threatens to punch straight through your pleasure. Surely this is wrong. The septas had never mentioned this. Not even your brother with all his endless jokes and bawdry stories had ever hinted at something like this. The wetness must be wrong. You're failing him. You're failing.
Your hands flying down to grab at his head, curling your fingers in so you can pull at his hair to yank him off but, before you can, you feel his nimble fingers — those long damningly distracting fingers that he had adorned with golden rings and bands — come up to part your lips.
"Pretty," he breathes out, his fingers spreading you open and close as he peers into you. "As pretty as I thought."
"Aemond, what ar-" Your question breaks off into a sharp cry when one of his fingers suddenly pushes into you, pushing past your lips into your inner walls that no one has ever touched. He twists his wrist, pushing his finger in deeper, and his thumb comes up to press at the nub at the top of your cunt, his tongue flicking out to follow his touch, and you wail.
You've touched it before, rubbing at it in the darkest of nights where no one could see or hear your sin. It'd made you shiver before, your body shaking as you chased an impossible peak, but nothing else. You thought that is the extent of it.
It clearly is not.
You writhe, your fingers curling into his hair and yanking, your mind completely lost to the pleasure. He moans at the sensation, pushing in deeper, another finger joining his ministrations, this tongue swirling around the nub. Your body trembles at the sensation, suddenly desperate, feeling as if you're hurtling through the sky, fire pooling deep within you, concentrated in the bottom of your belly, and you whimper and cry out.
Your legs shake, scrambling to find purchase, wanting to clamp shut but Aemond's broad shoulders keep them spread wide. Underneath your bare thighs, you can feel the soft fabric of his tunic, feel the heat of his body scalding hot against your sensitive skin. It's all too much, it's not enough.
"Ae- Aem-" You mewl, unable to even think through his name. You're flying towards something, your mind too scattered to be aware of anything except his tongue.
And then his fingers curl and everything shatters.
You cry out, surely you must have, and the pleasure makes everything go white, stars bursting behind your eyes, leaving you blind to the world around you. For a precious few minutes, you float aimlessly, your body feeling limp and sated, an urge being satisfied that you've never felt.
Slowly, your awareness filters back, feeling and understanding trickling back in. You crack your eyes open — they're closed, when had you closed them? — in time to see Aemond straighten up, his hands hooked underneath his tunic as he pulls it off.
His body is slender and muscles, old scars littering across his chest, some old and faded and others more recent and raw. He's strong, seemingly forged out of steel, and his unscarred skin is smooth, looking deceptively soft. You've never seen a man like this before — never been in a situation where you would see a shirtless man — and your mouth goes dry as you look at him.
You feel utterly ridiculous like this, reclined on the bed with your skirt rucked up around your waist, your small clothes still shoved to the side. Your hair, surely, is tussled and messy and you have no doubt it's probably tangled by your mindless writhing. You push yourself up on your elbows, watching him, tracing his muscles with your eyes.
"Enjoying the view?" Aemond asks quietly, smiling when you jump slightly in surprise.
Yes. You want to say.
No. You want to lie.
Can you do it again? You want to beg.
Instead you push yourself up, hand gripping the bed posts to pull yourself to a standing position. He watches you, looking satisfied by the shake in your legs.
He's smiling until you reach up behind your neck, yanking on the tied strings on your back.
One disadvantage of not having ladies' maids with you on the road is that there is no one to help you dress, leaving you more often than not looking rumpled and messy.
One advantage is that you don't need anyone's help to disrobe.
Aemond watches, openly ravenous, as that awful dress falls off your shoulders, falling in a heap at your feet. Underneath it is a simple white shift. It sticks to your body, the cooling sweat on your body making parts of it near transparent, and Aemond's eyes linger on those spots like a fleeting touch.
You kick your dress away, hoping that it lands in the fireplace and burns up as it deserves. With more confidence than you truly feel, you reach underneath your shift, grabbing the edges of your smallclothes and pulling them down as well, throwing them to whatever corner of the room your gown is in.
You stand in front of him, gooseflesh pimpling your arms, more vulnerable than you've ever been, braver than you've ever been.
Just as he reaches for his trousers, yanking them down in a rush, you grab the edges of your shift, pulling it over your head.
The both of you are bare.
Predictably, your eyes drop down to his cock.
Abruptly, you understand all those bawdry jokes about swords and sheathes that men seemed obsessed with saying, about weasels and tunnels. You even understand your septa's old and tired metaphor about watering cans and flowers.
Your cheeks blaze at the thought, the heat spreading out through your chest, reaching inside of you, lighting up that increasingly familiar fire again. He steps forward and you step forward and for a moment, you think you'll crash into each other as you had earlier.
But you don't. His arms wrap around you tight, pulling you close by the waist, and your arms encircle his back, your hand splaying wide across his shoulders. Like this, bare skin to bare skin, there's no barriers, no pretense of tradition or courtesy between the two of you. It's closer as you've ever been to anyone — closer, even — but it's not enough. You want more. You need more.
You pull away, looking up at him, looking at his proud features, at the sharp lines of his jaws and the thin slope of his lips. He's beautiful, otherworldly, almost too perfect to bare to look at it.
And he's yours now. You've claimed him — in front of the Gods and Men, he is yours now. Just as you are his.
You push up, pulling him closer, pressing your bare breasts into his chest. You kiss him gently, softly, as he had down in the throne room. It's gentle, heart-achingly so. Too gentle for a dragon and a lion maybe.
Maybe it's because of that, the both of yours intrinsic nature, that the kiss turns heated, tongues meeting, breaths mixing. He pushes you back gently, his grip firm but gentle, laying you out on the bed, hovering just above. His hair falls in a curtain around the two of you, cutting you off from everything else and leaving you in a world where there's only you two.
Your legs come up, opening wide as you hook them around his waist, pulling him down against you. You rock against him slowly, his member hard against your apex. You moan as he rubs against you, digging your heels into his back, whining loud and sharp. He pulls away from your mouth, his lips trailing down your jaw, nipping your skin on his way down towards your chest.
"Please, please, please," you beg, not even fully understanding what you're asking for but knowing you'll die if you don't get it. "Aemond, please, don't make me wait."
Aemond grins, his tongue swirling around your nipple, gently laughing as you keen at the feeling. "My Queen begging already?"
"Your Queen demanding," you try to hiss but your voice is too shaky, too flustered, to be convincing. He laughs again.
"You said this was my revenge," he coos, his teeth gently teasing at your nipple, his hand coming up to fondle your other breast. "Tywin Lannister's daughter on her back for me. Tywin Lannister's daughter begging for me."
You whimper, twisting your hands into the blankets at your side, not even the mention of your father being enough to cool the fire fogging your mind. "Please, Aemond," you whine. "You're avenged! You're avenged — just please!"
His hand leaves your breast, trailing down your stomach, going down to the thatch of hair at your apex, his fingers teasing the wetness there. You whine again, kicking at his back with your heels, wishing you could do more than beg, wishing you knew how.
"I'll allow peace then," he murmurs against your breast, pushing off from your chest. He moves to rest back on his haunches, leaving you sprawled out on the bed, your chest heaving as you watch him move. He holds his cock in one hand, the color in his eyes consumed by the black of his pupils as he stares down at your quim.
His tip teases at your entrance and you cry out again, desperate and helpless, pushing down on him so it teases at your inner walls.
Aemond laughs at you again. You wish you had the strength to scold him for it but all decency has left your mind. All you have is an all-consuming hunger, a bone deep want, and you need him to sate it.
"Impatient little thing," he teases, shallowly thrusting into you, blatantly ignoring how your back arches off the wall, your brain going still at the intrusion. "But if my Queen asks…"
He pushes inside.
Your mind blanks out.
It doesn't hurt, you think after your brain decides to start functioning again. The septas had made it sound like it was be an unimaginable pain, something horrific to suffer through. All the men always only talked about their own pleasure, leaving you with the distinct impression that yours doesn't matter.
It does. It does.
Once your body adjusts to the intrusion, once Aemond being inside of you doesn't feel like an abnormality but rather finally feeling complete, you start to rock against him slowly. You feel stuffed to the brim. It fills your head with cotton, drowning out your thoughts.
Aemond. Aemond. Aemond. is all your mind can cry.
He starts slow at first, rocking into you gently, letting you learn how to breathe around him. But as impatient as he had called you, he is undoubtedly worse.
His first hard thrust has you seeing stars, your gasp being punched out of you. His second makes you howl. And then his hand comes down in between your bodies, his calloused thumb playing with that nub, and there is no hope for you at all.
The sound of flesh slapping flesh echoes in your air, a symphony joined by your sharp cries and whimpers and his moans. Your hands fly up to encircle his shoulders and you hang on for dear life, feeling as if every thrust is pushing you closer and closer to an edge that you'll never come back from. Your eyes snap close, suddenly seeing seeming like a waste of time when you can just feel.
The fire in your stomach feels like nothing you've ever felt before, exploding across your body, burning everything in its trail, rewriting everything about you as it goes. It feels like being struck by lightning, like being consumed completely.
"Aemond, Aemond," you chant, drowning in the pleasure of it, feeling mad with the feelings. No wonder all the septons and septas preach against this. It's easy to imagine losing yourself to this bliss, forgetting everything else as you only chase this feeling again and again.
Aemond grabs your jaw, turning your face towards him. Your eyes slide open. He's close, his nose brushing yours, his breath mixing with yours. It makes you dizzy with want and the pressure builds and builds in your core.
"You're so good," he praises and you sob at his words, your nails digging into his back, but he doesn't flinch. "You take me so well — such a good girl. Such a good girl."
You cry, nodding frantically, feeling the last tendrils of common sense snap within you. You're a beast made for pleasure, you decide in your haze. You were made for this.
"So good," he breathes into you and you splinter into a thousand pieces.
It feels like falling under the waves, being tossed and turned by a force you can't even think to control. It leaves you lost in it and, for once, it doesn't frighten you. Your mouth opens in a wail, utterly helpless to stop it.
"Fuck!" Aemond swears, losing whatever tremulous grip on control he had. His hips begin to snap against yours faster, pushing you through the pleasure again and again. He loses all sense of rhythm, desperate in his own chasing of his peak, and you card your hand through his hair, tugging sharply.
Even drowning as you are, you push up slightly, your hips slamming up into his, and you lick a stripe up his throat. "My good king," you whisper.
He thrusts one more time, shoving into you as deep as you can, driving a moan out of you just as he cries out, his warm spending releasing inside of you.
Like a puppet with his strings cut, he drops on top of you, his arms suddenly useless for holding him up.
They're not, however, useless in still holding you.
He tugs you closer to him. His skin is sticky with sweat, a musky smell coming from the two of you, but it doesn't disgust you. It makes that fuzzy head space come back, the complete loss of control that had taken you adrift. It feels delicious. It feels safe.
He stays buried in you, nestled in between your legs, and the full feeling like a blanket coming to rest on top of you.
You lay there in the quiet for a while, the two of you just breathing in time with one other.
Finally, he speaks.
"You will rule me, won't you," Aemond murmurs, his hands running up and down your back, each motion racking your body with shivers. "I survived so much, fought so many, claimed the only dragon to have survived the Dance… And yet, here you are. Little lady from the Rock, come to claim me."
You smile, pushing closer to him, burying your face in his chest, smelling his smell. "We claimed each other. You've gotten your revenge."
Aemond's hand trails along your back, curling around your side to rest his hand above your stomach. "I've gotten my peace."
You laugh, closing your eyes and finding yours too.
aemond targaryen x female!lannister!reader oneshot
When your brother is stolen away by the newly arrived King Aemond, First of His Name, you ride to Storm's End to plead his case.
crossposted on ao3
masterlist
content warning: explicit sexual content, piv sex, cunnilingus (f receiving), praise kink
word count: 12.4k
notes: i eventually keep my word!!! i promised this a million years ago and here it is! my dear beloved aemond as faegon au (:
lannister!reader bc i have a brand and i must maintain it
On the ride from Riverrun to Storm’s End, you repeat all you know about Aemond Targaryen until it begins to ring in your ears even when you sleep.
Aemond Targaryen, the only son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell. Aemond Targaryen, the heir to the heir of the Iron Throne during Robert’s Rebellion. Aemond Targaryen, the babe your father’s dog had smashed against the wall with his bare hands. Aemond Targaryen, the viscera that had coated Gregor Clegane’s hands as he had raped Elia Martell. Aemond Targaryen, the littlest of the bundles that had been presented to Robert Baratheon, the littlest of the ghosts to haunt your eldest half-brother.
Aemond Targaryen, the dead prince.
Dead. Dead. Dead.
Until he had come from the East, atop a dragon, and rooted Mace Tyrell’s army from its perch in Storm’s End, claiming the first part of Westeros for himself.
There had been whispers about him before the dragon. His aunt was the main threat in the East with her three beasts but still - some would talk about the boy king that the Golden Company had sworn for, would whisper about the sole survivor of the slaughter at the hands of the Lannisters.
Unless the boy walks with a smashed-in skull, he’s a pretender being hoisted up by sellswords your uncle Kevan had insisted, his eyes dull with the memory of having been witness to the atrocities committed onto the Princess Elia and her children.
Then the dragon.
There had been no whispers about that - there had only been screams. The bards had written their songs, the smallfolk talked about the Targaryens being reborn, the dragons being brought back to bring peace to Westeros.
You hadn’t cared much even with that - you hadn’t had the time. With Jaime in the Riverlands and Tyrion lost to the winds, you bore the brunt of Cersei’s paranoia and your time was spent trying to help your uncle reign her in, trying your best to be the silk glove to your sister’s steel fist that threatened to punch right through what little power the Lannisters had left. You had sang a pretty song for the Tyrells, swearing your allegiance, swearing your house’s allegiance, offering your own hand in marriage up to use to tighten your alliance even further. You had tried to loosen the grip the Faith Militant had tightened on the city. You had soothed the worries of the court, trying to convince them that the Lannisters still had power and dominion in the capitol.
You had tried.
And you had failed.
The instant the Faith had seized your sister, Kevan had spirited you out of the city. You’re the last of Tywin’s blood, he had insisted. You and Jaime both. Ride to him. Find him. It is the only hope our House has left.
You had taken a host of Lannister men with you. Ostensibly, you were riding to provide your brother with more soldiers. In truth, you were fleeing, fleeing to the only man left who could provide you with the illusion of protection.
When you had arrived in Riverrun, you hadn’t found your brother. You had found your aunt.
And she told you Jaime had been taken.
Aemond Targaryen, it seemed, had claimed his first prize.
The letter came after. It declared that Aemond Targaryen, the first of his name, was the true king of the Seven Kingdoms. Tommen Baratheon was a bastard born of incest. Jaime Lannister would die for his crimes - both the crime of being a kingslayer and the crime of being Tywin Lannister’s son.
Unless you went to plead his case.
You’d have guest right. You wouldn’t be harmed. Aemond Targaryen swore that on the honor of one of his most trusted advisors.
Tyrion Lannister.
There had been little to decide after that. Aunt Genna had urged you to ignore his summons. If Tyrion really had joined up the new Dragon King, it’d be far more prudent for you to head to Casterly Rock. Cersei was tied to the throne, her claim dependent on her Baratheon marriage, her marriage contract having removed her from the line of inheritance. Jaime was sworn to the cloak. Tyrion was a kinslayer.
By all rights, the Rock was yours and, if you had any hope of pressing your claim, you’d return to your home and make your plans from there.
But you’re a fool. A silly little girl who still cries for her big brothers. A silly little girl who longs for her older sister to show her even a flash of affection. A silly little girl who will ride into the dragon’s mouth if it means she has even half a chance of keeping her family alive a little while longer.
You are a fool.
But you will not be unprepared.
——————————–
You enter Storm's End feeling vaguely like a drowned cat. Your cloak hangs heavy on you, threatening to pull you straight down to the stone floor in a puddle composed of Lannister and fur. Next to you, your cousin, Ser Addam Marbrand, stamps his feet on the ground, muttering under his breath a choice string of curses as he throws a baleful glare at the guards that surround you in the entrance hall.
They're golden, laden in bangles and arm rings and silks, their armor itself glinting in the torchlight, casting the hall in a shimmery glow. Fitting, you suppose, for an army of mercenaries named the Golden Company.
It's naked wealth and you wrinkle your nose at the sight of it. You are, after all, something of an expert on the subject and even this pushes at your delicate sensibilities.
"My lady," a man says as he approaches, bowing his head. He's tall, towering over you, with a clear warrior's build that hints at the strength in his body. Even his hair, ridiculous as it is with red roots and faded blue at the strands, does little to diminish his presence. "On behalf of His Grace, Aemond Targaryen, I welcome you to Storm's End."
You nod slowly, scanning his body, eyeing the sword he carries on his hip. Carefully, you straighten up, trying to claim every inch of your height even if it pales next to him. "I thank you, Lord…"
"Connington. Lord Jon Connington."
Prince Rhaegar's friend. Following Robert's rebellion against the crown, Aerys had named him his Hand— a gift he promptly squandered during the Battle of the Bells. Last you heard, he had drank himself to death in Essos for the shame of having failed his prince and his king.
And yet…
You smile faintly, curling your fingers around the edges of your soaked cloak to pull it closer to yourself. "Funny how life works, my lord. Here you are again. Surviving under another Targaryen King. Has this one named you Hand as well?"
Connington's lips press together in a grim line. He doesn't like you. The feeling, you want to assure him, is more than mutual. "No, Lady Lannister, he has not. He's named your brother that honor."
"How fitting," you murmur. "I always felt that dear Jaime deserves more than a white cloak. Unless, of course, you mean my kinslayer brother. Tyrion's more than clever enough for it, I assure you, but I'm sure you're well aware of both my brothers' records with kings. I'm one behind as I see it."
"Is that a threat, my lady?" Connington asks and, all around him, the Golden Company reaches for their swords, their bangles jingling as they do. Behind you, Ser Marbrand stiffens, his own hand flying to his weapon.
You shake your head, smiling still. "There would have to be a king here, I fear, for me to get such a chance. As I see it, me and my brothers are the only ones with royal blood. My dear nephew, King Tommen, rules in King's Landing. No, I am here to see Aemond Targaryen and negotiate Ser Jaime Lannister's release. I am Lady of Casterly Rock. He is under my protection."
"He's facing the block for his crimes."
"Whatever he stands accused for, it does not change that he's a member of House Lannister. I'd be a poor Lady if I allowed such a thing to occur unmet." You glance behind him, at the meek servant girl carrying a plate of salt and bread. "Your lord will honor guest rights, I assume. The armies of the Westerlands are prepared to move to action if not."
"Tyrion has sworn you will receive it," Connington grinds out, looking as if he's growing less and less inclined to offer it to you, even as he gestures the servant forward. "Even if it means little and less to the daughter of Tywin Lannister."
You grimace, reaching for the chunk of bread, quietly motioning Addam to move up to his collect his own piece. "That was the Walder Frey's dirty work, my lord. Robb Stark hurt his pride by scorning his daughter. The old lecher wanted his pound of flesh for the insult. The Red Wedding bears his awful signature."
And yet, your father's mark is written all over it.
You know the truth of it. Lord Walder Frey is a cradle-robbing pervert, a disgusting old man who made more eye contact with your chest than he ever had with your eyes when you first met him at four-and-ten.
But he is a craven. A cowardly craven who would prefer to stew over perceived insults than rise to action over them. He is not nearly bold enough to slaughter the Starks and their vassals at a wedding.
But Tywin Lannister is.
Was, now, you suppose.
You bite into the bread, the salt heavy on your tongue. Next to you, Addam does the same. It's a poor shield, especially after your father had blast it to shreds at the Twins, but it is a shield nonetheless. Even a flimsy one is better than none at all.
"The King and his Hand wait for you in the throne room," Connington says, his eyes looking over the pair of you with barely concealed disdain.
As he leads you through the halls of Storm's End, Addam catches up to you, ducking slightly to meet your ear.
"My lady, can we trust Tyrion to protect you?" He whispers, uncaring that as he does, every single guard eyes him with open suspicion. "He killed Lord Tywin in cold blood. Who's to say he won't do the same to you to garner trust with his dragonlord?"
"He's my brother," you say, a knot tight in your chest. "He taught me how to read. He will keep me safe. He will."
You wish you were confident. Tyrion had always been the easiest of your siblings. Jaime and Cersei had always felt far away in King's Landing. When you had moved to the capital, they'd been distant even if Jaime would try to bridge the gap. But Tyrion? Tyrion was always there, making you laugh, comforting you when your Father had snapped at you, encouraging you to be a bigger voice and presence in the court. He'd been your best friend. When he'd been accused of killing Joffrey, you'd stood for him, even if it had only resulted in Cersei's furious rage finding its target in you.
But then he had killed your father.
Tywin Lannister wasn't a comforting man. He wasn't even a good man. Truthfully, sometimes, you felt like he regretted ever having you. You hadn't been the male heir he needed after Jaime joined the Kingsguard. You'd been the daughter of a woman who wasn't Joanna Lannister and that was all he really needed to write you off.
But he'd been your father. Yours. Your mother had died in labor. Tyrion had cared for you since childhood, yes, but he was your older brother. Tywin was your father. You'd loved him with a desperate force, hungered for the rare times he had praised you, fought and pined for his approval.
And Tyrion had shot him on the privy after you and Jaime had freed him.
You sigh, tightening your fingers into a fist at your side.
You would free Tyrion again. You would always choose to free him.
You just wish he would have spared you the pain of being an orphan.
The throne room rises up fast, the hallway opening up to a massive room. It's nothing like the opulence of the Iron Throne, especially after your sister had had her way with it. It's cold, stark, looking as if it's been carved out of stone and built for war. It's cavernous, each footstep of yours echoing in the silence, ringing in your head like a funeral bell.
Tyrion stands at the foot of the throne, his hands held tight in front of him. He looks stressed and overwrought, staring at you as if the mere sight of you hurts him. You want to run to him, fall onto your knees and throw you arms around him and feel like a little girl seeking comfort. You want to hit him, want to dig your nails at him and tear at him, wail and beg and ask why he had hurt you so deeply when you had only ever tried to love him.
You turn away from him, unwilling to decide yet what to do with him.
And there, on the stone throne, Aemond Targaryen waits.
He's lean and graceful, long silver hair falling free around his face, sheets like silk framing his features. He's dressed in black leathers — riding clothes you realize — with a sword on his hip and he stands tall at the throne, not sitting like you had expected. It, somehow, is far more intimidating. It shows he's a man of action, that if you anger him, he'll just as easily run down to tear into you rather than ordering one of his men to do it for him.
He's pretty.
You wish you didn't notice. You wish he was ugly.
But he's so painfully pretty it'd be impossible not to notice. His features are fine and delicate, as if carved out of stone by a mason's steady hand. His thin lips curl up into a perpetual smirk, smug in a way that would infuriate you if it wasn't so damningly attractive. A scar cuts through his face, over an eye, leaving it narrowed in an eternal glare.
You hate him, you decide. Which, admittedly, isn't the best option for your negotiations but it's the one you've landed on. How dare he look that good when you've already decided to hate him for eternity?
"My prince," you say as you bow, deciding to make your stance clear. He is no king — not while your bastard nephew rules. "Welcome to Westeros. I hope you've found our courtesy welcoming."
He smiles. "It was courteous enough, my lady. Mace Tyrell was happy enough to see me. Until, of course, he met my lady Visenya. He didn't much seem to enjoy that."
Mace Tyrell had been fed to his dragon if the rumors are to be believed.
You return his smile, refusing to let him see you flinch. "A plentiful meal, I'm sure. Perhaps sour and overripe but filling nonetheless."
Aemond laughs, loud and sharp, and he settles into his throne, spreading his legs wide as if to take up as much room as possible. He sinks into the throne as if it were a plush bed, resting easy. Your mind, without your permission, inserts his image onto the Iron Throne. He'd suit it — far more than your sweet nephew with his round cheeks and bright eyes. "She did enjoy the feast. I'm not yet sure if she'd enjoy lion."
You laugh. "We're notoriously tough, my prince. A bit stingy. Surely not a sumptuous meal by any means."
"Seems plenty sumptuous to me," he hums, eyes roaming over you shamelessly. "Any dragon would love to make a meal of you."
Heat explodes over your body and you shift in place, pulling your cloak tight against you again. You've been flirted with before, of course you have, but never by a man like this. You expect bugs to explode over your skin, to feel the familiar nasty, dirty feeling of a man looking at you and trying to find your shape underneath your clothes.
It doesn't come.
Instead you feel warm, overheated. You want to take your cloak off. You want to take your gown off.
Surely this is Targaryen magic. Surely this is some spell he's brought over from the East. It cannot possibly be him.
Behind you, Connington clears his throat. "She's come to negotiate for the release of the Kingslayer, Your Grace."
A cold shiver brings you back to Earth and you straighten up. "Ser Jaime Lannister falls under the domain of the Westerlands. He falls to me. I ask you release him to my own judgment. Any punishment should be dispensed by the Lady of Casterly Rock. Not by a Prince of Dragonstone."
"A king, my lady. And your brother, if I recall correctly, is sworn to the throne. To my throne. Justice is mine," he drawls, voice hard and unyielding despite his almost lazy lounging.
You loosen your grip on your cloak, hands flying out in a pacifying motion. "Is it, my prince? My nephew Tommen holds the throne. He's given me the right to dispense my own judgment."
He raises a singular eyebrow. "Your nephew, yes. The Kingslayer's nephew, yes. But he is also the Kingslayer's son, is he not?"
"I'd thank you, my prince," you immediately shoot back, stiffening. "If you would not repeat Stannis Baratheon's lies. King Robert claimed him. He is trueborn. The matter has been settled. I, myself, look like my own mother rather than my father. Tommen is the same."
Another lie. You know the truth of Jaime and Cersei. You've always known the truth. Everything that everyone says about them is true.
But you will not admit it to these strangers,
He looks at you longer, his eyes boring into yours. Finally, his eyes flick over to Tyrion, who, unexpectedly, is utterly silent. Finally, Aemond speaks: "It is as you say, I suppose. I could hardly fault a sister coming to fight for her brother. I would do the same if my sister had survived your father's treachery."
You wince, looking down at your feet. It's impossible for you not to flinch at the mention. In your mind, you remember the few times Jaime had talked about Elia Martell and her children. He had seen Rhaenys's corpse, had seen how her little body had been destroyed by Amory Lorch. He had seen Aemond's, the little babe, how there had been nothing left of that sweet little child, or, at least, whatever babe had been in his place. It doesn't matter, you suppose. A dead babe is a dead babe.
"I am not my father," you say quietly, feeling your body chill and go cold. "I… I would not have allowed that happen. I do not hold you responsible for Aerys Targaryen's horrible crimes. I ask you to do the same to me."
It's as much as you're willing to say. Your father was cruel. He was cruel to his children and crueler to the rest of the world. He's alive still, you want to say. He lives in my mind, in the cruel voice that haunts my every move. He hates me and I hate him and I miss him more than I've ever missed anything else.
You say none of it. He doesn't deserve your pain. "It is as you say, my prince. I want my brother. I protect my brother. That is all I ask."
"Even after his crimes?" Tyrion asks, his voice loud in the quiet in the throne room.
You hate that the sound of it causes tears to rise up in your eyes. You've missed him. You've missed him so bad. "Even after everything, my lord," you reply, wishing your voice were stronger still. "He is my brother. He is my subject. He is mine to command."
"I am King," Aemond says, voice sharp enough to cut through you. "You are mine to command."
You shake your head. "You are not my king. I obey Tommen. I do not obey you."
Immediately his eyes flash and he rises back to his feet. He loams, tall even from your distance, and he stands firm at his throne. "Perhaps, my lady, Visenya should have a talk with you. She would love to explain your place in this kingdom."
"My place," you say, feeling your rage rise up inside your chest. "Is in Casterly Rock. I am Wardenness of the West. Even if you are a king, you will not cow me. King Loren Lannister bowed to three dragons. I will not bow to one."
He steps down from his throne, walking closer and closer to you. None of his guards move with him, thankfully, and he walks towards you. Behind him, you vaguely recognize Tyrion following in his wake but your eyes stay glued to him.
Finally, he stands in front of you. His eyes, you finally realize, are amethyst. They glow in the light. He's even more beautiful up close.
Your hatred grows at the observation.
"Not even to me?" He asks quietly.
"Not even to you," you reply just as soft. "I only want my brother. I will leave you in peace. The Westerlands will not declare war if you seek to claim the Iron Throne from underneath Tommen."
Aemond looks down at you, his eyes shining in the light, a hungry glint shining in their deep color. "What if I want more than peace?"
You take a deep breath. You had expected it. You had. It doesn't mean it is anymore easier.
"I am unmarried," you say after a moment, voice steady. "If you wish for my hand, I will give it. The Westerlands will fight for you. Most of the Crownlands, excepting King's Landing, will fight for you. I will help you claim Westeros."
Behind you, Connington scoffs. "He will marry his aunt, Daenerys Targaryen. He does not need an Usurper's dog to help him."
You roll your eyes. "His aunt will not have him. Prince Aemond's claim is stronger. If she marries him, she loses her right to the throne. Waiting for her hand in marriage is like waiting for the sun to rise in the west."
"Still," Tyrion says. "You offer little. The Westerlands do not even belong to you. I am Tywin's heir as much as he hated to admit it."
You shake your head, refusing to turn to answer him, keeping your eyes on Aemond's disarming gaze. "The Westerlands will not accept you. You are a kinslayer. The Gods themselves have abandoned you. I am Lady of Casterly Rock. I am Wardenness of the West. Aemond Targaryen, if he wishes to claim the throne, will not find a finer match than me. Sansa Stark is lost to the winds. Margaery Tyrell is already married to little Tommen. The Riverlands are burning as we speak and have no lady to offer to him. The Vale is mad with only a sickly boy to lead them and the less said about the Iron Islands the better. Dorne is already yours, my prince. I am the only who can bring you more power."
Aemond smiles, slow and snakelike. "I have plenty power. I have a dragon."
"Aye, you do," you agree easily. "So did Aegon the Conqueror and his wives. And then Rhaenys died in the deserts of Dorne. You have one dragon to their three. I can only bring you more power when that is what you sorely need to claim the Seven Kingdoms."
"And your brideprice, my lady?" Aemond asks. "What do you ask for?"
You want peace, you want to say. You want all these wars to end. You want Stannis Baratheon to freeze in the North. You want Euron Greyjoy to drown before he ever reaches Oldtown. You want Daenerys Targaryen to burn in the East and stay lost in the Dothraki deserts.
"I want my brother," you say instead. "I want my brother to stay safe and whole by my side."
"And your sister?"
When you were young, Cersei would allow you to stay in her room as she prepared herself for feasts. You would sit by her side and watch, eyes wide and hungry, as her maids carefully brushed makeup on her pretty features, as they pinned her curls up in beautiful styles. She was perfect, you had used to think. Completely and utterly perfect.
Two days before the Faith had taken her away, she had slapped you clean across the face in front of Margaery and her ladies. 'You are aiding Tyrion,' she had hissed, her features twisted in rage. 'Our crippled brother killed our father and you still help him. Traitor is too small of a word for you.'
You had cried. You had cried and the next morning, you had come to her door with wine and cheeses. She hadn't accepted you in but you had waited the entire day for her to do so. When you had finally abandoned your plan and slunk back to your room, you had prepared to spend the next day waiting for her again.
You had never gotten the chance to do so. The Faith had taken her before you had gotten the chance to try again.
"My sister," you say, wishing the words didn't feel like a dagger in your chest, "has made her bed. I will negotiate her surrender. I will beg for it. I do not expect her to listen but I will try nonetheless. My devotion, if you agree to my proposal, will belong to you."
Silence reigns in the throne room. Behind you, Addam shifts, his armor clinking, as if he expects to have to fight his way out of here to bring you to safety. You stay still, keeping your eyes solely on Aemond.
Finally, Tyrion speaks.
"She speaks the truth," he declares, voice steady. You don't look at him. You don't think you can bear the sight. "My sweet little sister is loyal. She always has been. She will fight for you if you just give her Jaime."
"Will her brother cuckold me like he did Robert?" He asks. His eyes roam your body, greedily digging underneath your cloak and your gown. The familiar itchy feeling never arrives.
You shake your head immediately. "No. No. He is my brother."
"That did not stop Cersei," Tyrion fires back.
"That will stop me," you hiss. The very thought makes you nauseous. "I will be loyal to my husband. I would never cuckold him, let alone with Jaime."
Again, there is quiet.
He shouldn't believe you. You are Tywin Lannister's daughter. You are Cersei Lannister's sister. You are, like everyone else in your family, an ugly, spiteful creature. No one should trust you. He should send you to the gallows or the block.
But Aemond Targaryen, beautiful creature that he is, does not.
"I will have you," he says even as Connington groans behind you in dismay. "You will be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. You will be Lady of Casterly Rock. Our sons will rule after us."
"And my brother?" You ask, voice soft.
"Your brother," he replies. "Will walk you down the aisle."
——————————–
Jaime is, miraculously, none the worse for wear. He sits in a cell, dirty and dank, but, somehow, he is golden and beautiful as usual.
It angers you more than it should.
"I am to be married," you complain as you stare at him in his dank cell, fingers curled around the bars, wishing you had had the foresight to ask for the keys to his chains. "I am to be married to Aemond Targaryen and it is because you couldn't help but to be abducted."
"You'll have to forgive me, sweetling," he says in response, a smile playing on his lips. "They didn't exactly stop to ask me for my opinion."
You roll your eyes, wishing you weren't melting with relief at the sight of him. He's chained to the corner, covered in filth, and the smell of him makes you want to gag.
But he's your brother. He's your brother. He taught you how to ride a horse. When you were five years old, he had snuck you into a feast past your bedtime, leading you past your scowling father, smiling and laughing as you had bounced and cheered and danced.
Just seeing him makes you feel better.
"I am to marry King Aemond in a few short hours," you say after a moment, trying to make your tone light and airy. "Your sister will be Queen."
"Our sister is already Queen," he shoots back, quirking up an eyebrow, looking both vaguely amused and baffled by your declaration.
Tyrion snorts, the sound startling you. "Cersei is the Queen of Whores, mayhaps. Our sister, our youngest sister, will be Queen of Seven Kingdoms. We'd be so lucky."
It's almost embarrassing how fast you turn to stare at him. He stands at the entrance of the hallway, up the stairs, hands tucked behind his back, looking down at the pair of you as if you're dirt beneath his shoes. The sight of him angers you. The sight of him comforts you.
You choose your anger instead.
"This," you start quietly, your voice growing in both volume and aggression as you go. "Would have never happened if you hadn't killed our father. We'd be together if you hadn't been selfish."
"Selfish?" Tyrion scoffs, walking down the stairs to come and stand by your side, the two of you just in front of Jaime's cell. He's defensive, that much is clear, but his words, as harsh as they are, aren't angry with you. No, his ire seems to be directed at Jaime if the way he glowers at your older brother is any sign. "Selfish? You came in asking for just Jaime — Jaime of all things — and you walk away a future Queen. You cannot speak to me about selfish, little sister. You shouldn't have come in the first place. You should have gone straight to Casterly Rock to press your claim!"
"You asked me to come!" You burst out, feeling like you'll die if you don't say your piece. "I don't want to be Queen! I barely want to be Lady of Casterly Rock! I just… I wanted you two. I wanted you back. I wanted my family! But you both left me! You left me and now we're here! I have to marry a Targaryen, I have to be the Queen, because you two are fools!"
You want to swing on both of them, on Tyrion and Jaime both. You want to give them matching black eyes, tie your family together with injuries and pain if your blood isn't enough. You want to go home.
Instead, you stand there, in the dungeons of Storm's End, stewing in your anger and hatred.
Neither of them respond for a moment, just looking at you like they want to understand you.
They don't. Gods, you wished they did. Maybe all of this would be easier if they did. Maybe you would be happier.
"I did not think our aunt would let you out of her grasp," Tyrion says after a moment. "When Aemond first came up with the plan to avenge his grandsire, I agreed to send the letter because I… Foolishly, I thought you would stay with our aunt or, even, with Uncle Kevan in the capital. You… I did not want you involved in this. I wanted you safe in Casterly Rock with your claim to protect you."
"Casterly Rock is mine," you murmur, your voice cracking to your eternal shame. "After what you've done, Casterly Rock is mine and I… I would have traded it for you. It should be yours but it's fallen to me and I…"
No tears, you think. What would Tywin say if he saw you? You cannot shame him. You cannot. You are the Lady of Casterly Rock now. You are House Lannister's shield and sword alike. The legacy of Tywin Lannister, of all of House Lannister, lands on you now.
"It is done," you say after a moment, squeezing your eyes tightly closed, hating how your chest tightens at the words. "I am doing what I must to save and preserve our House - it is what Father would want by any means. We are now thrust in Aemond's war. And you two… And you two will stand by my side. My side. You will follow me as head of our House."
"I am Hand of the King," Tyrion reminds you, an edge to his voice now.
"And I will be his Queen," you shoot back, opening your eyes just as you can glare at him, hardening your heart as Tywin would want. "I will be Queen and if I wish, I will beg Aemond to give me your head as a wedding gift. A woman's embrace is warmer than your damned useless advice."
Tyrion doesn't reply, just looking back at you with sad eyes.
"You left me," you murmur quietly, swinging your gaze between the two of your brothers. "Both of you left me. I was alone. And now I am here and you both are here and now this is it. This is it."
"I had to fight a war, sweetling," Jaime murmurs from his spot in the cell. "I… I was fighting for Tommen's claim."
You shake your head, laughing, partially wishing you had never poked at this bruise, that you had just told them to prepare for the wedding and left to do your own preparations. "I told you not to go. Our forces were doing well enough without you and Cersei was already going mad and I needed you. But you went and fought for a claim that we all know is baseless because our sister kicked you out of her bed."
"Swee-"
"Enough," you cut Jaime off, fighting the urge to clap your hands over your ears like you had when you were a child and someone tried to give you bad news. "Enough. I… It doesn't matter anymore. It doesn't. In a few hours, I will be wed to Aemond Targaryen and we will follow a new King. That is the price I paid for us to survive. I've secured pardons and safety for Tommen, Myrcella, and Cersei if only they yield and renounce their claim to their throne. All you have to do now is stand by my side. That is all. I'm sure even the pair of you can manage that."
You spin on your heel, turning away from both, and heading up the stairs.
On your way out, you quietly whisper to a guard to unchain your brother and let him clean himself. It wouldn't do start your marriage with Jaime reeking of death.
——————————–
As a little girl, you had always imagined your wedding to happen in the Great Hall of Casterly Rock. It didn't make much sense — you'd likely be marrying out of the family and your wedding would be in whichever holding your father had seen fit to tie you to — but it was your girlish fantasy. In your dreams, all of your family would be there, your siblings would love you, your father would be proud of you, and your mother would be alive. It would be perfect and golden and you'd marry a man of honor that loved you with reckless abandon.
But that was a little girl's fantasies.
This is real life and in real life, you're standing just outside the Storm's End throne room while wearing a borrowed dress from the Baratheon ladies that used to live here. It's too tight around the chest and too loose around the stomach and the fabric is itchy against your skin. There is no maiden cloak to be had — not here — and there's not near enough time for you to even attempt to embroider one. In its place, you've borrowed a soldier's cloak, the Lannister sigil austere and small.
Jaime's washed, at least.
"You don't have to do this," Jaime tells you when you walk up to him. He's been scrubbed and shaved and all it does is highlight how gaunt he looks now, a distant memory of the golden figure of perfection he had been when you were a little girl.
You smile sadly. "Yes, we should just tell the Targaryen king and his dragon that I won't be his bride and leave him waiting at the altar. Surely, that would have no repercussions for our family's continued survival."
"That is not what I mean," he whispers back. "I want you safe. I want you happy. You are my little sister. You deserve more than marriage to a Targaryen whelp. You're the last good Lannister left to us."
You shake your head, looping your arm through his, holding him tight to you, resting your head on his arm for a moment. "Does such a thing exist? This isn't about deserve. This is just… This is what needs to be done for House Lannister. I do my duty. I've always done it."
He looks at you, his green eyes looking you over carefully, scanning for a crack in your armor. He's always done this, always cared for you. There was a time when you never felt safer than when you were in his presence. Nothing could hurt you if Jaime was there to protect you.
If only it were true.
The doors finally creak open and, without pomp and circumstance, Jaime begins to lead you in. It is a far cry from all the weddings you've attended in the past. There are no banners or flowers or musicians singing soft love songs and hymns. There are some soldiers watching, a few lords and ladies scattered throughout, but it is still the smallest wedding party you've ever seen. A septon waits at the foot of the throne, Tyrion and Jon Connington clustered to his right and Ser Addam at his left.
And there.
Aemond Targaryen stands, his back facing you. His silver hair falls straight down his back, held at bay with a careful twist of braids. He's changed, wearing a tunic and pants, and, somewhere in the back of your mind, you mourn the loss of the riding leathers. The sword remains at his side, its golden hilt gleaming in the dim light, the belt cinched tight at his waist.
Gods, it's insufferable.
All too soon, Jaime walks you up to him and, when the septon announces your approach, Aemond turns to receive the pair of you.
His eyes glint at you knowingly, a pleased smile resting easy on his face. He looks you up and down, taking in your frumpy dress and your mismatched cloak, and, somehow, finding it attractive if the way his tongue comes out to wet his lips is any indication.
And then, just like that, you pass over into Aemond's care.
The ceremony goes fast, leaving you feeling like you're not in your own body. You move through by instinct, barely aware of the words the septon is saying, let alone the words that you parrot back. At some point, Jaime comes up to unclasp your cloak and you quietly help him, saving him the embarrassment of fumbling with his one hand.
The blessed few moments when you stand free of any familial obligation — just you in a borrowed dress — go by too fast for you to truly enjoy.
With a dramatic flair, Aemond pins his cloak to your throat. You don't get much of a chance to look at it, to see what symbol if any are stitched on it, but it doesn't matter soon enough.
"With this kiss," he murmurs, voice low so only you and the septon have any hope of hearing. "I pledge my love, and take you for my Queen and wife."
"With this kiss," you whisper back. "I pledge my love, and take you for my King and husband."
The septon, his voice loud and clear, declares you to be one flesh, one heart, one soul, but you barely register him.
Because Aemond Targaryen is kissing you.
You've been kissed before. Once, as a small girl in Casterly Rock's gardens, you had kissed the steward's daughter, the two of you giggling relentlessly the entire time. In King's Landing, you'd kissed Tyrion's squire, a quick little peck, and had been all aglow about it even if he had been shipped off to the Riverlands with Jaime's lady knight the very next day.
But you've never been kissed like this.
Aemond kisses like he has something to prove, like it isn't enough to have already claimed you in the eyes of the Gods and Men. He has to claim you here and now. One hand settles on your waist as if it was always meant to find its way there while his other hand rests on your jaw, pulling you closer until you're molded to the front of his body, helpless to do anything but dig your fingers into his tunic to find some ground.
He pushes into your space, bending you backwards, and you kiss back just fiercely, feeling that fire from earlier erupt all over your body again, heating you up and burning you completely until you don't know where you are. You don't know anything except how good he feels and how you never want this to end.
But end it does and, when he pulls away, he presses his forehead up against yours, his breath warm across your face. Slowly, the rest of the world comes back into focus, the sound of the audience cheering and whistling coming back like a symphony of its own. You breathe heavy, your hands shaking, as you fight to find your own standing again.
Your eyes slowly open.
Aemond is already watching you, his amethyst eyes dark with desire and want.
You think he wants to say something, his eyes digging deep into yours, but he doesn't.
He just leans closer, pressing a kiss on your lips once more, this time gentle and sweet.
There is no grand feast like any normal wedding — not even a play at one. It's a simple dinner, you and your brothers with Aemond and his advisors, with all of you seated in a small dining room. There can be no big show of opulence, Aemond had told you as he lead you through the halls, not while his people were starving and dying in wars.
You had agreed with him, your mind flashing back to the bread riots in King's Landing when the smallfolk had seemed ready to eat the nobility if no relief came for them.
The dining room is almost painfully awkward in its silence. Jaime sits by your side, quiet and sullen, and, by Aemond's side, Tyrion isn't talking for once, drinking goblet after goblet of wine to the point the servant serving them is just stationed behind him. Connington, as expected, is stewing in his anger, shooting you glares as if he can make you vanish with his eyes alone.
That only leaves you and Aemond to carry the conversation.
And, well, Addam and Ser Harry Strickland of the Golden Company. Those two, at least, seem to be getting on like a house on fire, laughing and drinking, gossiping like a pair of old fishwives. They, somehow, make enough noise by themselves to fill up the small room, making it seem like a full feasting hall rather than a table full of unpleasantly unhappy people.
"At least someone is enjoying themselves," you grumble under your breath, shooting them a baleful glare.
"Strickland never misses a chance to remain seated," Aemond scoffs, making you jump slightly in nerves at the sound of his voice in your ear. "It's miracle he made it across the Narrow Sea in the first place."
You wrinkle your nose, bringing your wine glass up to your mouth to disguise it. Your eyes swing over to Strickland, to his portly shape and balding head. "It's a small miracle then, I suppose, that he managed to lead the Golden Company."
"It's politics, my lady," he responds, laughing slightly. "He's good at contracts, good at organizing men and managing logistics like housing and transportation. That's just as important as swinging a sword."
"So he's a steward," you hum, turning your gaze back on Aemond and all his amusement. "Still — hardly how I'd expect a Captain-general of the Golden Company to be. Bittersteel surely was not like that."
He thrums his fingers on the table, an endless beat for himself. "Bittersteel only loved war. Stewardship was a distant second for him — just a way for him to make more war."
"And you, my king? What do you love? Will you hunger for war or will you sue for peace?"
He doesn't respond, not right way. Aemond looks at you for a beat longer, breathing slowly as he thinks. Finally, he turns back to the table, reaching for his goblet, his rings clinking against the burnished gold as he does.
"Connington told me about my mother when I was four," he says quietly, his voice low enough that you have to strain to hear it. "He didn't know her very well, not like how he knew my father. But he told me of her kindness, of her grace, of how thankful she was to have me and my sister. And then he told me how the Mountain raped her with the blood of a tanner's son on his hands."
You stay quiet, thinking about Jaime and his guilt, thinking about the horror that had lingered in Uncle Kevan's eyes at the memory.
"I've heard they sent the Mountain's skull to Dorne, to my uncle Doran. It isn't enough. The Cleganes should have been ripped out root and stem, their lands salted and burned so nothing can grow, so it can be left as a reminder of their treachery." He leans in closer, his hair falling over his shoulder in a silky wave. "And your father, my sweet lady, should have met the same fate. Gregor Clegane is a dog and your father was holding the leash."
You smile, faintly and without much humor. There's nothing you can, or are willing, to say to defend Tywin. "My brother stole your revenge. And now Lord Tywin's daughter and heir will lie on her back for you."
A grin breaks out on his face, leaving him looking particularly rugged, more a mercenary than a king. "His daughter will do more than lie on her back for me. She will beg me for her pleasure. I hunger for vengeance, yes, my lady, but look at what allowing peace has brought me."
He snatches your hand, pulling it up to his mouth to press a kiss against your knuckles, holding it there against his lips.
You shiver, your mind fizzling out to nothing, as you meet his eyes. His gaze is half-lidded, lazy almost, as if he knows he has all the time in the world to look at you and take you in. It is far too intimate of a look to be had at a dinner, where your brothers sit on either side of you, but he's a king. Who would dare to scold him?
This close, the scar stands in more stark contrast, carving through his face in a treacherous path. It must have hurt, you realize as your brain slowly comes back to life, to have been hurt in such a way. Whoever it was would have needed to be close, far closer than any enemy would normally be.
You suck in a deep breath, pulling your hand away and looking back down at your plate, your hands fiddling with the fork at its side. "I am glad you're level headed, my king, in your approach to justice," you manage out, trying to calm your speeding heart. "My father and your grandsire ruled by fear and look how that ended out. You have to be better."
"We have to be better," Aemond shoots back. "You are my Queen now. I expect more out of you than birthing heirs and handing them to wetnurses. The greatest king in my House's past was Jaehaerys the Conciliator and Good Queen Alysanne was part of his strength. You'll be part of mine. You'll sit on the council with all the other advisors — with your own opinions and not just to parrot my own."
Coming into this marriage, you'd been prepared to argue for your right to speak, to invite Aemond into your bed repeatedly and often if it meant that he would grow to favor your council. Failing that, you'd been prepared to raise your sons and daughters with your own opinions in mind.
You hadn't been expecting to just be handed the power you craved.
You look over at him, searching for a hint of a lie in his face. He's a king, you wager, lying must come easy to him.
But there's no sign of it. He meets your eyes steadily, his breathing soft and regular, his face expression open in his honesty.
He means it, you realize. He actually means it.
"I might anger or frustrate you," you reply carefully. "You might not like what I have to say. I've fought with everyone in my life at least once or twice. We might make Jaehaerys and Alysanne's Quarrels look quaint."
He snorts, shaking his head. "Good. I hope we do. It'll mean you don't fear me, that you're strong enough to stand up to me and be your own person with your own mind, that you are honest. I will not suffer a weak or feeble Queen. I will not force you to be small nor shame you like my fath-" Aemond cuts himself off, leaning back in his seat as if his own words had been a slap across his face.
Elia Martell.
Rhaegar Targaryen had humiliated her, first by naming Lyanna Stark Queen of Love and Beauty and second by kidnapping Lyanna to take as a second bride, throwing his wife to the side. Elia was clever, Jaime had told you one night over dinner. Not that it had mattered much to Rhaegar and Aerys — her purpose had been to birth heirs and she had only given the Targaryens two children with only one of them being a boy.
It takes you a moment but you nod. "You'll have my opinions and my council," you promise, a small smile flickering on your face when his eyes jump up to meet yours. "Though you may eventually wish you had never asked."
You look at him for a while longer, at the boyish satisfaction that glows on his face. You know he's pretty — the Gods know he's pretty — but, in the candlelight, he looks… cute.
It makes your next move easy.
Easy as can be, your hand flies out to grab his, pulling him up to standing alongside you. "Well, my lords," you announce with as much cheer in your voice as you can conjure. "This has been a very lovely dinner with you all — honestly, we should do it more often — but my King and I would like to spend the rest of the night in our chambers. Discussing policy and the sort."
"Policy?" Tyrion asks, looking seconds away from becoming sick on the dinner table. "Discussing how the line of inheritance will continue from here on out?"
"Of course," you reply cheerfully, dragging behind you a stunned Aemond. "That falls under policy, does it not?"
——————————–
Your confidence quickly deserts you the further you get from the dining room. At some point, humiliatingly enough, Aemond notices you have absolute zero clue where you are and he openly laughs as he moves to pull you along, leading you towards where his chambers must be.
This is, also like the rest of your wedding night, completely at odds from what you expected of it since you were a child. You'd grown up hearing about beddings and, consequently, grown up being terrified of beddings. The idea of men pawing at you, leering and ogling, made you ill to your stomach but everyone always said it was to be expected. It was simply what was.
Cersei's own bedding had been relatively pleasant all things considered. You'd been a babe when she had been married to the newly-crowned Robert Baratheon but Jaime had kept her safe during it, delivering her to Robert's chambers with no one ever laying a single hand on her. Your various cousins from the endless branches of House Lannister, however, have not fared as well.
In all the weddings you've gone, more often than not, the women would end in tears when all the men would take advantage, pinching at them or groping as they stripped them of their clothes. The men would always yell obscenities; laughing with their friends about what they would do to the brides, wondering out loud if she would cry when her husband entered her, debating over how much she would bleed.
At eleven, you had hesitantly asked your father if you would have to go through one, if your future Lord Husband would allow you to forgo it.
Tywin didn't even dignify you with a response, waving you off and telling you to stop asking stupid questions.
In your most fantastical daydreams, you imagined someone giving you the courtesy Tyrion had given Sansa — when he had refused to allow the bedding and, more surprisingly, when Tywin had allowed him to do so.
You never quite imagined the bedding with a king and him allowing you to be so bold as to decide when it began.
Even with your bravery flailing and nerves appearing when he reaches his chambers and ushers you inside, you realize how much of blessing it is that you're here like this. Even if he is cruel like when wives and maids whisper about brutish men or if he's rough like the septas warn, you much rather it be like this — alone with him where you can lick your own wounds and hide your pain from your family and the court alike.
"Where will my chambers be?" You ask quietly as Aemond pulls the door open, leading you into a spacious room, lit and warmed by a blazing fireplace.
He shoots you a look as he moves to the jug of wine. "Here, my lady," he replies, his tone implying he's completely baffled you're asking, as he pours out a drink. "Were you expecting your own?"
You trail behind him, reaching for the goblet in his hand to take a long sip. "It is what is expected in Westeros, Your Grace."
"Aemond," he says, shaking his head as he grabs his drink back, eyes flashing at you over the rim. "Call me Aemond, my lady."
You look at him in the dim light with the fireplace throwing him into contrast. You've never called a man you weren't related to by their given names. Not even Tyrion's little squire — which was, likely, problematic seeing as now you couldn't remember it even though he had been your first, proper kiss. "Call me my name too, Aemond," you reply quietly, reaching for the goblet, letting your fingers curl around his. shivering at the heat radiating off of him.
He says your name quietly, trying it out on his tongue, savoring it like it is a delicious meal.
When he acts like that, you really can't control yourself.
You pull the goblet from his hand, fumbling for the table behind him, distantly aware of it crashing to the ground. Shaking only slightly, you reach for him, hands curling around his neck, and you push yourself up just as he leans down, one of his arms winding around your waist, pulling you into him.
Your lips meet in the middle.
It only takes you a moment to realize that he was actually holding back during the ceremony. He kisses you like he's starving, like he's leaving in the morning and he needs to burn this moment in his memory. You're adrift in him, clinging to him to stay afloat, and the fire that had tickled before sets you ablaze.
His tongue pushes into your mouth, the wet heat sending your head spinning when his tongue messages yours. Aemond's arm pulls you up, his arm other reaching below your bottom to tug you up, rucking your skirt up to your waist, pulling your legs tight around his torso, no room left between the two of you.
Your dress — your thrice-damned-Godawful dress — pulls tight around your chest, making you gasp into his mouth, the lack of air dizzying you even more until the only solid thing you can focus on is his mouth on yours, his body against yours. He pulls back for air, only a breath, but you whine, chasing his lips, so desperate for him that it doesn't even occur to you to worry whether or not you're being wanton.
"I had to have you," he whispers, breathing his words into your mouth, his breath mixing with yours in a way that shoots directly to your brain. "When you walked into the throne room looking you had swam through the Narrow Sea to get here, I knew I needed to have you."
You laugh, one hand coming up to play with his hair, inordinately satisfied to finally know how silky it really is. It feels like liquid silver in your hands, smooth and cool to the touch. "Was my king charmed by me?"
"You walked into the mouth of a dragon for your traitor brother," he hums, sending vibrations straight to your core. You can feel it, you realize with a growing sense of neediness, from your apex pressed against his stomach, only a thin layer of dampening fabric separating you. "And you didn't come to whimper or beg or seduce. Your first words to me were 'my prince' as if you didn't even fear dragonfire. You told me you wouldn't bow."
"I still wouldn't," you reply, tightening your grip on hair and pulling it back tight. His head jerks back, revealing the underside of his jaw, the threaded muscles of his neck. You lean in close, your tongue coming out to trace its way up the middle, tasting the saltiness of his skin. He groans, his grip on you tightening until it almost hurts, squeezing whatever air is still in you out.
"Good," he rasps out. "You should never bow to me. You should kneel."
"Kneel?" You ask, pressing your mouth against his throat, feeling his pulse jump and stutter underneath your lips. "What do you mean kne-"
Before you can finish your question, he moves, carrying you towards the bed, tossing you down with enough force you bounce slightly on the cushioned mattress. The lack of his body pressed against you leaves you shivering in the cold but, before you can think to complain or whine or even kick at him, he kneels on the hard floor, grabs your legs, yanking you to the edge of bed towards him and —
The first lick sends a sea of stars bursting behind your eyes and you keen, your back arching off the bed, your shoulders slamming into the mattress as your entire being is launched towards the heavens. You can't think suddenly, can't stop to even catch a breath, because he's licking your cunt, lapping at it like it's a meal and he's starving.
He's moved your smallclothes aside, the fabric digging into your inner thigh, but even the stretch of the cloth does nothing to bring you away from the heat building up in your core. Your quim is wet, dripping and sopping, and you can hear the sound of his tongue flicking out to taste the juices.
But then shame threatens to punch straight through your pleasure. Surely this is wrong. The septas had never mentioned this. Not even your brother with all his endless jokes and bawdry stories had ever hinted at something like this. The wetness must be wrong. You're failing him. You're failing.
Your hands flying down to grab at his head, curling your fingers in so you can pull at his hair to yank him off but, before you can, you feel his nimble fingers — those long damningly distracting fingers that he had adorned with golden rings and bands — come up to part your lips.
"Pretty," he breathes out, his fingers spreading you open and close as he peers into you. "As pretty as I thought."
"Aemond, what ar-" Your question breaks off into a sharp cry when one of his fingers suddenly pushes into you, pushing past your lips into your inner walls that no one has ever touched. He twists his wrist, pushing his finger in deeper, and his thumb comes up to press at the nub at the top of your cunt, his tongue flicking out to follow his touch, and you wail.
You've touched it before, rubbing at it in the darkest of nights where no one could see or hear your sin. It'd made you shiver before, your body shaking as you chased an impossible peak, but nothing else. You thought that is the extent of it.
It clearly is not.
You writhe, your fingers curling into his hair and yanking, your mind completely lost to the pleasure. He moans at the sensation, pushing in deeper, another finger joining his ministrations, this tongue swirling around the nub. Your body trembles at the sensation, suddenly desperate, feeling as if you're hurtling through the sky, fire pooling deep within you, concentrated in the bottom of your belly, and you whimper and cry out.
Your legs shake, scrambling to find purchase, wanting to clamp shut but Aemond's broad shoulders keep them spread wide. Underneath your bare thighs, you can feel the soft fabric of his tunic, feel the heat of his body scalding hot against your sensitive skin. It's all too much, it's not enough.
"Ae- Aem-" You mewl, unable to even think through his name. You're flying towards something, your mind too scattered to be aware of anything except his tongue.
And then his fingers curl and everything shatters.
You cry out, surely you must have, and the pleasure makes everything go white, stars bursting behind your eyes, leaving you blind to the world around you. For a precious few minutes, you float aimlessly, your body feeling limp and sated, an urge being satisfied that you've never felt.
Slowly, your awareness filters back, feeling and understanding trickling back in. You crack your eyes open — they're closed, when had you closed them? — in time to see Aemond straighten up, his hands hooked underneath his tunic as he pulls it off.
His body is slender and muscles, old scars littering across his chest, some old and faded and others more recent and raw. He's strong, seemingly forged out of steel, and his unscarred skin is smooth, looking deceptively soft. You've never seen a man like this before — never been in a situation where you would see a shirtless man — and your mouth goes dry as you look at him.
You feel utterly ridiculous like this, reclined on the bed with your skirt rucked up around your waist, your small clothes still shoved to the side. Your hair, surely, is tussled and messy and you have no doubt it's probably tangled by your mindless writhing. You push yourself up on your elbows, watching him, tracing his muscles with your eyes.
"Enjoying the view?" Aemond asks quietly, smiling when you jump slightly in surprise.
Yes. You want to say.
No. You want to lie.
Can you do it again? You want to beg.
Instead you push yourself up, hand gripping the bed posts to pull yourself to a standing position. He watches you, looking satisfied by the shake in your legs.
He's smiling until you reach up behind your neck, yanking on the tied strings on your back.
One disadvantage of not having ladies' maids with you on the road is that there is no one to help you dress, leaving you more often than not looking rumpled and messy.
One advantage is that you don't need anyone's help to disrobe.
Aemond watches, openly ravenous, as that awful dress falls off your shoulders, falling in a heap at your feet. Underneath it is a simple white shift. It sticks to your body, the cooling sweat on your body making parts of it near transparent, and Aemond's eyes linger on those spots like a fleeting touch.
You kick your dress away, hoping that it lands in the fireplace and burns up as it deserves. With more confidence than you truly feel, you reach underneath your shift, grabbing the edges of your smallclothes and pulling them down as well, throwing them to whatever corner of the room your gown is in.
You stand in front of him, gooseflesh pimpling your arms, more vulnerable than you've ever been, braver than you've ever been.
Just as he reaches for his trousers, yanking them down in a rush, you grab the edges of your shift, pulling it over your head.
The both of you are bare.
Predictably, your eyes drop down to his cock.
Abruptly, you understand all those bawdry jokes about swords and sheathes that men seemed obsessed with saying, about weasels and tunnels. You even understand your septa's old and tired metaphor about watering cans and flowers.
Your cheeks blaze at the thought, the heat spreading out through your chest, reaching inside of you, lighting up that increasingly familiar fire again. He steps forward and you step forward and for a moment, you think you'll crash into each other as you had earlier.
But you don't. His arms wrap around you tight, pulling you close by the waist, and your arms encircle his back, your hand splaying wide across his shoulders. Like this, bare skin to bare skin, there's no barriers, no pretense of tradition or courtesy between the two of you. It's closer as you've ever been to anyone — closer, even — but it's not enough. You want more. You need more.
You pull away, looking up at him, looking at his proud features, at the sharp lines of his jaws and the thin slope of his lips. He's beautiful, otherworldly, almost too perfect to bare to look at it.
And he's yours now. You've claimed him — in front of the Gods and Men, he is yours now. Just as you are his.
You push up, pulling him closer, pressing your bare breasts into his chest. You kiss him gently, softly, as he had down in the throne room. It's gentle, heart-achingly so. Too gentle for a dragon and a lion maybe.
Maybe it's because of that, the both of yours intrinsic nature, that the kiss turns heated, tongues meeting, breaths mixing. He pushes you back gently, his grip firm but gentle, laying you out on the bed, hovering just above. His hair falls in a curtain around the two of you, cutting you off from everything else and leaving you in a world where there's only you two.
Your legs come up, opening wide as you hook them around his waist, pulling him down against you. You rock against him slowly, his member hard against your apex. You moan as he rubs against you, digging your heels into his back, whining loud and sharp. He pulls away from your mouth, his lips trailing down your jaw, nipping your skin on his way down towards your chest.
"Please, please, please," you beg, not even fully understanding what you're asking for but knowing you'll die if you don't get it. "Aemond, please, don't make me wait."
Aemond grins, his tongue swirling around your nipple, gently laughing as you keen at the feeling. "My Queen begging already?"
"Your Queen demanding," you try to hiss but your voice is too shaky, too flustered, to be convincing. He laughs again.
"You said this was my revenge," he coos, his teeth gently teasing at your nipple, his hand coming up to fondle your other breast. "Tywin Lannister's daughter on her back for me. Tywin Lannister's daughter begging for me."
You whimper, twisting your hands into the blankets at your side, not even the mention of your father being enough to cool the fire fogging your mind. "Please, Aemond," you whine. "You're avenged! You're avenged — just please!"
His hand leaves your breast, trailing down your stomach, going down to the thatch of hair at your apex, his fingers teasing the wetness there. You whine again, kicking at his back with your heels, wishing you could do more than beg, wishing you knew how.
"I'll allow peace then," he murmurs against your breast, pushing off from your chest. He moves to rest back on his haunches, leaving you sprawled out on the bed, your chest heaving as you watch him move. He holds his cock in one hand, the color in his eyes consumed by the black of his pupils as he stares down at your quim.
His tip teases at your entrance and you cry out again, desperate and helpless, pushing down on him so it teases at your inner walls.
Aemond laughs at you again. You wish you had the strength to scold him for it but all decency has left your mind. All you have is an all-consuming hunger, a bone deep want, and you need him to sate it.
"Impatient little thing," he teases, shallowly thrusting into you, blatantly ignoring how your back arches off the wall, your brain going still at the intrusion. "But if my Queen asks…"
He pushes inside.
Your mind blanks out.
It doesn't hurt, you think after your brain decides to start functioning again. The septas had made it sound like it was be an unimaginable pain, something horrific to suffer through. All the men always only talked about their own pleasure, leaving you with the distinct impression that yours doesn't matter.
It does. It does.
Once your body adjusts to the intrusion, once Aemond being inside of you doesn't feel like an abnormality but rather finally feeling complete, you start to rock against him slowly. You feel stuffed to the brim. It fills your head with cotton, drowning out your thoughts.
Aemond. Aemond. Aemond. is all your mind can cry.
He starts slow at first, rocking into you gently, letting you learn how to breathe around him. But as impatient as he had called you, he is undoubtedly worse.
His first hard thrust has you seeing stars, your gasp being punched out of you. His second makes you howl. And then his hand comes down in between your bodies, his calloused thumb playing with that nub, and there is no hope for you at all.
The sound of flesh slapping flesh echoes in your air, a symphony joined by your sharp cries and whimpers and his moans. Your hands fly up to encircle his shoulders and you hang on for dear life, feeling as if every thrust is pushing you closer and closer to an edge that you'll never come back from. Your eyes snap close, suddenly seeing seeming like a waste of time when you can just feel.
The fire in your stomach feels like nothing you've ever felt before, exploding across your body, burning everything in its trail, rewriting everything about you as it goes. It feels like being struck by lightning, like being consumed completely.
"Aemond, Aemond," you chant, drowning in the pleasure of it, feeling mad with the feelings. No wonder all the septons and septas preach against this. It's easy to imagine losing yourself to this bliss, forgetting everything else as you only chase this feeling again and again.
Aemond grabs your jaw, turning your face towards him. Your eyes slide open. He's close, his nose brushing yours, his breath mixing with yours. It makes you dizzy with want and the pressure builds and builds in your core.
"You're so good," he praises and you sob at his words, your nails digging into his back, but he doesn't flinch. "You take me so well — such a good girl. Such a good girl."
You cry, nodding frantically, feeling the last tendrils of common sense snap within you. You're a beast made for pleasure, you decide in your haze. You were made for this.
"So good," he breathes into you and you splinter into a thousand pieces.
It feels like falling under the waves, being tossed and turned by a force you can't even think to control. It leaves you lost in it and, for once, it doesn't frighten you. Your mouth opens in a wail, utterly helpless to stop it.
"Fuck!" Aemond swears, losing whatever tremulous grip on control he had. His hips begin to snap against yours faster, pushing you through the pleasure again and again. He loses all sense of rhythm, desperate in his own chasing of his peak, and you card your hand through his hair, tugging sharply.
Even drowning as you are, you push up slightly, your hips slamming up into his, and you lick a stripe up his throat. "My good king," you whisper.
He thrusts one more time, shoving into you as deep as you can, driving a moan out of you just as he cries out, his warm spending releasing inside of you.
Like a puppet with his strings cut, he drops on top of you, his arms suddenly useless for holding him up.
They're not, however, useless in still holding you.
He tugs you closer to him. His skin is sticky with sweat, a musky smell coming from the two of you, but it doesn't disgust you. It makes that fuzzy head space come back, the complete loss of control that had taken you adrift. It feels delicious. It feels safe.
He stays buried in you, nestled in between your legs, and the full feeling like a blanket coming to rest on top of you.
You lay there in the quiet for a while, the two of you just breathing in time with one other.
Finally, he speaks.
"You will rule me, won't you," Aemond murmurs, his hands running up and down your back, each motion racking your body with shivers. "I survived so much, fought so many, claimed the only dragon to have survived the Dance… And yet, here you are. Little lady from the Rock, come to claim me."
You smile, pushing closer to him, burying your face in his chest, smelling his smell. "We claimed each other. You've gotten your revenge."
Aemond's hand trails along your back, curling around your side to rest his hand above your stomach. "I've gotten my peace."
You laugh, closing your eyes and finding yours too.
Diva I need you to know I think about Pawn constantly whenever you feel like picking it up again know I WILL be seated
ok stop this actually made me emotional 🥺🥺🥺
i’m actively working on pawn if that helps! i’ve had writers blocker/life/ao3 curse/fascism in the us but i’m trying to chug along!! i really appreciate every single one of you who still thinks abt pawn 🥲🥲🥲
aemond targaryen x female!lannister!reader oneshot
When your brother is stolen away by the newly arrived King Aemond, First of His Name, you ride to Storm's End to plead his case.
crossposted on ao3
masterlist
content warning: explicit sexual content, piv sex, oral sex (f receiving), praise kink
word count: 12.4k
notes: i eventually keep my word!!! i promised this a million years ago and here it is! my dear beloved aemond as faegon au (:
lannister!reader bc i have a brand and i must maintain it
On the ride from Riverrun to Storm’s End, you repeat all you know about Aemond Targaryen until it begins to ring in your ears even when you sleep.
Aemond Targaryen, the only son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell. Aemond Targaryen, the heir to the heir of the Iron Throne during Robert’s Rebellion. Aemond Targaryen, the babe your father’s dog had smashed against the wall with his bare hands. Aemond Targaryen, the viscera that had coated Gregor Clegane’s hands as he had raped Elia Martell. Aemond Targaryen, the littlest of the bundles that had been presented to Robert Baratheon, the littlest of the ghosts to haunt your eldest half-brother.
Aemond Targaryen, the dead prince.
Dead. Dead. Dead.
Until he had come from the East, atop a dragon, and rooted Mace Tyrell’s army from its perch in Storm’s End, claiming the first part of Westeros for himself.
There had been whispers about him before the dragon. His aunt was the main threat in the East with her three beasts but still - some would talk about the boy king that the Golden Company had sworn for, would whisper about the sole survivor of the slaughter at the hands of the Lannisters.
Unless the boy walks with a smashed-in skull, he’s a pretender being hoisted up by sellswords your uncle Kevan had insisted, his eyes dull with the memory of having been witness to the atrocities committed onto the Princess Elia and her children.
Then the dragon.
There had been no whispers about that - there had only been screams. The bards had written their songs, the smallfolk talked about the Targaryens being reborn, the dragons being brought back to bring peace to Westeros.
You hadn’t cared much even with that - you hadn’t had the time. With Jaime in the Riverlands and Tyrion lost to the winds, you bore the brunt of Cersei’s paranoia and your time was spent trying to help your uncle reign her in, trying your best to be the silk glove to your sister’s steel fist that threatened to punch right through what little power the Lannisters had left. You had sang a pretty song for the Tyrells, swearing your allegiance, swearing your house’s allegiance, offering your own hand in marriage up to use to tighten your alliance even further. You had tried to loosen the grip the Faith Militant had tightened on the city. You had soothed the worries of the court, trying to convince them that the Lannisters still had power and dominion in the capitol.
You had tried.
And you had failed.
The instant the Faith had seized your sister, Kevan had spirited you out of the city. You’re the last of Tywin’s blood, he had insisted. You and Jaime both. Ride to him. Find him. It is the only hope our House has left.
You had taken a host of Lannister men with you. Ostensibly, you were riding to provide your brother with more soldiers. In truth, you were fleeing, fleeing to the only man left who could provide you with the illusion of protection.
When you had arrived in Riverrun, you hadn’t found your brother. You had found your aunt.
And she told you Jaime had been taken.
Aemond Targaryen, it seemed, had claimed his first prize.
The letter came after. It declared that Aemond Targaryen, the first of his name, was the true king of the Seven Kingdoms. Tommen Baratheon was a bastard born of incest. Jaime Lannister would die for his crimes - both the crime of being a kingslayer and the crime of being Tywin Lannister’s son.
Unless you went to plead his case.
You’d have guest right. You wouldn’t be harmed. Aemond Targaryen swore that on the honor of one of his most trusted advisors.
Tyrion Lannister.
There had been little to decide after that. Aunt Genna had urged you to ignore his summons. If Tyrion really had joined up the new Dragon King, it’d be far more prudent for you to head to Casterly Rock. Cersei was tied to the throne, her claim dependent on her Baratheon marriage, her marriage contract having removed her from the line of inheritance. Jaime was sworn to the cloak. Tyrion was a kinslayer.
By all rights, the Rock was yours and, if you had any hope of pressing your claim, you’d return to your home and make your plans from there.
But you’re a fool. A silly little girl who still cries for her big brothers. A silly little girl who longs for her older sister to show her even a flash of affection. A silly little girl who will ride into the dragon’s mouth if it means she has even half a chance of keeping her family alive a little while longer.
You are a fool.
But you will not be unprepared.
——————————–
You enter Storm's End feeling vaguely like a drowned cat. Your cloak hangs heavy on you, threatening to pull you straight down to the stone floor in a puddle composed of Lannister and fur. Next to you, your cousin, Ser Addam Marbrand, stamps his feet on the ground, muttering under his breath a choice string of curses as he throws a baleful glare at the guards that surround you in the entrance hall.
They're golden, laden in bangles and arm rings and silks, their armor itself glinting in the torchlight, casting the hall in a shimmery glow. Fitting, you suppose, for an army of mercenaries named the Golden Company.
It's naked wealth and you wrinkle your nose at the sight of it. You are, after all, something of an expert on the subject and even this pushes at your delicate sensibilities.
"My lady," a man says as he approaches, bowing his head. He's tall, towering over you, with a clear warrior's build that hints at the strength in his body. Even his hair, ridiculous as it is with red roots and faded blue at the strands, does little to diminish his presence. "On behalf of His Grace, Aemond Targaryen, I welcome you to Storm's End."
You nod slowly, scanning his body, eyeing the sword he carries on his hip. Carefully, you straighten up, trying to claim every inch of your height even if it pales next to him. "I thank you, Lord…"
"Connington. Lord Jon Connington."
Prince Rhaegar's friend. Following Robert's rebellion against the crown, Aerys had named him his Hand— a gift he promptly squandered during the Battle of the Bells. Last you heard, he had drank himself to death in Essos for the shame of having failed his prince and his king.
And yet…
You smile faintly, curling your fingers around the edges of your soaked cloak to pull it closer to yourself. "Funny how life works, my lord. Here you are again. Surviving under another Targaryen King. Has this one named you Hand as well?"
Connington's lips press together in a grim line. He doesn't like you. The feeling, you want to assure him, is more than mutual. "No, Lady Lannister, he has not. He's named your brother that honor."
"How fitting," you murmur. "I always felt that dear Jaime deserves more than a white cloak. Unless, of course, you mean my kinslayer brother. Tyrion's more than clever enough for it, I assure you, but I'm sure you're well aware of both my brothers' records with kings. I'm one behind as I see it."
"Is that a threat, my lady?" Connington asks and, all around him, the Golden Company reaches for their swords, their bangles jingling as they do. Behind you, Ser Marbrand stiffens, his own hand flying to his weapon.
You shake your head, smiling still. "There would have to be a king here, I fear, for me to get such a chance. As I see it, me and my brothers are the only ones with royal blood. My dear nephew, King Tommen, rules in King's Landing. No, I am here to see Aemond Targaryen and negotiate Ser Jaime Lannister's release. I am Lady of Casterly Rock. He is under my protection."
"He's facing the block for his crimes."
"Whatever he stands accused for, it does not change that he's a member of House Lannister. I'd be a poor Lady if I allowed such a thing to occur unmet." You glance behind him, at the meek servant girl carrying a plate of salt and bread. "Your lord will honor guest rights, I assume. The armies of the Westerlands are prepared to move to action if not."
"Tyrion has sworn you will receive it," Connington grinds out, looking as if he's growing less and less inclined to offer it to you, even as he gestures the servant forward. "Even if it means little and less to the daughter of Tywin Lannister."
You grimace, reaching for the chunk of bread, quietly motioning Addam to move up to his collect his own piece. "That was the Walder Frey's dirty work, my lord. Robb Stark hurt his pride by scorning his daughter. The old lecher wanted his pound of flesh for the insult. The Red Wedding bears his awful signature."
And yet, your father's mark is written all over it.
You know the truth of it. Lord Walder Frey is a cradle-robbing pervert, a disgusting old man who made more eye contact with your chest than he ever had with your eyes when you first met him at four-and-ten.
But he is a craven. A cowardly craven who would prefer to stew over perceived insults than rise to action over them. He is not nearly bold enough to slaughter the Starks and their vassals at a wedding.
But Tywin Lannister is.
Was, now, you suppose.
You bite into the bread, the salt heavy on your tongue. Next to you, Addam does the same. It's a poor shield, especially after your father had blast it to shreds at the Twins, but it is a shield nonetheless. Even a flimsy one is better than none at all.
"The King and his Hand wait for you in the throne room," Connington says, his eyes looking over the pair of you with barely concealed disdain.
As he leads you through the halls of Storm's End, Addam catches up to you, ducking slightly to meet your ear.
"My lady, can we trust Tyrion to protect you?" He whispers, uncaring that as he does, every single guard eyes him with open suspicion. "He killed Lord Tywin in cold blood. Who's to say he won't do the same to you to garner trust with his dragonlord?"
"He's my brother," you say, a knot tight in your chest. "He taught me how to read. He will keep me safe. He will."
You wish you were confident. Tyrion had always been the easiest of your siblings. Jaime and Cersei had always felt far away in King's Landing. When you had moved to the capital, they'd been distant even if Jaime would try to bridge the gap. But Tyrion? Tyrion was always there, making you laugh, comforting you when your Father had snapped at you, encouraging you to be a bigger voice and presence in the court. He'd been your best friend. When he'd been accused of killing Joffrey, you'd stood for him, even if it had only resulted in Cersei's furious rage finding its target in you.
But then he had killed your father.
Tywin Lannister wasn't a comforting man. He wasn't even a good man. Truthfully, sometimes, you felt like he regretted ever having you. You hadn't been the male heir he needed after Jaime joined the Kingsguard. You'd been the daughter of a woman who wasn't Joanna Lannister and that was all he really needed to write you off.
But he'd been your father. Yours. Your mother had died in labor. Tyrion had cared for you since childhood, yes, but he was your older brother. Tywin was your father. You'd loved him with a desperate force, hungered for the rare times he had praised you, fought and pined for his approval.
And Tyrion had shot him on the privy after you and Jaime had freed him.
You sigh, tightening your fingers into a fist at your side.
You would free Tyrion again. You would always choose to free him.
You just wish he would have spared you the pain of being an orphan.
The throne room rises up fast, the hallway opening up to a massive room. It's nothing like the opulence of the Iron Throne, especially after your sister had had her way with it. It's cold, stark, looking as if it's been carved out of stone and built for war. It's cavernous, each footstep of yours echoing in the silence, ringing in your head like a funeral bell.
Tyrion stands at the foot of the throne, his hands held tight in front of him. He looks stressed and overwrought, staring at you as if the mere sight of you hurts him. You want to run to him, fall onto your knees and throw you arms around him and feel like a little girl seeking comfort. You want to hit him, want to dig your nails at him and tear at him, wail and beg and ask why he had hurt you so deeply when you had only ever tried to love him.
You turn away from him, unwilling to decide yet what to do with him.
And there, on the stone throne, Aemond Targaryen waits.
He's lean and graceful, long silver hair falling free around his face, sheets like silk framing his features. He's dressed in black leathers — riding clothes you realize — with a sword on his hip and he stands tall at the throne, not sitting like you had expected. It, somehow, is far more intimidating. It shows he's a man of action, that if you anger him, he'll just as easily run down to tear into you rather than ordering one of his men to do it for him.
He's pretty.
You wish you didn't notice. You wish he was ugly.
But he's so painfully pretty it'd be impossible not to notice. His features are fine and delicate, as if carved out of stone by a mason's steady hand. His thin lips curl up into a perpetual smirk, smug in a way that would infuriate you if it wasn't so damningly attractive. A scar cuts through his face, over an eye, leaving it narrowed in an eternal glare.
You hate him, you decide. Which, admittedly, isn't the best option for your negotiations but it's the one you've landed on. How dare he look that good when you've already decided to hate him for eternity?
"My prince," you say as you bow, deciding to make your stance clear. He is no king — not while your bastard nephew rules. "Welcome to Westeros. I hope you've found our courtesy welcoming."
He smiles. "It was courteous enough, my lady. Mace Tyrell was happy enough to see me. Until, of course, he met my lady Visenya. He didn't much seem to enjoy that."
Mace Tyrell had been fed to his dragon if the rumors are to be believed.
You return his smile, refusing to let him see you flinch. "A plentiful meal, I'm sure. Perhaps sour and overripe but filling nonetheless."
Aemond laughs, loud and sharp, and he settles into his throne, spreading his legs wide as if to take up as much room as possible. He sinks into the throne as if it were a plush bed, resting easy. Your mind, without your permission, inserts his image onto the Iron Throne. He'd suit it — far more than your sweet nephew with his round cheeks and bright eyes. "She did enjoy the feast. I'm not yet sure if she'd enjoy lion."
You laugh. "We're notoriously tough, my prince. A bit stingy. Surely not a sumptuous meal by any means."
"Seems plenty sumptuous to me," he hums, eyes roaming over you shamelessly. "Any dragon would love to make a meal of you."
Heat explodes over your body and you shift in place, pulling your cloak tight against you again. You've been flirted with before, of course you have, but never by a man like this. You expect bugs to explode over your skin, to feel the familiar nasty, dirty feeling of a man looking at you and trying to find your shape underneath your clothes.
It doesn't come.
Instead you feel warm, overheated. You want to take your cloak off. You want to take your gown off.
Surely this is Targaryen magic. Surely this is some spell he's brought over from the East. It cannot possibly be him.
Behind you, Connington clears his throat. "She's come to negotiate for the release of the Kingslayer, Your Grace."
A cold shiver brings you back to Earth and you straighten up. "Ser Jaime Lannister falls under the domain of the Westerlands. He falls to me. I ask you release him to my own judgment. Any punishment should be dispensed by the Lady of Casterly Rock. Not by a Prince of Dragonstone."
"A king, my lady. And your brother, if I recall correctly, is sworn to the throne. To my throne. Justice is mine," he drawls, voice hard and unyielding despite his almost lazy lounging.
You loosen your grip on your cloak, hands flying out in a pacifying motion. "Is it, my prince? My nephew Tommen holds the throne. He's given me the right to dispense my own judgment."
He raises a singular eyebrow. "Your nephew, yes. The Kingslayer's nephew, yes. But he is also the Kingslayer's son, is he not?"
"I'd thank you, my prince," you immediately shoot back, stiffening. "If you would not repeat Stannis Baratheon's lies. King Robert claimed him. He is trueborn. The matter has been settled. I, myself, look like my own mother rather than my father. Tommen is the same."
Another lie. You know the truth of Jaime and Cersei. You've always known the truth. Everything that everyone says about them is true.
But you will not admit it to these strangers,
He looks at you longer, his eyes boring into yours. Finally, his eyes flick over to Tyrion, who, unexpectedly, is utterly silent. Finally, Aemond speaks: "It is as you say, I suppose. I could hardly fault a sister coming to fight for her brother. I would do the same if my sister had survived your father's treachery."
You wince, looking down at your feet. It's impossible for you not to flinch at the mention. In your mind, you remember the few times Jaime had talked about Elia Martell and her children. He had seen Rhaenys's corpse, had seen how her little body had been destroyed by Amory Lorch. He had seen Aemond's, the little babe, how there had been nothing left of that sweet little child, or, at least, whatever babe had been in his place. It doesn't matter, you suppose. A dead babe is a dead babe.
"I am not my father," you say quietly, feeling your body chill and go cold. "I… I would not have allowed that happen. I do not hold you responsible for Aerys Targaryen's horrible crimes. I ask you to do the same to me."
It's as much as you're willing to say. Your father was cruel. He was cruel to his children and crueler to the rest of the world. He's alive still, you want to say. He lives in my mind, in the cruel voice that haunts my every move. He hates me and I hate him and I miss him more than I've ever missed anything else.
You say none of it. He doesn't deserve your pain. "It is as you say, my prince. I want my brother. I protect my brother. That is all I ask."
"Even after his crimes?" Tyrion asks, his voice loud in the quiet in the throne room.
You hate that the sound of it causes tears to rise up in your eyes. You've missed him. You've missed him so bad. "Even after everything, my lord," you reply, wishing your voice were stronger still. "He is my brother. He is my subject. He is mine to command."
"I am King," Aemond says, voice sharp enough to cut through you. "You are mine to command."
You shake your head. "You are not my king. I obey Tommen. I do not obey you."
Immediately his eyes flash and he rises back to his feet. He loams, tall even from your distance, and he stands firm at his throne. "Perhaps, my lady, Visenya should have a talk with you. She would love to explain your place in this kingdom."
"My place," you say, feeling your rage rise up inside your chest. "Is in Casterly Rock. I am Wardenness of the West. Even if you are a king, you will not cow me. King Loren Lannister bowed to three dragons. I will not bow to one."
He steps down from his throne, walking closer and closer to you. None of his guards move with him, thankfully, and he walks towards you. Behind him, you vaguely recognize Tyrion following in his wake but your eyes stay glued to him.
Finally, he stands in front of you. His eyes, you finally realize, are amethyst. They glow in the light. He's even more beautiful up close.
Your hatred grows at the observation.
"Not even to me?" He asks quietly.
"Not even to you," you reply just as soft. "I only want my brother. I will leave you in peace. The Westerlands will not declare war if you seek to claim the Iron Throne from underneath Tommen."
Aemond looks down at you, his eyes shining in the light, a hungry glint shining in their deep color. "What if I want more than peace?"
You take a deep breath. You had expected it. You had. It doesn't mean it is anymore easier.
"I am unmarried," you say after a moment, voice steady. "If you wish for my hand, I will give it. The Westerlands will fight for you. Most of the Crownlands, excepting King's Landing, will fight for you. I will help you claim Westeros."
Behind you, Connington scoffs. "He will marry his aunt, Daenerys Targaryen. He does not need an Usurper's dog to help him."
You roll your eyes. "His aunt will not have him. Prince Aemond's claim is stronger. If she marries him, she loses her right to the throne. Waiting for her hand in marriage is like waiting for the sun to rise in the west."
"Still," Tyrion says. "You offer little. The Westerlands do not even belong to you. I am Tywin's heir as much as he hated to admit it."
You shake your head, refusing to turn to answer him, keeping your eyes on Aemond's disarming gaze. "The Westerlands will not accept you. You are a kinslayer. The Gods themselves have abandoned you. I am Lady of Casterly Rock. I am Wardenness of the West. Aemond Targaryen, if he wishes to claim the throne, will not find a finer match than me. Sansa Stark is lost to the winds. Margaery Tyrell is already married to little Tommen. The Riverlands are burning as we speak and have no lady to offer to him. The Vale is mad with only a sickly boy to lead them and the less said about the Iron Islands the better. Dorne is already yours, my prince. I am the only who can bring you more power."
Aemond smiles, slow and snakelike. "I have plenty power. I have a dragon."
"Aye, you do," you agree easily. "So did Aegon the Conqueror and his wives. And then Rhaenys died in the deserts of Dorne. You have one dragon to their three. I can only bring you more power when that is what you sorely need to claim the Seven Kingdoms."
"And your brideprice, my lady?" Aemond asks. "What do you ask for?"
You want peace, you want to say. You want all these wars to end. You want Stannis Baratheon to freeze in the North. You want Euron Greyjoy to drown before he ever reaches Oldtown. You want Daenerys Targaryen to burn in the East and stay lost in the Dothraki deserts.
"I want my brother," you say instead. "I want my brother to stay safe and whole by my side."
"And your sister?"
When you were young, Cersei would allow you to stay in her room as she prepared herself for feasts. You would sit by her side and watch, eyes wide and hungry, as her maids carefully brushed makeup on her pretty features, as they pinned her curls up in beautiful styles. She was perfect, you had used to think. Completely and utterly perfect.
Two days before the Faith had taken her away, she had slapped you clean across the face in front of Margaery and her ladies. 'You are aiding Tyrion,' she had hissed, her features twisted in rage. 'Our crippled brother killed our father and you still help him. Traitor is too small of a word for you.'
You had cried. You had cried and the next morning, you had come to her door with wine and cheeses. She hadn't accepted you in but you had waited the entire day for her to do so. When you had finally abandoned your plan and slunk back to your room, you had prepared to spend the next day waiting for her again.
You had never gotten the chance to do so. The Faith had taken her before you had gotten the chance to try again.
"My sister," you say, wishing the words didn't feel like a dagger in your chest, "has made her bed. I will negotiate her surrender. I will beg for it. I do not expect her to listen but I will try nonetheless. My devotion, if you agree to my proposal, will belong to you."
Silence reigns in the throne room. Behind you, Addam shifts, his armor clinking, as if he expects to have to fight his way out of here to bring you to safety. You stay still, keeping your eyes solely on Aemond.
Finally, Tyrion speaks.
"She speaks the truth," he declares, voice steady. You don't look at him. You don't think you can bear the sight. "My sweet little sister is loyal. She always has been. She will fight for you if you just give her Jaime."
"Will her brother cuckold me like he did Robert?" He asks. His eyes roam your body, greedily digging underneath your cloak and your gown. The familiar itchy feeling never arrives.
You shake your head immediately. "No. No. He is my brother."
"That did not stop Cersei," Tyrion fires back.
"That will stop me," you hiss. The very thought makes you nauseous. "I will be loyal to my husband. I would never cuckold him, let alone with Jaime."
Again, there is quiet.
He shouldn't believe you. You are Tywin Lannister's daughter. You are Cersei Lannister's sister. You are, like everyone else in your family, an ugly, spiteful creature. No one should trust you. He should send you to the gallows or the block.
But Aemond Targaryen, beautiful creature that he is, does not.
"I will have you," he says even as Connington groans behind you in dismay. "You will be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. You will be Lady of Casterly Rock. Our sons will rule after us."
"And my brother?" You ask, voice soft.
"Your brother," he replies. "Will walk you down the aisle."
——————————–
Jaime is, miraculously, none the worse for wear. He sits in a cell, dirty and dank, but, somehow, he is golden and beautiful as usual.
It angers you more than it should.
"I am to be married," you complain as you stare at him in his dank cell, fingers curled around the bars, wishing you had had the foresight to ask for the keys to his chains. "I am to be married to Aemond Targaryen and it is because you couldn't help but to be abducted."
"You'll have to forgive me, sweetling," he says in response, a smile playing on his lips. "They didn't exactly stop to ask me for my opinion."
You roll your eyes, wishing you weren't melting with relief at the sight of him. He's chained to the corner, covered in filth, and the smell of him makes you want to gag.
But he's your brother. He's your brother. He taught you how to ride a horse. When you were five years old, he had snuck you into a feast past your bedtime, leading you past your scowling father, smiling and laughing as you had bounced and cheered and danced.
Just seeing him makes you feel better.
"I am to marry King Aemond in a few short hours," you say after a moment, trying to make your tone light and airy. "Your sister will be Queen."
"Our sister is already Queen," he shoots back, quirking up an eyebrow, looking both vaguely amused and baffled by your declaration.
Tyrion snorts, the sound startling you. "Cersei is the Queen of Whores, mayhaps. Our sister, our youngest sister, will be Queen of Seven Kingdoms. We'd be so lucky."
It's almost embarrassing how fast you turn to stare at him. He stands at the entrance of the hallway, up the stairs, hands tucked behind his back, looking down at the pair of you as if you're dirt beneath his shoes. The sight of him angers you. The sight of him comforts you.
You choose your anger instead.
"This," you start quietly, your voice growing in both volume and aggression as you go. "Would have never happened if you hadn't killed our father. We'd be together if you hadn't been selfish."
"Selfish?" Tyrion scoffs, walking down the stairs to come and stand by your side, the two of you just in front of Jaime's cell. He's defensive, that much is clear, but his words, as harsh as they are, aren't angry with you. No, his ire seems to be directed at Jaime if the way he glowers at your older brother is any sign. "Selfish? You came in asking for just Jaime — Jaime of all things — and you walk away a future Queen. You cannot speak to me about selfish, little sister. You shouldn't have come in the first place. You should have gone straight to Casterly Rock to press your claim!"
"You asked me to come!" You burst out, feeling like you'll die if you don't say your piece. "I don't want to be Queen! I barely want to be Lady of Casterly Rock! I just… I wanted you two. I wanted you back. I wanted my family! But you both left me! You left me and now we're here! I have to marry a Targaryen, I have to be the Queen, because you two are fools!"
You want to swing on both of them, on Tyrion and Jaime both. You want to give them matching black eyes, tie your family together with injuries and pain if your blood isn't enough. You want to go home.
Instead, you stand there, in the dungeons of Storm's End, stewing in your anger and hatred.
Neither of them respond for a moment, just looking at you like they want to understand you.
They don't. Gods, you wished they did. Maybe all of this would be easier if they did. Maybe you would be happier.
"I did not think our aunt would let you out of her grasp," Tyrion says after a moment. "When Aemond first came up with the plan to avenge his grandsire, I agreed to send the letter because I… Foolishly, I thought you would stay with our aunt or, even, with Uncle Kevan in the capital. You… I did not want you involved in this. I wanted you safe in Casterly Rock with your claim to protect you."
"Casterly Rock is mine," you murmur, your voice cracking to your eternal shame. "After what you've done, Casterly Rock is mine and I… I would have traded it for you. It should be yours but it's fallen to me and I…"
No tears, you think. What would Tywin say if he saw you? You cannot shame him. You cannot. You are the Lady of Casterly Rock now. You are House Lannister's shield and sword alike. The legacy of Tywin Lannister, of all of House Lannister, lands on you now.
"It is done," you say after a moment, squeezing your eyes tightly closed, hating how your chest tightens at the words. "I am doing what I must to save and preserve our House - it is what Father would want by any means. We are now thrust in Aemond's war. And you two… And you two will stand by my side. My side. You will follow me as head of our House."
"I am Hand of the King," Tyrion reminds you, an edge to his voice now.
"And I will be his Queen," you shoot back, opening your eyes just as you can glare at him, hardening your heart as Tywin would want. "I will be Queen and if I wish, I will beg Aemond to give me your head as a wedding gift. A woman's embrace is warmer than your damned useless advice."
Tyrion doesn't reply, just looking back at you with sad eyes.
"You left me," you murmur quietly, swinging your gaze between the two of your brothers. "Both of you left me. I was alone. And now I am here and you both are here and now this is it. This is it."
"I had to fight a war, sweetling," Jaime murmurs from his spot in the cell. "I… I was fighting for Tommen's claim."
You shake your head, laughing, partially wishing you had never poked at this bruise, that you had just told them to prepare for the wedding and left to do your own preparations. "I told you not to go. Our forces were doing well enough without you and Cersei was already going mad and I needed you. But you went and fought for a claim that we all know is baseless because our sister kicked you out of her bed."
"Swee-"
"Enough," you cut Jaime off, fighting the urge to clap your hands over your ears like you had when you were a child and someone tried to give you bad news. "Enough. I… It doesn't matter anymore. It doesn't. In a few hours, I will be wed to Aemond Targaryen and we will follow a new King. That is the price I paid for us to survive. I've secured pardons and safety for Tommen, Myrcella, and Cersei if only they yield and renounce their claim to their throne. All you have to do now is stand by my side. That is all. I'm sure even the pair of you can manage that."
You spin on your heel, turning away from both, and heading up the stairs.
On your way out, you quietly whisper to a guard to unchain your brother and let him clean himself. It wouldn't do start your marriage with Jaime reeking of death.
——————————–
As a little girl, you had always imagined your wedding to happen in the Great Hall of Casterly Rock. It didn't make much sense — you'd likely be marrying out of the family and your wedding would be in whichever holding your father had seen fit to tie you to — but it was your girlish fantasy. In your dreams, all of your family would be there, your siblings would love you, your father would be proud of you, and your mother would be alive. It would be perfect and golden and you'd marry a man of honor that loved you with reckless abandon.
But that was a little girl's fantasies.
This is real life and in real life, you're standing just outside the Storm's End throne room while wearing a borrowed dress from the Baratheon ladies that used to live here. It's too tight around the chest and too loose around the stomach and the fabric is itchy against your skin. There is no maiden cloak to be had — not here — and there's not near enough time for you to even attempt to embroider one. In its place, you've borrowed a soldier's cloak, the Lannister sigil austere and small.
Jaime's washed, at least.
"You don't have to do this," Jaime tells you when you walk up to him. He's been scrubbed and shaved and all it does is highlight how gaunt he looks now, a distant memory of the golden figure of perfection he had been when you were a little girl.
You smile sadly. "Yes, we should just tell the Targaryen king and his dragon that I won't be his bride and leave him waiting at the altar. Surely, that would have no repercussions for our family's continued survival."
"That is not what I mean," he whispers back. "I want you safe. I want you happy. You are my little sister. You deserve more than marriage to a Targaryen whelp. You're the last good Lannister left to us."
You shake your head, looping your arm through his, holding him tight to you, resting your head on his arm for a moment. "Does such a thing exist? This isn't about deserve. This is just… This is what needs to be done for House Lannister. I do my duty. I've always done it."
He looks at you, his green eyes looking you over carefully, scanning for a crack in your armor. He's always done this, always cared for you. There was a time when you never felt safer than when you were in his presence. Nothing could hurt you if Jaime was there to protect you.
If only it were true.
The doors finally creak open and, without pomp and circumstance, Jaime begins to lead you in. It is a far cry from all the weddings you've attended in the past. There are no banners or flowers or musicians singing soft love songs and hymns. There are some soldiers watching, a few lords and ladies scattered throughout, but it is still the smallest wedding party you've ever seen. A septon waits at the foot of the throne, Tyrion and Jon Connington clustered to his right and Ser Addam at his left.
And there.
Aemond Targaryen stands, his back facing you. His silver hair falls straight down his back, held at bay with a careful twist of braids. He's changed, wearing a tunic and pants, and, somewhere in the back of your mind, you mourn the loss of the riding leathers. The sword remains at his side, its golden hilt gleaming in the dim light, the belt cinched tight at his waist.
Gods, it's insufferable.
All too soon, Jaime walks you up to him and, when the septon announces your approach, Aemond turns to receive the pair of you.
His eyes glint at you knowingly, a pleased smile resting easy on his face. He looks you up and down, taking in your frumpy dress and your mismatched cloak, and, somehow, finding it attractive if the way his tongue comes out to wet his lips is any indication.
And then, just like that, you pass over into Aemond's care.
The ceremony goes fast, leaving you feeling like you're not in your own body. You move through by instinct, barely aware of the words the septon is saying, let alone the words that you parrot back. At some point, Jaime comes up to unclasp your cloak and you quietly help him, saving him the embarrassment of fumbling with his one hand.
The blessed few moments when you stand free of any familial obligation — just you in a borrowed dress — go by too fast for you to truly enjoy.
With a dramatic flair, Aemond pins his cloak to your throat. You don't get much of a chance to look at it, to see what symbol if any are stitched on it, but it doesn't matter soon enough.
"With this kiss," he murmurs, voice low so only you and the septon have any hope of hearing. "I pledge my love, and take you for my Queen and wife."
"With this kiss," you whisper back. "I pledge my love, and take you for my King and husband."
The septon, his voice loud and clear, declares you to be one flesh, one heart, one soul, but you barely register him.
Because Aemond Targaryen is kissing you.
You've been kissed before. Once, as a small girl in Casterly Rock's gardens, you had kissed the steward's daughter, the two of you giggling relentlessly the entire time. In King's Landing, you'd kissed Tyrion's squire, a quick little peck, and had been all aglow about it even if he had been shipped off to the Riverlands with Jaime's lady knight the very next day.
But you've never been kissed like this.
Aemond kisses like he has something to prove, like it isn't enough to have already claimed you in the eyes of the Gods and Men. He has to claim you here and now. One hand settles on your waist as if it was always meant to find its way there while his other hand rests on your jaw, pulling you closer until you're molded to the front of his body, helpless to do anything but dig your fingers into his tunic to find some ground.
He pushes into your space, bending you backwards, and you kiss back just fiercely, feeling that fire from earlier erupt all over your body again, heating you up and burning you completely until you don't know where you are. You don't know anything except how good he feels and how you never want this to end.
But end it does and, when he pulls away, he presses his forehead up against yours, his breath warm across your face. Slowly, the rest of the world comes back into focus, the sound of the audience cheering and whistling coming back like a symphony of its own. You breathe heavy, your hands shaking, as you fight to find your own standing again.
Your eyes slowly open.
Aemond is already watching you, his amethyst eyes dark with desire and want.
You think he wants to say something, his eyes digging deep into yours, but he doesn't.
He just leans closer, pressing a kiss on your lips once more, this time gentle and sweet.
There is no grand feast like any normal wedding — not even a play at one. It's a simple dinner, you and your brothers with Aemond and his advisors, with all of you seated in a small dining room. There can be no big show of opulence, Aemond had told you as he lead you through the halls, not while his people were starving and dying in wars.
You had agreed with him, your mind flashing back to the bread riots in King's Landing when the smallfolk had seemed ready to eat the nobility if no relief came for them.
The dining room is almost painfully awkward in its silence. Jaime sits by your side, quiet and sullen, and, by Aemond's side, Tyrion isn't talking for once, drinking goblet after goblet of wine to the point the servant serving them is just stationed behind him. Connington, as expected, is stewing in his anger, shooting you glares as if he can make you vanish with his eyes alone.
That only leaves you and Aemond to carry the conversation.
And, well, Addam and Ser Harry Strickland of the Golden Company. Those two, at least, seem to be getting on like a house on fire, laughing and drinking, gossiping like a pair of old fishwives. They, somehow, make enough noise by themselves to fill up the small room, making it seem like a full feasting hall rather than a table full of unpleasantly unhappy people.
"At least someone is enjoying themselves," you grumble under your breath, shooting them a baleful glare.
"Strickland never misses a chance to remain seated," Aemond scoffs, making you jump slightly in nerves at the sound of his voice in your ear. "It's miracle he made it across the Narrow Sea in the first place."
You wrinkle your nose, bringing your wine glass up to your mouth to disguise it. Your eyes swing over to Strickland, to his portly shape and balding head. "It's a small miracle then, I suppose, that he managed to lead the Golden Company."
"It's politics, my lady," he responds, laughing slightly. "He's good at contracts, good at organizing men and managing logistics like housing and transportation. That's just as important as swinging a sword."
"So he's a steward," you hum, turning your gaze back on Aemond and all his amusement. "Still — hardly how I'd expect a Captain-general of the Golden Company to be. Bittersteel surely was not like that."
He thrums his fingers on the table, an endless beat for himself. "Bittersteel only loved war. Stewardship was a distant second for him — just a way for him to make more war."
"And you, my king? What do you love? Will you hunger for war or will you sue for peace?"
He doesn't respond, not right way. Aemond looks at you for a beat longer, breathing slowly as he thinks. Finally, he turns back to the table, reaching for his goblet, his rings clinking against the burnished gold as he does.
"Connington told me about my mother when I was four," he says quietly, his voice low enough that you have to strain to hear it. "He didn't know her very well, not like how he knew my father. But he told me of her kindness, of her grace, of how thankful she was to have me and my sister. And then he told me how the Mountain raped her with the blood of a tanner's son on his hands."
You stay quiet, thinking about Jaime and his guilt, thinking about the horror that had lingered in Uncle Kevan's eyes at the memory.
"I've heard they sent the Mountain's skull to Dorne, to my uncle Doran. It isn't enough. The Cleganes should have been ripped out root and stem, their lands salted and burned so nothing can grow, so it can be left as a reminder of their treachery." He leans in closer, his hair falling over his shoulder in a silky wave. "And your father, my sweet lady, should have met the same fate. Gregor Clegane is a dog and your father was holding the leash."
You smile, faintly and without much humor. There's nothing you can, or are willing, to say to defend Tywin. "My brother stole your revenge. And now Lord Tywin's daughter and heir will lie on her back for you."
A grin breaks out on his face, leaving him looking particularly rugged, more a mercenary than a king. "His daughter will do more than lie on her back for me. She will beg me for her pleasure. I hunger for vengeance, yes, my lady, but look at what allowing peace has brought me."
He snatches your hand, pulling it up to his mouth to press a kiss against your knuckles, holding it there against his lips.
You shiver, your mind fizzling out to nothing, as you meet his eyes. His gaze is half-lidded, lazy almost, as if he knows he has all the time in the world to look at you and take you in. It is far too intimate of a look to be had at a dinner, where your brothers sit on either side of you, but he's a king. Who would dare to scold him?
This close, the scar stands in more stark contrast, carving through his face in a treacherous path. It must have hurt, you realize as your brain slowly comes back to life, to have been hurt in such a way. Whoever it was would have needed to be close, far closer than any enemy would normally be.
You suck in a deep breath, pulling your hand away and looking back down at your plate, your hands fiddling with the fork at its side. "I am glad you're level headed, my king, in your approach to justice," you manage out, trying to calm your speeding heart. "My father and your grandsire ruled by fear and look how that ended out. You have to be better."
"We have to be better," Aemond shoots back. "You are my Queen now. I expect more out of you than birthing heirs and handing them to wetnurses. The greatest king in my House's past was Jaehaerys the Conciliator and Good Queen Alysanne was part of his strength. You'll be part of mine. You'll sit on the council with all the other advisors — with your own opinions and not just to parrot my own."
Coming into this marriage, you'd been prepared to argue for your right to speak, to invite Aemond into your bed repeatedly and often if it meant that he would grow to favor your council. Failing that, you'd been prepared to raise your sons and daughters with your own opinions in mind.
You hadn't been expecting to just be handed the power you craved.
You look over at him, searching for a hint of a lie in his face. He's a king, you wager, lying must come easy to him.
But there's no sign of it. He meets your eyes steadily, his breathing soft and regular, his face expression open in his honesty.
He means it, you realize. He actually means it.
"I might anger or frustrate you," you reply carefully. "You might not like what I have to say. I've fought with everyone in my life at least once or twice. We might make Jaehaerys and Alysanne's Quarrels look quaint."
He snorts, shaking his head. "Good. I hope we do. It'll mean you don't fear me, that you're strong enough to stand up to me and be your own person with your own mind, that you are honest. I will not suffer a weak or feeble Queen. I will not force you to be small nor shame you like my fath-" Aemond cuts himself off, leaning back in his seat as if his own words had been a slap across his face.
Elia Martell.
Rhaegar Targaryen had humiliated her, first by naming Lyanna Stark Queen of Love and Beauty and second by kidnapping Lyanna to take as a second bride, throwing his wife to the side. Elia was clever, Jaime had told you one night over dinner. Not that it had mattered much to Rhaegar and Aerys — her purpose had been to birth heirs and she had only given the Targaryens two children with only one of them being a boy.
It takes you a moment but you nod. "You'll have my opinions and my council," you promise, a small smile flickering on your face when his eyes jump up to meet yours. "Though you may eventually wish you had never asked."
You look at him for a while longer, at the boyish satisfaction that glows on his face. You know he's pretty — the Gods know he's pretty — but, in the candlelight, he looks… cute.
It makes your next move easy.
Easy as can be, your hand flies out to grab his, pulling him up to standing alongside you. "Well, my lords," you announce with as much cheer in your voice as you can conjure. "This has been a very lovely dinner with you all — honestly, we should do it more often — but my King and I would like to spend the rest of the night in our chambers. Discussing policy and the sort."
"Policy?" Tyrion asks, looking seconds away from becoming sick on the dinner table. "Discussing how the line of inheritance will continue from here on out?"
"Of course," you reply cheerfully, dragging behind you a stunned Aemond. "That falls under policy, does it not?"
——————————–
Your confidence quickly deserts you the further you get from the dining room. At some point, humiliatingly enough, Aemond notices you have absolute zero clue where you are and he openly laughs as he moves to pull you along, leading you towards where his chambers must be.
This is, also like the rest of your wedding night, completely at odds from what you expected of it since you were a child. You'd grown up hearing about beddings and, consequently, grown up being terrified of beddings. The idea of men pawing at you, leering and ogling, made you ill to your stomach but everyone always said it was to be expected. It was simply what was.
Cersei's own bedding had been relatively pleasant all things considered. You'd been a babe when she had been married to the newly-crowned Robert Baratheon but Jaime had kept her safe during it, delivering her to Robert's chambers with no one ever laying a single hand on her. Your various cousins from the endless branches of House Lannister, however, have not fared as well.
In all the weddings you've gone, more often than not, the women would end in tears when all the men would take advantage, pinching at them or groping as they stripped them of their clothes. The men would always yell obscenities; laughing with their friends about what they would do to the brides, wondering out loud if she would cry when her husband entered her, debating over how much she would bleed.
At eleven, you had hesitantly asked your father if you would have to go through one, if your future Lord Husband would allow you to forgo it.
Tywin didn't even dignify you with a response, waving you off and telling you to stop asking stupid questions.
In your most fantastical daydreams, you imagined someone giving you the courtesy Tyrion had given Sansa — when he had refused to allow the bedding and, more surprisingly, when Tywin had allowed him to do so.
You never quite imagined the bedding with a king and him allowing you to be so bold as to decide when it began.
Even with your bravery flailing and nerves appearing when he reaches his chambers and ushers you inside, you realize how much of blessing it is that you're here like this. Even if he is cruel like when wives and maids whisper about brutish men or if he's rough like the septas warn, you much rather it be like this — alone with him where you can lick your own wounds and hide your pain from your family and the court alike.
"Where will my chambers be?" You ask quietly as Aemond pulls the door open, leading you into a spacious room, lit and warmed by a blazing fireplace.
He shoots you a look as he moves to the jug of wine. "Here, my lady," he replies, his tone implying he's completely baffled you're asking, as he pours out a drink. "Were you expecting your own?"
You trail behind him, reaching for the goblet in his hand to take a long sip. "It is what is expected in Westeros, Your Grace."
"Aemond," he says, shaking his head as he grabs his drink back, eyes flashing at you over the rim. "Call me Aemond, my lady."
You look at him in the dim light with the fireplace throwing him into contrast. You've never called a man you weren't related to by their given names. Not even Tyrion's little squire — which was, likely, problematic seeing as now you couldn't remember it even though he had been your first, proper kiss. "Call me my name too, Aemond," you reply quietly, reaching for the goblet, letting your fingers curl around his. shivering at the heat radiating off of him.
He says your name quietly, trying it out on his tongue, savoring it like it is a delicious meal.
When he acts like that, you really can't control yourself.
You pull the goblet from his hand, fumbling for the table behind him, distantly aware of it crashing to the ground. Shaking only slightly, you reach for him, hands curling around his neck, and you push yourself up just as he leans down, one of his arms winding around your waist, pulling you into him.
Your lips meet in the middle.
It only takes you a moment to realize that he was actually holding back during the ceremony. He kisses you like he's starving, like he's leaving in the morning and he needs to burn this moment in his memory. You're adrift in him, clinging to him to stay afloat, and the fire that had tickled before sets you ablaze.
His tongue pushes into your mouth, the wet heat sending your head spinning when his tongue messages yours. Aemond's arm pulls you up, his arm other reaching below your bottom to tug you up, rucking your skirt up to your waist, pulling your legs tight around his torso, no room left between the two of you.
Your dress — your thrice-damned-Godawful dress — pulls tight around your chest, making you gasp into his mouth, the lack of air dizzying you even more until the only solid thing you can focus on is his mouth on yours, his body against yours. He pulls back for air, only a breath, but you whine, chasing his lips, so desperate for him that it doesn't even occur to you to worry whether or not you're being wanton.
"I had to have you," he whispers, breathing his words into your mouth, his breath mixing with yours in a way that shoots directly to your brain. "When you walked into the throne room looking you had swam through the Narrow Sea to get here, I knew I needed to have you."
You laugh, one hand coming up to play with his hair, inordinately satisfied to finally know how silky it really is. It feels like liquid silver in your hands, smooth and cool to the touch. "Was my king charmed by me?"
"You walked into the mouth of a dragon for your traitor brother," he hums, sending vibrations straight to your core. You can feel it, you realize with a growing sense of neediness, from your apex pressed against his stomach, only a thin layer of dampening fabric separating you. "And you didn't come to whimper or beg or seduce. Your first words to me were 'my prince' as if you didn't even fear dragonfire. You told me you wouldn't bow."
"I still wouldn't," you reply, tightening your grip on hair and pulling it back tight. His head jerks back, revealing the underside of his jaw, the threaded muscles of his neck. You lean in close, your tongue coming out to trace its way up the middle, tasting the saltiness of his skin. He groans, his grip on you tightening until it almost hurts, squeezing whatever air is still in you out.
"Good," he rasps out. "You should never bow to me. You should kneel."
"Kneel?" You ask, pressing your mouth against his throat, feeling his pulse jump and stutter underneath your lips. "What do you mean kne-"
Before you can finish your question, he moves, carrying you towards the bed, tossing you down with enough force you bounce slightly on the cushioned mattress. The lack of his body pressed against you leaves you shivering in the cold but, before you can think to complain or whine or even kick at him, he kneels on the hard floor, grabs your legs, yanking you to the edge of bed towards him and —
The first lick sends a sea of stars bursting behind your eyes and you keen, your back arching off the bed, your shoulders slamming into the mattress as your entire being is launched towards the heavens. You can't think suddenly, can't stop to even catch a breath, because he's licking your cunt, lapping at it like it's a meal and he's starving.
He's moved your smallclothes aside, the fabric digging into your inner thigh, but even the stretch of the cloth does nothing to bring you away from the heat building up in your core. Your quim is wet, dripping and sopping, and you can hear the sound of his tongue flicking out to taste the juices.
But then shame threatens to punch straight through your pleasure. Surely this is wrong. The septas had never mentioned this. Not even your brother with all his endless jokes and bawdry stories had ever hinted at something like this. The wetness must be wrong. You're failing him. You're failing.
Your hands flying down to grab at his head, curling your fingers in so you can pull at his hair to yank him off but, before you can, you feel his nimble fingers — those long damningly distracting fingers that he had adorned with golden rings and bands — come up to part your lips.
"Pretty," he breathes out, his fingers spreading you open and close as he peers into you. "As pretty as I thought."
"Aemond, what ar-" Your question breaks off into a sharp cry when one of his fingers suddenly pushes into you, pushing past your lips into your inner walls that no one has ever touched. He twists his wrist, pushing his finger in deeper, and his thumb comes up to press at the nub at the top of your cunt, his tongue flicking out to follow his touch, and you wail.
You've touched it before, rubbing at it in the darkest of nights where no one could see or hear your sin. It'd made you shiver before, your body shaking as you chased an impossible peak, but nothing else. You thought that is the extent of it.
It clearly is not.
You writhe, your fingers curling into his hair and yanking, your mind completely lost to the pleasure. He moans at the sensation, pushing in deeper, another finger joining his ministrations, this tongue swirling around the nub. Your body trembles at the sensation, suddenly desperate, feeling as if you're hurtling through the sky, fire pooling deep within you, concentrated in the bottom of your belly, and you whimper and cry out.
Your legs shake, scrambling to find purchase, wanting to clamp shut but Aemond's broad shoulders keep them spread wide. Underneath your bare thighs, you can feel the soft fabric of his tunic, feel the heat of his body scalding hot against your sensitive skin. It's all too much, it's not enough.
"Ae- Aem-" You mewl, unable to even think through his name. You're flying towards something, your mind too scattered to be aware of anything except his tongue.
And then his fingers curl and everything shatters.
You cry out, surely you must have, and the pleasure makes everything go white, stars bursting behind your eyes, leaving you blind to the world around you. For a precious few minutes, you float aimlessly, your body feeling limp and sated, an urge being satisfied that you've never felt.
Slowly, your awareness filters back, feeling and understanding trickling back in. You crack your eyes open — they're closed, when had you closed them? — in time to see Aemond straighten up, his hands hooked underneath his tunic as he pulls it off.
His body is slender and muscles, old scars littering across his chest, some old and faded and others more recent and raw. He's strong, seemingly forged out of steel, and his unscarred skin is smooth, looking deceptively soft. You've never seen a man like this before — never been in a situation where you would see a shirtless man — and your mouth goes dry as you look at him.
You feel utterly ridiculous like this, reclined on the bed with your skirt rucked up around your waist, your small clothes still shoved to the side. Your hair, surely, is tussled and messy and you have no doubt it's probably tangled by your mindless writhing. You push yourself up on your elbows, watching him, tracing his muscles with your eyes.
"Enjoying the view?" Aemond asks quietly, smiling when you jump slightly in surprise.
Yes. You want to say.
No. You want to lie.
Can you do it again? You want to beg.
Instead you push yourself up, hand gripping the bed posts to pull yourself to a standing position. He watches you, looking satisfied by the shake in your legs.
He's smiling until you reach up behind your neck, yanking on the tied strings on your back.
One disadvantage of not having ladies' maids with you on the road is that there is no one to help you dress, leaving you more often than not looking rumpled and messy.
One advantage is that you don't need anyone's help to disrobe.
Aemond watches, openly ravenous, as that awful dress falls off your shoulders, falling in a heap at your feet. Underneath it is a simple white shift. It sticks to your body, the cooling sweat on your body making parts of it near transparent, and Aemond's eyes linger on those spots like a fleeting touch.
You kick your dress away, hoping that it lands in the fireplace and burns up as it deserves. With more confidence than you truly feel, you reach underneath your shift, grabbing the edges of your smallclothes and pulling them down as well, throwing them to whatever corner of the room your gown is in.
You stand in front of him, gooseflesh pimpling your arms, more vulnerable than you've ever been, braver than you've ever been.
Just as he reaches for his trousers, yanking them down in a rush, you grab the edges of your shift, pulling it over your head.
The both of you are bare.
Predictably, your eyes drop down to his cock.
Abruptly, you understand all those bawdry jokes about swords and sheathes that men seemed obsessed with saying, about weasels and tunnels. You even understand your septa's old and tired metaphor about watering cans and flowers.
Your cheeks blaze at the thought, the heat spreading out through your chest, reaching inside of you, lighting up that increasingly familiar fire again. He steps forward and you step forward and for a moment, you think you'll crash into each other as you had earlier.
But you don't. His arms wrap around you tight, pulling you close by the waist, and your arms encircle his back, your hand splaying wide across his shoulders. Like this, bare skin to bare skin, there's no barriers, no pretense of tradition or courtesy between the two of you. It's closer as you've ever been to anyone — closer, even — but it's not enough. You want more. You need more.
You pull away, looking up at him, looking at his proud features, at the sharp lines of his jaws and the thin slope of his lips. He's beautiful, otherworldly, almost too perfect to bare to look at it.
And he's yours now. You've claimed him — in front of the Gods and Men, he is yours now. Just as you are his.
You push up, pulling him closer, pressing your bare breasts into his chest. You kiss him gently, softly, as he had down in the throne room. It's gentle, heart-achingly so. Too gentle for a dragon and a lion maybe.
Maybe it's because of that, the both of yours intrinsic nature, that the kiss turns heated, tongues meeting, breaths mixing. He pushes you back gently, his grip firm but gentle, laying you out on the bed, hovering just above. His hair falls in a curtain around the two of you, cutting you off from everything else and leaving you in a world where there's only you two.
Your legs come up, opening wide as you hook them around his waist, pulling him down against you. You rock against him slowly, his member hard against your apex. You moan as he rubs against you, digging your heels into his back, whining loud and sharp. He pulls away from your mouth, his lips trailing down your jaw, nipping your skin on his way down towards your chest.
"Please, please, please," you beg, not even fully understanding what you're asking for but knowing you'll die if you don't get it. "Aemond, please, don't make me wait."
Aemond grins, his tongue swirling around your nipple, gently laughing as you keen at the feeling. "My Queen begging already?"
"Your Queen demanding," you try to hiss but your voice is too shaky, too flustered, to be convincing. He laughs again.
"You said this was my revenge," he coos, his teeth gently teasing at your nipple, his hand coming up to fondle your other breast. "Tywin Lannister's daughter on her back for me. Tywin Lannister's daughter begging for me."
You whimper, twisting your hands into the blankets at your side, not even the mention of your father being enough to cool the fire fogging your mind. "Please, Aemond," you whine. "You're avenged! You're avenged — just please!"
His hand leaves your breast, trailing down your stomach, going down to the thatch of hair at your apex, his fingers teasing the wetness there. You whine again, kicking at his back with your heels, wishing you could do more than beg, wishing you knew how.
"I'll allow peace then," he murmurs against your breast, pushing off from your chest. He moves to rest back on his haunches, leaving you sprawled out on the bed, your chest heaving as you watch him move. He holds his cock in one hand, the color in his eyes consumed by the black of his pupils as he stares down at your quim.
His tip teases at your entrance and you cry out again, desperate and helpless, pushing down on him so it teases at your inner walls.
Aemond laughs at you again. You wish you had the strength to scold him for it but all decency has left your mind. All you have is an all-consuming hunger, a bone deep want, and you need him to sate it.
"Impatient little thing," he teases, shallowly thrusting into you, blatantly ignoring how your back arches off the wall, your brain going still at the intrusion. "But if my Queen asks…"
He pushes inside.
Your mind blanks out.
It doesn't hurt, you think after your brain decides to start functioning again. The septas had made it sound like it was be an unimaginable pain, something horrific to suffer through. All the men always only talked about their own pleasure, leaving you with the distinct impression that yours doesn't matter.
It does. It does.
Once your body adjusts to the intrusion, once Aemond being inside of you doesn't feel like an abnormality but rather finally feeling complete, you start to rock against him slowly. You feel stuffed to the brim. It fills your head with cotton, drowning out your thoughts.
Aemond. Aemond. Aemond. is all your mind can cry.
He starts slow at first, rocking into you gently, letting you learn how to breathe around him. But as impatient as he had called you, he is undoubtedly worse.
His first hard thrust has you seeing stars, your gasp being punched out of you. His second makes you howl. And then his hand comes down in between your bodies, his calloused thumb playing with that nub, and there is no hope for you at all.
The sound of flesh slapping flesh echoes in your air, a symphony joined by your sharp cries and whimpers and his moans. Your hands fly up to encircle his shoulders and you hang on for dear life, feeling as if every thrust is pushing you closer and closer to an edge that you'll never come back from. Your eyes snap close, suddenly seeing seeming like a waste of time when you can just feel.
The fire in your stomach feels like nothing you've ever felt before, exploding across your body, burning everything in its trail, rewriting everything about you as it goes. It feels like being struck by lightning, like being consumed completely.
"Aemond, Aemond," you chant, drowning in the pleasure of it, feeling mad with the feelings. No wonder all the septons and septas preach against this. It's easy to imagine losing yourself to this bliss, forgetting everything else as you only chase this feeling again and again.
Aemond grabs your jaw, turning your face towards him. Your eyes slide open. He's close, his nose brushing yours, his breath mixing with yours. It makes you dizzy with want and the pressure builds and builds in your core.
"You're so good," he praises and you sob at his words, your nails digging into his back, but he doesn't flinch. "You take me so well — such a good girl. Such a good girl."
You cry, nodding frantically, feeling the last tendrils of common sense snap within you. You're a beast made for pleasure, you decide in your haze. You were made for this.
"So good," he breathes into you and you splinter into a thousand pieces.
It feels like falling under the waves, being tossed and turned by a force you can't even think to control. It leaves you lost in it and, for once, it doesn't frighten you. Your mouth opens in a wail, utterly helpless to stop it.
"Fuck!" Aemond swears, losing whatever tremulous grip on control he had. His hips begin to snap against yours faster, pushing you through the pleasure again and again. He loses all sense of rhythm, desperate in his own chasing of his peak, and you card your hand through his hair, tugging sharply.
Even drowning as you are, you push up slightly, your hips slamming up into his, and you lick a stripe up his throat. "My good king," you whisper.
He thrusts one more time, shoving into you as deep as you can, driving a moan out of you just as he cries out, his warm spending releasing inside of you.
Like a puppet with his strings cut, he drops on top of you, his arms suddenly useless for holding him up.
They're not, however, useless in still holding you.
He tugs you closer to him. His skin is sticky with sweat, a musky smell coming from the two of you, but it doesn't disgust you. It makes that fuzzy head space come back, the complete loss of control that had taken you adrift. It feels delicious. It feels safe.
He stays buried in you, nestled in between your legs, and the full feeling like a blanket coming to rest on top of you.
You lay there in the quiet for a while, the two of you just breathing in time with one other.
Finally, he speaks.
"You will rule me, won't you," Aemond murmurs, his hands running up and down your back, each motion racking your body with shivers. "I survived so much, fought so many, claimed the only dragon to have survived the Dance… And yet, here you are. Little lady from the Rock, come to claim me."
You smile, pushing closer to him, burying your face in his chest, smelling his smell. "We claimed each other. You've gotten your revenge."
Aemond's hand trails along your back, curling around your side to rest his hand above your stomach. "I've gotten my peace."
You laugh, closing your eyes and finding yours too.
i think what’s so disappointing about rhaenicent in season 2 is that, imo, their dynamic in driftmark encompasses what was best and most interesting about them
they’re both pushing against each other. they have their talons dug in tight and they refuse to let go. people are shouting at them to stop, to cease the fighting, but they’re locked on each other. nothing matters but forcing the other to see their side, to see them. only the dagger literally slicing between them can pull them apart but it only works physically. they’re still locked in with each other, doomed to revolved around the other one.
bald eagles have a courtship where they lock talons and then spiral to the ground, sometimes letting go in time, sometimes smashing to the ground and dying together.
and that is what made the driftmark scene so fascinating to watch, what made the rhaenicent dynamic more than just homoerotic friends to enemies. they love each other. they love the bones of each other. they’ll never find something as easy and as gentle and loving as what they had together again in their life even if they’re constantly chasing shadows of it in other partners. it was the easiest, most uncomplicated relationship either will ever have.
but it wasn’t enough. it won’t be enough. it can’t be enough.
the brackens have been promoted to one of my elite employees since at least they’ve been standing on business in remembering jaehaerys unlike that poor baby’s actual family
When you’re ten, your father sends you to King’s Landing to befriend a princess and woo a prince.
A lioness growing up amongst dragons is a dangerous thing indeed.
crossposted on ao3
masterlist
word count: 10k
notes: spite is genuinely the greatest motivator. i had plans to make this longer but i genuinely felt i would die if i didn't post right now so! enjoy (:
The dance ends all too soon. You wish it had lasted longer. You wish it had never started to begin with. You hate every passing second and you can’t pull yourself away. There’s an ache, deep in your chest, as you watch Aegon and Helaena finish. There’s a final note that the bards play, one final mournful strum of the harp, and the two of them unfurl from one another, the space growing between the two of them as they pull away. At the last moment, Aegon captures Helaena’s hand, bowing his head as he brings it to his lips. Helaena closes her eyes, her free hand coming up to clutch at her chest, and, in the multicolor glow of the candles, it looks like a hazy memory, like something you’ve dreamed of and have only just remembered.
It looks like a song.
Next to you, Floris sucks in air sharply, completely enraptured by the show in front of her, and you’re struck with the memory of your cousins whispering and giggling about their dance during the opening feast. The Targaryens are beautiful - you know this as surely as you know that you are a Lannister with all that that entails - but their allure goes beyond that. It’s intoxicating. It’s overwhelming.
There’s almost a sense of relief in knowing that you aren’t the only one to be pulled in by them.
Aegon releases Helaena from his hold and, together, the two of them walk back to the royal table, a careful space between the two of them. As they pass, all the nobles rise to their feet and you join them, your hand shooting out to support Floris as she stumbles slightly on her way up. She tilts into you, seemingly content with you supporting her weight, but you don’t pay her any mind, your gaze locked onto the newlyweds.
Aegon looks straight ahead, fixated, but Helaena spares you a glance and she smiles, her whole visage melting into something softer and sweeter. You smile back even though it feels wrong on your face, your smile stretched out too thin, but she doesn’t begrudge you for it. You wish she would. You wish she would push back at you for your inability to swallow this pain easily because that would mean that she was pushing back on something. You could bear that burden - you could bear anything for her - but she would never. She doesn’t need it regardless. You need it. You crave her anger at you like you crave absolution.
The two of them walk together to the dais at the front and, once they reach the shadow of the Iron Throne, they turn to each other. Aegon bows low at the waist while Helaena curtseys, nearly brushing the stone floor with her knees, officially signaling the end of the first dance and opening the floor for everyone else. A cheer breaks from the waiting nobles and, when the pair of them rise again, the waiting crowd breaks and moves to a dance floor, a moving wave that’s unstoppable. At your side, the silent Baela breaks away from you, pushing through the crowd toward where you last saw one of her Valeryon cousins. A part of you wants to follow behind her, see if you can’t coax her into speaking again, but the rest of you just wants to find Helaena and Aemond.
You turn to look up at the dais, in time to see Aemond rise from his seat, his eyes locked on you and you heave a sigh of relief as he nods when he notices his gaze, motioning for you to stay still so he can come find you.
Floris teeters closer to you, reaching up on her tiptoes to speak in your ear, stumbling closer by mistake so that her lips brush your earlobe in a move that has you shivering. She wobbles dangerously and your arm shoots out to gently grab her around the waist so she has some semblance of support. You belatedly realize that this is the closest you’ve ever been with someone who wasn’t a member of your family or Helaena and Aemond. “Is your prince coming to dance?” She aims to whisper but instead she practically yells in your ear, oblivious to your open wince.
You pull away from her, smiling in spite of your discomfort. “Are your sisters nearby?” You ask in lieu of responding, hoping that you could dump her on one of the other Four Storms and make her someone else’s problem. You’d feel bad about pushing her away except it’s hard to even conjure up the desire to. You want to spend the night in the company of Aemond and Helaena, not minding a girl you’ve just met - a girl who is seemingly completely uninterested in detaching herself from you.
She straightens up, craning her neck to try and scan the audience. She suddenly points in excitement, shouting “Maris!” in absolute glee, and you follow her pointing finger only to teeter back in shock.
Maris Baratheon is a tall, skinny girl with pale skin and a sea of freckles across her face. Her pitch-black hair is pulled tight against her scalp and, where Floris is soft and sweet, she is severe and sharp. She looks like a storm personified, thunderous and bold, a Baratheon through and through.
And she’s standing right in front of you, frowning at her youngest sister wagging her finger just in front of her nose.
“My lady,” you rush out, your curtsey coming out more like a short bob with the way that Floris leans her entire weight on you. “My apologies for not noticing you. I wa-”
“Have you no shame?” Maris hisses, plainly ignoring you in favor of narrowing her stormy blue eyes at her younger sister. “Mother didn’t let you come just for you to embarrass yourself in front of the royal family.”
Floris frowns tempestuously and it slowly dawns on you that, in spite of appearances, she may be just as stormy as her sisters. “I don’t see the princes or the princesses around.”
“Aye and what is she?” Maris shoots back and you startle to realize that she’s turned her dark gaze on you. You open your mouth to insist that you are no princess or anything resembling royalty but the elder Baratheon girl doesn’t even offer you the chance to. “You should have minded yourself. Controlled yourself.”
Floris turns her nose up, rolling her eyes. “Lady Lannister wasn’t bothered.”
Maris huffs. “You idiot. You essentially held her hostage. She couldn’t escape you!”
“Maybe it’s hard for you but I can manage to befriend people without offending them at every step!”
“This isn’t about me! This is about yo-”
“Oh is it? Are you s-”
“Yes! For Gods’ sake, you always d-”
The two Baratheons start screeching at each other, their words overlapping until you’re sure they’re speaking as one, leaning closer and closer in until you’re trapped between the two of them, pressed tight in the middle, and you start to wonder if storm is too small of a word to describe the pair of them. They’re hissing and vicious and you know they must be seconds away from throwing punches and trying to land blows and you start to pray that you’ll be able to slip away in the chaos when an all too familiar voice cuts through the din.
“If I could,” Aemond starts, hands tucked behind his back as he stares down at the trio of you with barely concealed amusement. “I’d like to steal away Lady Lannister if she’s available.”
There’s a beat of silence where you try to express your gratitude with your eyes and Floris begins making a sound like a captured mouse before Maris snorts, distinctly unladylike even as she bows her head in greeting. “I’m surprised you’re asking, my prince. I doubt you offered Victor Florent the same choice.”
You laugh, startled and too caught off guard to keep it in, while Floris’s squeaks take a particularly high pitch. Aemond’s smile turns sharp and he hums noncommittally, tilting his head as he peers down at Maris Baratheon. To her credit, the lady doesn’t quail or shrink away, merely turning her nose up.
“This is why Mother wants to send her to the Silent Sisters,” Floris hisses to you, her voice, again, far too loud to be counted as a whisper.
At that, Maris visibly flinches and her face flashes with annoyance - whether it’s at herself, her mother, or Floris you’re not sure - but she backs down, bowing her head once more. It’s unfitting for her, you think. Self-pity doesn’t suit her - it sits wrong on her features - and you feel a quick flash of pity. The Silent Sisters was a harsh punishment - only the Night’s Watch could compare and even then, at least those men were permitted to talk and had more than enough freedom to break their other vows up in the frigid North, far from even the Starks’ eyes.
You glance at Aemond and, when he notices your watchful gaze, he flicks his eyes upward in exasperation before fixing his stare back on Maris. “The Lady Lannister was offered no choice when Victor Florent presented her with his crown. I simply returned the favor.”
Maris doesn’t respond, simply nodding her head in agreement, her expression the same smooth mask, but Floris lets out a soft ‘oh!’, sounding as delighted as if Aemond had just personally handed her a bouquet of the prettiest flowers. You flick your gaze up towards her and she’s gazing at him, starry-eyed and flushed, and you feel a sharp lance of annoyance shoot through you.
Has she forgotten you’re the one thing keeping her standing?
“Well,” you trill as pleasantly as you can, straightening up and tightening your hold on her waist to hoist her up with you. She moves readily enough, making no complaint when you squeeze her, and you find with no small degree of displeasure that she’s taller than you, tall enough that she’s level with Aemond’s eye. “I really must accompany the prince. I-”
“Oh,” Floris chirps, grinning widely when you look up at her. “I’m sure you’re eagerly awaiting the first dance!”
You’re most definitely not. Aemond has not danced since before Driftmark, back when he and Aegon had been your and Helaena’s partners in your dancing lessons. He’d never been fond of it though he had never complained - not like Aegon who seemingly could not whine enough about being forced into lessons even if he had enjoyed more than Helaena and nearly more than you. You’re not planning on telling the Baratheon girls that but, before you get the chance to come up with some excuse for not joining in on the imminent first dance, Aemond steps forward, grabbing hold of your elbow and gently pulling you from Floris’s grasp. Maris moves up to steady her, swearing at her sister as she does, utterly immune to the way Floris flops on her affectionately like a dog cuddling up to its master.
“The first dance is starting soon,” Aemond says in lieu of explaining and you hide a smile as you tuck his hand close to you, curling your arm around his.
Maris hums, clearly disinterested in your reasons for leaving and also clearly pinching her sister with one of her hands hidden from view if the way Floris twists away from her is any indicator. “I thank you for watching my wayward sister, my lady.”
You nod, flashing her a pleasant smile. “It was no problem.” It had been. “It was a pleasure to meet your sister.” It hadn’t been. Not towards the end, at least. Not with the annoyance and jealousy coiling in your chest like a snake preparing to strike out and bite.
Floris leans out of her sister’s grasp, beaming up at you and Aemond. She hasn’t even approached sobering up - the longer she’s been without her drink, the more her last drink seems to sink into her. “I hope to speak to you soon, Lady Lannister. It’s been so lovely speaking with you,” she grins toothily, looking more girly than ever, and you force a smile, bowing your head in gratitude.
She turns her pretty smile on Aemond, her flushed cheeks turning even more pink to your watching eyes. “Prince Aemond,” she breathes out, her big gray eyes wide. She looks starstruck and sweet, a perfect gentle lady. “If you’re not too tired after your dance… No one has claimed any dances from me…” Her hand reaches up, hesitantly and slowly, as if she’s going to reach over and grab his sleeve and your vision flashes red.
You sharply exhale, all eyes snapping to you. “My lady,” you say, letting concern seep into your voice. “Would you be alright on the dance floor? I would hate for your sister to have to hold you up during a dance with the prince.”
Floris blinks at you, her cheeks burning an even brighter red.
Aemond hums next to you and you can feel the rumble of his chest against your arm, his amusement nearly radiating off of him.
You reach out to her, keeping your arm looped around Aemond’s but using your free hand to brush her own arm that’s wrapped around her sister’s. “Perhaps some water would suit you well, my lady, rather than a dance.”
Maris laughs, the sound more like a bark than anything, and she eyes you, defensiveness sharpening her gaze. “You’re rather bold in your assessment, my lady.”
You smile, squeezing Floris’s bicep before letting go. “If I am in the presence of storms, I must be bold to weather it. It’s just friendly advice, Lady Maris. I’d hate for your sister to shame herself.” More than she already has, at least.
The elder Baratheon girl gives you a tight smile. She knows you’re right and that she can’t refute it. Be it Storm’s End or King’s Landing, the rules are all the same. Ladies do not ask for dances from Targaryen princes. Ladies do not cling to strangers they’ve just met, let alone hang on them through a royal feast. Ladies do not drink themselves to the point of being unable to stand unassisted.
A harsher person would point this out in front of a bigger crowd than just her sister. A cruel person would spread it. You’re being helpful. You’re being generous.
Even Floris’s wounded deer performance can’t sway you to more than mild pity.
You glance over your shoulder, eyes scanning the crowd until you find your target. Your cousin, predictably, is surrounded by fawning ladies and laughing lords, his grin wide and endlessly charming. “Once you’ve found your legs, I’ll see if I can’t persuade my cousin, Ser Tygett, to come and offer you your first dance. He would be honored to be dancing on the arm of a beautiful maiden such as yourself.” You smile at her as gently as possible.
“He won the archery event,” Floris says after a moment, her voice soft. She doesn’t look at you, eyes glued to her feet. She wobbles damningly and Maris makes an annoyed noise. “I-I… You’re right, my lady. Thank you for… for saving me from embarrassment.”
You nod. “Of course. The capital can be hazardous for young ladies unused to such a large court. I only aim to help you, Lady Floris.”
Floris nods again and Maris scoffs lightly. Your eyes snap to her and you half expect her to be glaring at you. You’ve embarrassed her sister - in front of royalty nonetheless. You’d be fuming if anyone had mocked your sisters in front of you like you had her. But she’s not looking at you at all.
“Seems I’ll have company with me when mother ships me off to the Silent Sisters,” Maris says, not even bothering to drop her voice to a whisper as she stares down at her sister. Floris flinches and looks up, her gray eyes blazing, and you know you’re seconds away from witnessing another row.
Aemond, once again, saves you from that particular indignity. “Enjoy the feast, my ladies.”
He pulls you away and you give them a final smile, one that you’re sure they won’t see - not with the way they’re glaring at each other.
Aemond leads you around the edges of the floor, carefully skirting the groups of noblemen cloistered together, all of them eagerly gossiping and debating each other about the merits of the ladies. Most of the floor is already occupied by couples standing across from each other in two neat rows, ladies separated from the lords, all in preparation for the first dance. Aemond stops just short of entering the actual floor and he looks down at you, a question plain on his face.
“First the tourney and now dancing,” you muse out loud, smiling when he looks skyward. “Please don’t tell me you’re about to ask Ser Criston to knight you as well. I’m not sure I’d be prepared for your family’s reaction.”
Aemond hums in agreement. “I had planned to have this first dance with you, my lady, but it is a mixer dance. I’m not sure I can guarantee the safety of any partners I’d have after you.”
You sniff. “I’m perfectly civil. Your partners would remain untouched.”
He laughs out loud, quick and sharp, and you huff. “I must admit, I’m rather tempted to walk right back and ask Lady Floris for a dance if only to see how you’d tear into her.”
“I’m afraid Floris Baratheon would not be my only victim if you did that,” you say, frowning up at him.
His eye flashes, a distinct hunger sneaking into his features. “Would you sink your teeth into me, my lady? Would you dig your nails in and tear me apart?”
You want to, consequences damned. You imagine biting him, scratching him, burrowing as deep into him as he had into you. You want it all. You want to possess him completely. You are his and he is yours. He had torn his mangled scar up and put your sapphire in it, had filled it with you. What else would he let you take? What else would he let you claim?
You wonder how people can bear this desire - surely you’re not the only one. It’s more than carnal. It’s all-consuming. It’s absolution. It creeps around constantly, haunting every thought. Surely you can’t be the only one who has ever felt this complete burning.
“Perhaps I will, my prince,” you murmur, meeting his eye, wishing he didn’t have the eyepatch on so you could see him completely. “I may not be a dragon but a lion still has claws.”
He smiles, a sharp edge to his expression. He’s hungry. He’s starving. “I’ve known that truth about you since I first met you. Only being a Targaryen saved me from your wrath when you spilled that water over yourself.
The memory flashes in your mind and you think you can almost feel the phantom pain of the needle going through your finger, feel the cool water soaking the front of your gown. You had snarled at him. Briefly but it had been there. The moment had passed so fast that even you had barely registered it. Anyone else would have let the moment pass, counted it as a quick flash of emotion that meant nothing else.
Not Aemond.
He had seen the truth of it. Try as you might, pretend all you will, but there’s no hiding the truth of it - you’re a Lannister. You’re a Lannister to your bones with all the ambition, all the cunning, all the greed that it entails. You’re a lady, yes. Gods know that you’ve dedicated yourself to your etiquettes, to your embroidery and your songs. You did it not just because you had to but because you wanted to. You were a lady but it did not mean that that blunted your edges. It did not make you soft or gentle.
You had told him that truth in his bedroom in Driftmart, in a whispered promise over a gift, but he had already known. He had known from the very first moment he had seen you.
A slow grin spreads on your face. “It saved you the initial moment,” you reply. “Then it was because it was you. Do you remember when you snapped at me after the Dragonpit? I asked you a silly question about the Baratheons and you had just come back from the Dragonpit, from Prince Aegon and the Str… and your nephews.”
Not even your treasonous near mishap stops the downward curling of Aemond’s mouth. “I wasn’t at my… best after the Dragonpit in those days.”
You laugh, more cheery about it now than you had been back then. “I can recall, my prince. You called me a nosy bitch. I wanted to strike you across the face for it. I nearly did too.”
“I apologized,” Aemond grouses, sounding like a little boy again in his annoyance and embarrassment. It’s a far cry from the starved man he had just been and you laugh for the sheer ridiculousness of it.
“I know,” you reply, smiling. “That’s what I was trying to say; I was prepared to apologize to you. Not because you were a Targaryen but because you were Aemond. I didn’t care that you were a prince in that moment. I just cared that you were my friend and I didn’t want to hurt you like you had me.”
Aemond stays silent for a moment, studying you closely. His eye trails across your face, searching deep into you. He’s looking for any sign of deception, any tiny crack in your honesty, but he won’t find it. Not with you. Not with him.
Eventually, he sighs, looking away. “I was terrified I had pushed you away that day,” he murmurs, softly as if he doesn’t mean for you to hear. “I was convinced you were about to demand your return to Casterly Rock and it would have been all my fault. Helaena would hate me for losing her her closest companion. My mother would skin me for losing Lannister support.”
“Were alliances the only thing that kept you in check?” You ask, tilting your head at him, exaggerating a confused expression.
He scoffs lightly, more out of exasperation than annoyance. “No. I didn’t care that you were a lady of House Lannister in that moment. I cared that you were you. My… My friend.”
Distantly, you register the first dance beginning and a small part of you regrets that the two of you hadn’t gotten to join, even if it had meant that you would have had to watch him with other ladies of the court. The rest of you, however, is focused on Aemond, on his words.
You laugh after a second, softly. “So we both spent that night thinking the same thing. Capable of hurting most everyone except each other.”
Aemond hums. “You were the first person I had ever apologized to - outside of the apologies my mother would drag out of me whenever my brothers and I fought or on the rare occasions Helaena and I would argue. The only person I ever apologized to because I wanted to.”
“Don’t worry, it came out very naturally. Not practiced or rehearsed at all,” you reply, grinning when he shoots you a droll look, only the tiniest of movements at the corner of his mouth letting you know he’s amused by your teasing. “Come. I’m sure Floris is beyond herself now that she’s realized we didn’t leave her to go dance the first dance. Let’s find Helaena before she can come to demand her turn.”
“You’ll have to find your cousin as well,” he reminds, following easily enough when you tug on his arm to lead him up to the raised dais where his sister stands, pressed up arm to arm with Aegon, as their mother speaks to the pair of them. “I may have escaped a turn with that particular storm but you did sacrifice Ser Tygett in my place.”
You wince. “He’s not going to want her to be his first dance in case she thinks this is a show of his interest. I’ll have to dance with him for that particular favor,” you say, slightly wishing you hadn’t made that promise. You enjoy dancing but you find you have little interest in it if your partner isn’t the man you’re leading through the crowd right now.
He glances down at you. “I’d ask to have your first dance then, my lady, before you ask him.”
A surprised smile breaks through as you look up at him. “You meant it then? You do mean to dance tonight?”
He nods, looking as serious as he had when he entered the tourney grounds, as if he hasn’t spent this week turning all the expectations you had of him on his head. “Perhaps not a mixer dance so we can ensure that every lady wakes up in the capital tomorrow with their hands still attached but I do intend to have your first dance if you mean to take a turn with other partners.”
“Other partners?” You ask, blinking, realizing belatedly that dancing with him would open you up to dancing requests from men who weren’t him. “So the ladies of King’s Landing can keep their hands but the lords will get to have breakfast with Victor Florent tomorrow?”
He snorts softly. “More that the men of King’s Landing are at least aware of what could happen and will endeavor to make sure the same does not happen to them. I’m afraid the ladies are, as of now at least, ignorant of the true danger.”
“The true danger?” You ask, laughingly, as the two of you reach the foot of the throne, right before the steps of the dais. “I can’t swing a sword, my prince, nor do I have a dragon to send after my enemies.”
“Don’t you?” He tilts his head, smiling when your cheeks flare with heat, as you join the small circle of his family.
Helaena notices you first, always attuned to you, and she smiles at you brightly when she sees that you’re still arm-in-arm with Aemond. Aegon, predictably, already has a goblet of wine in his hand and, judging from the way that he’s downing it as quickly as possible, deaf to his mother’s scolding, he’s not planning on leaving this wedding feast close to anything resembling sobriety.
“I’ve done my part Mother,” Aegon grumbles, his lips stained a deep red from his drink. “You can’t ask for more from me. Not tonight.”
Alicent sighs, wringing her hands together. She seems blind to you, completely oblivious to your presence. She’s focused on Aegon for now. “I just ask you don’t shame yourself. Please just control your habits for this feast at least.”
“I’ve already done what you asked,” he grumbles before he spots you. His eyes brighten and he gets that all too familiar grin on his face, the one that promises trouble. “Here’s your true crowning achievement in your matchmaking skills. Perhaps you should concern yourself about Aemond’s marriage bed instead of mine.”
You don’t react, simply meeting his gaze steadily, but Aemond tenses next to you.
“Enough,” Aemond rumbles and Aegon barks out a laugh.
“Enough? Enough?” He hisses. “It isn’t enough. It’ll never be enough for Mother.”
“Aegon,” Alicent hisses, her eyes flashing with an anger you’re unused to seeing on the Queen. It makes her look so much younger. A sister arguing with her brother than a mother of four. “Finish your drink then. Drink your heart out. Do as you always have for tonight then. But you will do what you must tomorrow. For the rest of your life, you will do your duty.”
“And what is that Mother?” Aegon says, his voice soft.
She looks at him, disappointment warring with grief on her face. “What is necessary, Aegon.”
There is a moment suspended, where they stare at each other, blind to the rest of the room. The music fades, the chatter of the room ceases. All that matters is the two of them.
You think Alicent wants to say more. You think Aegon wants to fight. They’re both hurting for it. They both want to make the other bend to their will, make the other understand, but there’s an insurmountable chasm separating the two of them. Nothing could bridge it - not unless one of them caves to the other and that could never happen. You think neither of them would even want it.
Alicent breaks first, sighing as she looks down at her hands, her fingers clasped tightly, her thumb digging into the cuticle of her other thumb. “Enjoy the feast. All of you.” Her voice fades slightly, cracking on the final word.
You bow your head, murmuring your thanks, but your voice is the only one that answers. When you straighten up, Helaena is looking down at the floor, looking lost in her own mind, while Aemond watches his mother. She gives him a wan smile before she brushes past, her perfumed scent lingering in the air as she moves into the crowd, melting into it.
There’s silence. Even in the loud, busy room, there’s silence in the shadow of the Iron Throne.
Then Aegon scoffs. “Of course. Of course.”
He sounds angry and you look up, your hackles rising as you want to snap back in defense of Alicent.
But he has tears in his eyes. He’s angry. He’s spitting. If you spoke, he’d find a target for his rage, someone to pin all of this anger and rage on. He’d say unspeakably cruel things.
But he has tears in his eyes.
Your fury dies in your throat.
It feels pointless.
He doesn’t linger. He leaves quickly, pushing through the crowd, the crowd parting around like a ship through water. All of you watch him go, the air thick with unspoken grief.
Helaena breaks the quiet first. “The broken emerald ring,” she murmurs. “The ruby shattered.”
You look over at her but she’s already shaking her head, knocking her head clear of the words she had just said. She meets your gaze and smiles. “The feast went well.”
You pause for a moment, registering her words, before nodding, trying your best to smile. “Your announcement went perfectly. I’m sure there’s already smallfolk singing your praises outside the keep.”
She makes a face and your smile turns more genuine. “I mean it Helaena.” You slip from Aemond’s grasp to get closer to her, wishing that you could reach out to her to pull her close. “How are you feeling?”
Helaena doesn’t say anything for a while, looking down at her fidgeting hands before looking up and meeting your eyes. She doesn’t smile but she nods her head. “I feel the same. Things have changed but… Not everything has.”
You nod. “You’ll remain here at least. With your brothers and your mother.”
“With you too,” She reminds, a smile finally flickering on her face.
You nod again, stronger, confident. “With me too.”
She gives you a final fond look before she turns her attention to Aemond. She looks at him, her eyes openly roving over his face and body. She’s looking for something, you think, but you don’t know what. You know Helaena as well as you know yourself. She’s so tied up into your own sense of self that you don’t think that, if you ever felt even the slightest desire to, you could ever cut her away from you. Her roots are deep in you, curling tight around your heart and soul.
But her mind can be as secretive as her prophecies.
“The iron crown,” Helaena says as she looks at her brother, her eyes bright. “The throneless king.”
Aemond doesn’t say anything but when you look over at him, he’s tilted his head up, gazing down at his sister with satisfaction glowing in his eyes.
He covets the crown. How could he not? He could have listened to his father and gone to Dragonstone to try for one of Syrax’s hatchlings or taken one of her eggs. Instead, he had claimed the largest dragon in the world - the Queen of All Dragons. He had lost his eye for that prize, had forever damaged his standing in the view of his father. His ambition knew no bounds and could not be satisfied in remaining as only a second son. Only his love for his family, the loyalty to his brother, kept his fanged desire caged behind his teeth. But he couldn’t keep it down. Not forever. Not in moments like this. It would always bubble to the surface, always threaten to break free.
You watch him, tracing the proud jut of his chin, the tilt of his head, and his overconfident pride.
He should wear a crown. He suits one - far more than Aegon.
You suit a crown. If you were born less than two centuries earlier, you would have had one. If Aemond had been born first, perhaps you would have still gotten one.
You quash the desire as soon as it rises up in you. If Aemond had been born first, he would have married Helaena more likely than not. Even now, if something were to happen to Aegon, the question of what to do with Helaena’s marriage would arise. If they were to have children, the matter would only complicate.
You were willing to do a lot of things. You were willing to bloody your hands, willing to burn bridges and move your family about like they were nothing more than pawns in this game you were playing. You were willing to do much.
But you’re not willing to sacrifice Helaena. You’re not willing to risk anything that would bring her harm.
There’s no use wishing and longing for a crown that just wasn’t your’s. That could never be yours. Perhaps if you played your cards right, a daughter of yours could one day grow to wear one on her head. Your grandson could one day sit the Iron Throne.
But not you. Not if there was Helaena and if you had it your way, you’d rip your plans to absolute shreds if you could ensure that she would remain safe through it all.
You swallow thickly, looking down at your hands. Even the thought feels treasonous, feels like a betrayal.
The soft call of your name pulls you out of your thoughts and when you look up, both Targaryen siblings are looking at you, their eyes both gleaming in the same way underneath the multicolored candlelight. An apology bubbles up in your throat and it’s only at the last second that you remember to apologize for what would make sense rather than what you really want to apologize for.
“Sorry,” you say, laughing slightly. “My mind left me. What were we discussing?”
Helaena is gracious even if Aemond narrows his eye. “I was asking if the two of you really mean to go dance or if you’re going to spend all night hiding with me.”
You frown slightly. “If you want me to hide with you.”
She snorts, so unladylike that you can’t help but to smile. “Absolutely not. If you hide with me, Mother will notice that you haven’t taken to the floor with Aemond which means she’ll notice I haven’t taken to the floor and she’ll make it her mission to make sure I dance with at least a few lords.”
“I’m sure she wouldn’t force you,” you try to defend her, your resolve weaker than it would have been before - now that you’ve witnessed her demands of Aegon. Still, it seems impossible that she would ever ask the same out of Helaena. Helaena was her only daughter, her only girl. She was sweeter and softer with Helaena.
Helaena nods her head, his smile only flickering a little. “Still, I wouldn’t want to push my chances.”
You watch for a beat longer, wishing that there was something you could say or do to make it easier, but eventually, you heave a sigh and nod.
“You needn’t look like you’re marching to your doom,” Aemond murmurs under his breath as he comes to stand next to you, offering you his arm once more.
You ignore him for a moment, giving Helaena one final look, letting her know that if she needs you, she need only call and you’ll come to her side but she waves you off. You focus your attention back on Aemond only to see him eying you with a small smirk.
“I should refuse you the dance,” you warn. “You only asked so you could beat my cousin to my first dance.”
He laughs. “Would it please you if I declared my intentions again - In front of all? What prize would you like this time? Another crown?”
“Perhaps the head of another Florent,” you reply, catching sight of the familiar shade of blue on the other side of the crowd, only visible as the two of you still stand on the dais. Erren Florent stands alone once more, dark and moody around the edges of the room. His son and good daughter stand by his side, subdued but preoccupied in speaking to well wishers as they approach. He speaks to no one, choosing to only stare at the pair of you.
Aemond hums. “My mother was almost a Florent. She told me earlier this week that the Hightowers once debated betrothing Grandfather to a Florent lady. They eventually decided on Lady Alerie Redwyne and she was convinced that was why the Florents chose to insult us by their repeated badgering of you and their less than subtle animosity towards us.”
You blink, letting the information settle in, before peering up at him. “So in another life, Victor Florent may have been a cousin or something of sorts. You’d have been a kinslayer.”
“There’s one in every line,” he replies, his eye glinting knowingly. He’s referencing the library, your debate about King Brandon and the night’s king all those years ago, but your mind races to the carriage ride here with your father and uncle and what you had said about his own uncle and sister. There were kinslayers in every line.
What would one more be?
You smile at him, suddenly pleased by the turn of his conversation. “The next dance will be a waltz,” you remind him. “It’d be terribly bold if our first dance was a waltz.”
“Bolder than crowning you?” He asks and your smile only grows.
“No,” you agree. “Not bolder than that.”
He begins leading you down to the dance floor and, when the two of you arrive, the mixer dance ends. Some of the floor dissipates but the majority of the crowd stays, people finding their partners and a free space for the two of them to claim on the borders of the floor. Some people slink on, grabbing partners as they go, and you and Aemond do as well, heading for a spot close to the center.
People greet the two of you as you pass and you smile and greet them all back, playing the kindly lady to Aemond’s aloof prince. You spot your father in the crowd, Lady Tyrell on his arm. You can spot Ser Edwyn Sand, a charming smile locked on his face as he leads a blushing lady of House Crakehall onto the floor. You can even see Baela towards the back of the room, laughing with someone who can only be one of her Velaryon cousins.
The two of you slow to a stop, settling in a spot next to an unsmiling Stormlands lord and his quiet wife. You turn to face Aemond, him copying your movements, and two of you wait for the rest of the room for the bards to begin their songs.
It takes a moment or two, most of it filled with the soft sounds of people chattering or the repetitive click-clack of peoples’ heels on the smooth stone floor.
But then the soft twang of the harp filters through the air, over the low brass of the pipes, and you curtsey deep to the ground, in unison with the other ladies in the room, as Aemond bows in response.
He reaches for you first and you respond in kind, lifting your arm high to settle on his shoulder while he grips your waist tight. The two of you spin slowly, the skirt of your dress flaring through the air, but the dance picks up, your feet never once taking a pause as the memories of your old lessons start reawakening.
At first, no one in the room speaks, as if there’s a spell cast over all demanding silence, but eventually the splatters of the conversations break out in the watching audience, spreading slowly and surely to the dancers in motion.
“You’ll have to forgive me, my prince, if I miss a few steps. It’s been years since I’ve actually studied the dances,” you start, more to open conversation than to actually apologize.
Aemond snorts. “I’m sure you danced your fair share back in Casterly Rock during the feasts for your brother’s birth.”
You immediately shake your head. “The feasts were a mite different there than they’ve been here. Tyshara and I mostly preoccupied ourselves with ensuring everything was going smoothly as our mother entered her confinement. I didn’t have much time for dancing. More to the point, I think the lords were rather scared to approach me after a time.”
He looks down at you as he dips you low and your heart flutters a bit in your chest without your permission. When he pulls you up, he pulls you closer than he ought but you don’t have it in you to push him away. “How so? Had they heard there was a Targaryen awaiting your return in King’s Landing?”
“I doubt it though I’m sure some suspected,” you reply, holding down a laugh. “No, they were all rather put off by me after I castigated two lordlings from House Clegane and Tarbeck for mocking my sister.”
“They mocked her?” He asks, raising an elegant brow. “Were they allowed to leave with their tongues?”
“I’m not your kingly father,” you mockingly scold. “I’m a Lannister. I wanted to toss them in with the lions my family keeps in the bowels of the Rock so they could see if they found their joke as funny as they did.”
“What was the joke?” He asks as he spins you out.
When he pulls you back, you take a half moment to catch your breath again, suddenly gratefully that Aemond was meant to be leading this dance since you’ve forgotten how you’re supposed to move relative to the rest of the floor. Thankfully, he has not or, more likely, all his years in the yard have taught how to read his opponents’ body language and he was just naturally inclined to move in response.
“They called her Cerelle the Almost Heir,” you say once the pair of you have settled in the new movement of the crowd. “I’d applaud the rhyme if it wasn’t for the fact that that name was meant to hide the fact that any of their houses would count themselves lucky to have Cerelle as their heir. She spent her entire life preparing for that possibility. Every waking moment was spent getting ready for the chance that she might become Lady of the Rock. Little Loren kept her from that but, if she was to be Lady Lannister, the true Lady Lannister, she would have been the fiercest in our history.”
“Did she want to be the Lady of the Rock?” Aemond asks after a moment and your eyes dart up to his. “Does she regret having it taken away from her?”
You know what he really wants to ask.
Does your sister sympathize with Rhaenyra Targaryen? Does she, like the Princess, resent the younger brother born to take it all away from her?
You had asked yourself that very question in the lead up to your brother’s birth. When the two of you, along with all your sisters, would make the trek to the golden sept in your home and kneel on the floor, letting the incense burn your noses and eyes, as you had all prayed fervently for a boy to be born, did a part of her pray for another little sister?
When she had cried in the birthing chamber, when she had whispered to you about buying a thick cloak for her journey north, were her tears ones of joy or loss?
How would you feel, you had dared wonder in the sanctity of your mind, if what had been yours was ripped from your hands by a mere babe? A baby that you had in equal parts prayed for and dreaded?
How would you feel if you were the Almost Heir?
You release a sigh, faintly aware of Aemond awaiting your response, faintly aware of the music reaching its crescendo. “She knew what would happen to us if Loren had been a girl,” you say in lieu of answering his question. “Our bannermen were already lying in wait to push their sons onto Cerelle in hopes that their boys would get to be the next Lord of the Rock, Warden of the West. House Lannister survived it once in our history, when Queen Leila was the only child born to King Gerold III. Our vassals’ hunger has only grown in size and ambition since.”
Aemond hums in response. “As hungry as they may be, their ambition is outpaced by the one inherent in Lannisters. Your sister herself recovered the title lost. She might not be Lady of the Rock but she is Lady of Winterfell now.”
It’ll sound natural eventually, you reason to yourself. Soon, the name Cerelle Stark will be as familiar to you as Cerelle Lannister is. Decades in the future, she will have spent more time with her married name than she ever had with her maiden one.
But it is not now and, in this moment with only Aemond patiently waiting for you, you do not have to pretend.
“I should have been there,” you murmur, voice soft as to not be overhead though you doubt anyone is listening and, if they are, they can hardly hear you over the constant hum of the crowd. “It was my idea. My plan. And I sent her there alone.”
“You were that invested in a trade contract with the Starks?” Aemond asks, with only the faintest hint of humor in his tone telling you that he knows damn well that the earlier lie that you maintained, the current lie you’re maintaining in the court, was just that. A lie.
A lie you want to dispel - at least with him.
“I was that invested in soldiers,” you reply softly. “In blood alliances. In oaths. Lord Cregan Stark is my good brother now. He has a line to the Lannisters as steady as the Rock. Which means he has a line to the Targaryens. He has an investment.”
The humor leaves Aemond’s face quickly and he looks at you as seriously as he had in the sanctified Dragonpit. “There’s never been a Stark who has forgotten a vow,” he murmurs, a hint of warning entering his voice. Not a warning of anger or rage but rather a reminder. It was for naught, he tries to remind you. You’ve lost your sister for no prize at all.
You smile again, confidence laced through it. “What’s an old vow to a wife’s warm embrace? What’s an old promise to a blood tie to the next ruler of the Seven Kingdoms? Lord Cregan is loyal, yes, but he’s pragmatic. He understands that for his people to survive, he needs to do what he must. His father’s vow was to the princess but he swore no vow. His vow is to the rightful heir and the rightful heir is supported by the house that helped him to his claim, the house that his lady wife is of.”
Aemond doesn’t say anything, looking at you over, only leading you through the dance out of sheer memory.
“You said earlier that you couldn’t swing a sword,” Aemond finally says as the dance slows to a stop, as he bows to you again and you curtsey in response. This time, his voice is firm and loud, loud enough for people to overhear. He wants them to hear this. “A sword would not be a strong enough weapon for you, my lady. You yourself are fiercer than any knight, more dangerous than any battalion.”
You don’t have time to bask in his compliment - not when another voice chimes in.
“Yes, the Lady Lannister is fierce. Fiercer than most know,” Erren Florent says, a cold smile plastered onto his face when your eyes jump to his.
Aemond and you rise up, the prince stepping in front of you slightly so you’re tucked behind his body, but Erren Florent’s smile does not flicker.
If you thought his soft countenance was a cover before, it is a grotesque death mask now. His gray eyes are bright but empty, utterly soulless as he keeps his smile firmly on his face. His skin stretches tight around his skull, as pale as any corpse now. If you hadn’t met him before his son’s death, you would swear that he was no human. No, you’d say, no human can look like that - as if they’ve peeled someone else’s face off and are wearing it as a mask, as if their own body is not your own.
Aemond is tense but he can afford to be tense. His weapon is a sword. His weapon is the largest dragon alive.
The only tool you have at your disposal now is your courtesy.
You smile brightly at him, as sweet as any lady could ever be, pushing down Aemond’s arm slightly so you can peer around him more easily. “My lord,” you greet, bowing your head, keeping your grip on the Targaryen firm. You’re here, you’re safe, you want to remind but you can’t, not with Lord Florent watching you with his dead eyes, waiting for any chink in your armor. “I meant to meet with you but time got away from me. As the Maiden in the wedding party, I was kept well occupied until this feast. I wish to pass along House Lannister’s, as well as my own, condolences. The loss of Ser Victor was a tragic one, one that will be surely felt in the City Watch for years to come.”
Erren bows his head, keeping his head down even as Aemond echoes your words, passing along the Crown’s sympathies. When he looks up, the first hint of emotion has broken through his closed expression.
Cold rage dances in his eyes.
“It’s a loss I will feel until the Stranger comes to claim me,” he says, his voice soft like a whisper. “A loss that will haunt my every waking moment.”
There’s nothing you can say to that. No words you could conjure that would make that blow any easier, would make him hate you any less.
You don’t want to. You don’t want to soften the blow. You want him to feel every moment of his grief. You hope that the pain of his loss will remind him of what his son had forgotten.
You are a Lannister, a daughter of the Rock. Your blood is old, the blood of kings. Even without Aemond, you are above a Florent even if their line stretches back as far as your own. A lion could not be caged by a fox, no matter how hard it might try. A lion could be caged by no one.
Not even a dragon.
“I pray you will find comfort, my lord,” you finally say, stepping out from behind Aemond, walking closer to Erren Florent. The old lord does not step back to accommodate you, letting you get within arm's length of you.
If he wanted to, he could reach out and strangle you here. He could pull a knife out and push it deep in your heart and not even Aemond would be able to stop it. If he wished it, Erren Florent could kill you as easily as you draw breath and there was nothing anyone could do about it.
But he can’t and that pain must be equal to the loss of the son. To have the reason for Victor's death, the true reason and not just the means through which it was delivered, so close at hand and being unable and unwilling to do anything.
How hateful a scene. How horrid.
You step closer, a smile dancing on your lips.
“May you find peace, my lord,” you murmur, your words intended for only you and him.
“May I find justice,” he snarls back, his mask slipping even further, his face twisting in his vengeance. His hot breath washes over your face, burning and awful, and you can taste the sharp smell of wine on your tongue.
Aemond steps closer, his chest pressing against your back, but you don’t move, not even to accommodate his touch. You stand in front of Erren Florent, smiling as innocent as a lamb.
“Justice, my lord? You found it. Your son earned it. The debt is paid,” you say, voice serene and calm. “But if you wish to seek further satisfaction, you are welcome to it. I could hardly deny it.”
You step closer, your expression never slipping.
Your smile grows, hunger sharpens it. “I pray you do, in fact. I pray you aim for more than your station affords you, just as your son did.”
“Why? So your prince might drive a sword through my throat?” Erren growls, all pretense of civility gone from his face.
You lean closer. “So that I might.”
There’s a moment where the two of you stare each other down, when the rest of the room including Aemond fades and it's just the two of you in the room together.
All he wants is to wrap his hands around your throat and squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. He wants to break your neck. He wants to smash your head against the stone floor, crack it open like an egg and spill your brains out for all to gawk at.
Try it, you want to whisper. Try it and let me loose the hounds of war. Let me rip your house out by root and stem and seed. Let me wear your carnage and gore as a crown. Let no one utter the name Florent as anything but a warning. Try it and let me pay the debt.
The moment passes. The opportunity fades.
His anger festers. Your hunger grows.
He steps back, his mask sliding back into face.
“My lady,” Erren says, bowing his head.
“My lord,” you reply, dropping into a curtsey.
He leaves as quickly as he had come. You watch him go, slithering through the crowd towards the large doors of the throne room.
“I was his purpose,” you say softly but Aemond is close enough that he hears you.
“You are his purpose,” his voice is low and harsh and fierce and you turn to look at him, your skirt moving around you in a flurry. His eye is locked on you, concern sharpening his features into a fury. “He only lives now to seek his satisfaction. He won’t rest until he has your head mounted on his wall. ”
“It is a nice head, I’ll grant him that,” you laugh, your heart still pounding fast in your chest. “But it is mine and I have never been one to share.”
Aemond takes in a sharp breath, closing his eye. When he opens it, his worry is tempered by growing anger.
“You should carry a dagger,” he murmurs, his voice low, his tone leaving no space for disagreement. “I am your sword, I will always rise to defend you, but I cannot be everywhere at once. There are places that I cannot follow, places he will go to seek his vengeance.”
Your smile drops slightly. “I don’t know how to wield one. I’m more likely to stab myself than do anyone any real harm.”
His hand reaches out to touch your face, only pausing in mid air when he remembers himself. He drops his hand, clenching it into a fist at his side.
He’s angry, his brow furrowed tight with an anxiety you haven’t seen since Driftmark, since he was helpless and defenseless.
Your hands itch with the desire to smooth out the tightness in his face and you wish you were alone with a fierceness that threatens to tear you in half.
“I’ll show you,” he insists, his eye flickering all over you as if he’s already imagining what you would look like if Erren Florent had his way with you, as if he can already see imaginary wounds littering your body and even the mere thought of them is too much for him to bear. “I will show you and you will keep yourself safe when I cannot. You say you’re not one to share - I’m not either. I won’t be forced to suffer the loss of you. I’ve killed one Florent for you. I’ll kill another. I’ll keep slaughtering them until I’ve bled their house dry and even then, I won’t stop until all threats are gone, until you are safe in this new world that I will build for you.”
Your heart stutters in your chest. “And if there’s no end to the enemies you’ll make?”
“Then I won’t stop. I won’t stop until it’s just you and me left.”
You stare at him but nothing in his face flickers, nothing flashes. He is serious. He means what he says and you feel the weight of his devotion come crashing down on you. It is the heaviest thing you have ever felt. It knows no bounds and it crushes you completely, consuming every last bit of you and leaving room for nothing else.
And you relish it.
You’re not alone in your all-encompassing thoughts. Your hunger, your aching, raw desire, has its match, its partner, in him.
The enormity of it steals your breath from you, filling your lungs.
You’re not alone. It is complete ecstasy. It is utter bliss.
He stares at you, anger and worry fading away into anxiety, when he sees you’re not responding. Try as he might, hide as he will, but he cannot escape the little boy he once was, the boy desperate to be seen, the little boy desperate to be accepted, to be taken in.
“You are mine,” you say, the words leaving your mouth as easily as air enters your lungs. He sways towards you when he hears the weight of your voice, the adoration, the worship. “You are mine and I am yours.”
His eye grows wide and he stares down at you, his mouth dropping open slightly, looking as if you couldn’t have affected him more than if you had hit him over the head with a wooden beam, and you smile finally, feeling tears prick in the back of your eyes.
You had imagined saying it differently. You had imagined the library, had imagined being alone with none to disturb you.
But somehow, you can’t imagine it any different than this, any better than a stolen moment at the edge of a dance floor.
You reach out and grab his clenched fist, wrapping your hand around it as you bring it up to your mouth, pressing a gentle kiss on his knuckles.
“With this kiss,” you say, feeling almost delirious in your desire to do this. To prove yourself. To say something that can match his endless devotion. “I pledge my love. I pledge my life. I pledge my strength.”
It’s not enough. It won’t be enough. Not until you die in service of him.
But you need it. Oh gods, but you need it.
You drop his hand when you hear Daeron’s voice call, when you hear Alicent say his name right after.
You drop his hand and you smile at him, swallowing the thick tears down.
When you’re ten, your father sends you to King’s Landing to befriend a princess and woo a prince.
A lioness growing up amongst dragons is a dangerous thing indeed.
crossposted on ao3
masterlist
word count: 10k
notes: spite is genuinely the greatest motivator. i had plans to make this longer but i genuinely felt i would die if i didn't post right now so! enjoy (:
The dance ends all too soon. You wish it had lasted longer. You wish it had never started to begin with. You hate every passing second and you can’t pull yourself away. There’s an ache, deep in your chest, as you watch Aegon and Helaena finish. There’s a final note that the bards play, one final mournful strum of the harp, and the two of them unfurl from one another, the space growing between the two of them as they pull away. At the last moment, Aegon captures Helaena’s hand, bowing his head as he brings it to his lips. Helaena closes her eyes, her free hand coming up to clutch at her chest, and, in the multicolor glow of the candles, it looks like a hazy memory, like something you’ve dreamed of and have only just remembered.
It looks like a song.
Next to you, Floris sucks in air sharply, completely enraptured by the show in front of her, and you’re struck with the memory of your cousins whispering and giggling about their dance during the opening feast. The Targaryens are beautiful - you know this as surely as you know that you are a Lannister with all that that entails - but their allure goes beyond that. It’s intoxicating. It’s overwhelming.
There’s almost a sense of relief in knowing that you aren’t the only one to be pulled in by them.
Aegon releases Helaena from his hold and, together, the two of them walk back to the royal table, a careful space between the two of them. As they pass, all the nobles rise to their feet and you join them, your hand shooting out to support Floris as she stumbles slightly on her way up. She tilts into you, seemingly content with you supporting her weight, but you don’t pay her any mind, your gaze locked onto the newlyweds.
Aegon looks straight ahead, fixated, but Helaena spares you a glance and she smiles, her whole visage melting into something softer and sweeter. You smile back even though it feels wrong on your face, your smile stretched out too thin, but she doesn’t begrudge you for it. You wish she would. You wish she would push back at you for your inability to swallow this pain easily because that would mean that she was pushing back on something. You could bear that burden - you could bear anything for her - but she would never. She doesn’t need it regardless. You need it. You crave her anger at you like you crave absolution.
The two of them walk together to the dais at the front and, once they reach the shadow of the Iron Throne, they turn to each other. Aegon bows low at the waist while Helaena curtseys, nearly brushing the stone floor with her knees, officially signaling the end of the first dance and opening the floor for everyone else. A cheer breaks from the waiting nobles and, when the pair of them rise again, the waiting crowd breaks and moves to a dance floor, a moving wave that’s unstoppable. At your side, the silent Baela breaks away from you, pushing through the crowd toward where you last saw one of her Valeryon cousins. A part of you wants to follow behind her, see if you can’t coax her into speaking again, but the rest of you just wants to find Helaena and Aemond.
You turn to look up at the dais, in time to see Aemond rise from his seat, his eyes locked on you and you heave a sigh of relief as he nods when he notices his gaze, motioning for you to stay still so he can come find you.
Floris teeters closer to you, reaching up on her tiptoes to speak in your ear, stumbling closer by mistake so that her lips brush your earlobe in a move that has you shivering. She wobbles dangerously and your arm shoots out to gently grab her around the waist so she has some semblance of support. You belatedly realize that this is the closest you’ve ever been with someone who wasn’t a member of your family or Helaena and Aemond. “Is your prince coming to dance?” She aims to whisper but instead she practically yells in your ear, oblivious to your open wince.
You pull away from her, smiling in spite of your discomfort. “Are your sisters nearby?” You ask in lieu of responding, hoping that you could dump her on one of the other Four Storms and make her someone else’s problem. You’d feel bad about pushing her away except it’s hard to even conjure up the desire to. You want to spend the night in the company of Aemond and Helaena, not minding a girl you’ve just met - a girl who is seemingly completely uninterested in detaching herself from you.
She straightens up, craning her neck to try and scan the audience. She suddenly points in excitement, shouting “Maris!” in absolute glee, and you follow her pointing finger only to teeter back in shock.
Maris Baratheon is a tall, skinny girl with pale skin and a sea of freckles across her face. Her pitch-black hair is pulled tight against her scalp and, where Floris is soft and sweet, she is severe and sharp. She looks like a storm personified, thunderous and bold, a Baratheon through and through.
And she’s standing right in front of you, frowning at her youngest sister wagging her finger just in front of her nose.
“My lady,” you rush out, your curtsey coming out more like a short bob with the way that Floris leans her entire weight on you. “My apologies for not noticing you. I wa-”
“Have you no shame?” Maris hisses, plainly ignoring you in favor of narrowing her stormy blue eyes at her younger sister. “Mother didn’t let you come just for you to embarrass yourself in front of the royal family.”
Floris frowns tempestuously and it slowly dawns on you that, in spite of appearances, she may be just as stormy as her sisters. “I don’t see the princes or the princesses around.”
“Aye and what is she?” Maris shoots back and you startle to realize that she’s turned her dark gaze on you. You open your mouth to insist that you are no princess or anything resembling royalty but the elder Baratheon girl doesn’t even offer you the chance to. “You should have minded yourself. Controlled yourself.”
Floris turns her nose up, rolling her eyes. “Lady Lannister wasn’t bothered.”
Maris huffs. “You idiot. You essentially held her hostage. She couldn’t escape you!”
“Maybe it’s hard for you but I can manage to befriend people without offending them at every step!”
“This isn’t about me! This is about yo-”
“Oh is it? Are you s-”
“Yes! For Gods’ sake, you always d-”
The two Baratheons start screeching at each other, their words overlapping until you’re sure they’re speaking as one, leaning closer and closer in until you’re trapped between the two of them, pressed tight in the middle, and you start to wonder if storm is too small of a word to describe the pair of them. They’re hissing and vicious and you know they must be seconds away from throwing punches and trying to land blows and you start to pray that you’ll be able to slip away in the chaos when an all too familiar voice cuts through the din.
“If I could,” Aemond starts, hands tucked behind his back as he stares down at the trio of you with barely concealed amusement. “I’d like to steal away Lady Lannister if she’s available.”
There’s a beat of silence where you try to express your gratitude with your eyes and Floris begins making a sound like a captured mouse before Maris snorts, distinctly unladylike even as she bows her head in greeting. “I’m surprised you’re asking, my prince. I doubt you offered Victor Florent the same choice.”
You laugh, startled and too caught off guard to keep it in, while Floris’s squeaks take a particularly high pitch. Aemond’s smile turns sharp and he hums noncommittally, tilting his head as he peers down at Maris Baratheon. To her credit, the lady doesn’t quail or shrink away, merely turning her nose up.
“This is why Mother wants to send her to the Silent Sisters,” Floris hisses to you, her voice, again, far too loud to be counted as a whisper.
At that, Maris visibly flinches and her face flashes with annoyance - whether it’s at herself, her mother, or Floris you’re not sure - but she backs down, bowing her head once more. It’s unfitting for her, you think. Self-pity doesn’t suit her - it sits wrong on her features - and you feel a quick flash of pity. The Silent Sisters was a harsh punishment - only the Night’s Watch could compare and even then, at least those men were permitted to talk and had more than enough freedom to break their other vows up in the frigid North, far from even the Starks’ eyes.
You glance at Aemond and, when he notices your watchful gaze, he flicks his eyes upward in exasperation before fixing his stare back on Maris. “The Lady Lannister was offered no choice when Victor Florent presented her with his crown. I simply returned the favor.”
Maris doesn’t respond, simply nodding her head in agreement, her expression the same smooth mask, but Floris lets out a soft ‘oh!’, sounding as delighted as if Aemond had just personally handed her a bouquet of the prettiest flowers. You flick your gaze up towards her and she’s gazing at him, starry-eyed and flushed, and you feel a sharp lance of annoyance shoot through you.
Has she forgotten you’re the one thing keeping her standing?
“Well,” you trill as pleasantly as you can, straightening up and tightening your hold on her waist to hoist her up with you. She moves readily enough, making no complaint when you squeeze her, and you find with no small degree of displeasure that she’s taller than you, tall enough that she’s level with Aemond’s eye. “I really must accompany the prince. I-”
“Oh,” Floris chirps, grinning widely when you look up at her. “I’m sure you’re eagerly awaiting the first dance!”
You’re most definitely not. Aemond has not danced since before Driftmark, back when he and Aegon had been your and Helaena’s partners in your dancing lessons. He’d never been fond of it though he had never complained - not like Aegon who seemingly could not whine enough about being forced into lessons even if he had enjoyed more than Helaena and nearly more than you. You’re not planning on telling the Baratheon girls that but, before you get the chance to come up with some excuse for not joining in on the imminent first dance, Aemond steps forward, grabbing hold of your elbow and gently pulling you from Floris’s grasp. Maris moves up to steady her, swearing at her sister as she does, utterly immune to the way Floris flops on her affectionately like a dog cuddling up to its master.
“The first dance is starting soon,” Aemond says in lieu of explaining and you hide a smile as you tuck his hand close to you, curling your arm around his.
Maris hums, clearly disinterested in your reasons for leaving and also clearly pinching her sister with one of her hands hidden from view if the way Floris twists away from her is any indicator. “I thank you for watching my wayward sister, my lady.”
You nod, flashing her a pleasant smile. “It was no problem.” It had been. “It was a pleasure to meet your sister.” It hadn’t been. Not towards the end, at least. Not with the annoyance and jealousy coiling in your chest like a snake preparing to strike out and bite.
Floris leans out of her sister’s grasp, beaming up at you and Aemond. She hasn’t even approached sobering up - the longer she’s been without her drink, the more her last drink seems to sink into her. “I hope to speak to you soon, Lady Lannister. It’s been so lovely speaking with you,” she grins toothily, looking more girly than ever, and you force a smile, bowing your head in gratitude.
She turns her pretty smile on Aemond, her flushed cheeks turning even more pink to your watching eyes. “Prince Aemond,” she breathes out, her big gray eyes wide. She looks starstruck and sweet, a perfect gentle lady. “If you’re not too tired after your dance… No one has claimed any dances from me…” Her hand reaches up, hesitantly and slowly, as if she’s going to reach over and grab his sleeve and your vision flashes red.
You sharply exhale, all eyes snapping to you. “My lady,” you say, letting concern seep into your voice. “Would you be alright on the dance floor? I would hate for your sister to have to hold you up during a dance with the prince.”
Floris blinks at you, her cheeks burning an even brighter red.
Aemond hums next to you and you can feel the rumble of his chest against your arm, his amusement nearly radiating off of him.
You reach out to her, keeping your arm looped around Aemond’s but using your free hand to brush her own arm that’s wrapped around her sister’s. “Perhaps some water would suit you well, my lady, rather than a dance.”
Maris laughs, the sound more like a bark than anything, and she eyes you, defensiveness sharpening her gaze. “You’re rather bold in your assessment, my lady.”
You smile, squeezing Floris’s bicep before letting go. “If I am in the presence of storms, I must be bold to weather it. It’s just friendly advice, Lady Maris. I’d hate for your sister to shame herself.” More than she already has, at least.
The elder Baratheon girl gives you a tight smile. She knows you’re right and that she can’t refute it. Be it Storm’s End or King’s Landing, the rules are all the same. Ladies do not ask for dances from Targaryen princes. Ladies do not cling to strangers they’ve just met, let alone hang on them through a royal feast. Ladies do not drink themselves to the point of being unable to stand unassisted.
A harsher person would point this out in front of a bigger crowd than just her sister. A cruel person would spread it. You’re being helpful. You’re being generous.
Even Floris’s wounded deer performance can’t sway you to more than mild pity.
You glance over your shoulder, eyes scanning the crowd until you find your target. Your cousin, predictably, is surrounded by fawning ladies and laughing lords, his grin wide and endlessly charming. “Once you’ve found your legs, I’ll see if I can’t persuade my cousin, Ser Tygett, to come and offer you your first dance. He would be honored to be dancing on the arm of a beautiful maiden such as yourself.” You smile at her as gently as possible.
“He won the archery event,” Floris says after a moment, her voice soft. She doesn’t look at you, eyes glued to her feet. She wobbles damningly and Maris makes an annoyed noise. “I-I… You’re right, my lady. Thank you for… for saving me from embarrassment.”
You nod. “Of course. The capital can be hazardous for young ladies unused to such a large court. I only aim to help you, Lady Floris.”
Floris nods again and Maris scoffs lightly. Your eyes snap to her and you half expect her to be glaring at you. You’ve embarrassed her sister - in front of royalty nonetheless. You’d be fuming if anyone had mocked your sisters in front of you like you had her. But she’s not looking at you at all.
“Seems I’ll have company with me when mother ships me off to the Silent Sisters,” Maris says, not even bothering to drop her voice to a whisper as she stares down at her sister. Floris flinches and looks up, her gray eyes blazing, and you know you’re seconds away from witnessing another row.
Aemond, once again, saves you from that particular indignity. “Enjoy the feast, my ladies.”
He pulls you away and you give them a final smile, one that you’re sure they won’t see - not with the way they’re glaring at each other.
Aemond leads you around the edges of the floor, carefully skirting the groups of noblemen cloistered together, all of them eagerly gossiping and debating each other about the merits of the ladies. Most of the floor is already occupied by couples standing across from each other in two neat rows, ladies separated from the lords, all in preparation for the first dance. Aemond stops just short of entering the actual floor and he looks down at you, a question plain on his face.
“First the tourney and now dancing,” you muse out loud, smiling when he looks skyward. “Please don’t tell me you’re about to ask Ser Criston to knight you as well. I’m not sure I’d be prepared for your family’s reaction.”
Aemond hums in agreement. “I had planned to have this first dance with you, my lady, but it is a mixer dance. I’m not sure I can guarantee the safety of any partners I’d have after you.”
You sniff. “I’m perfectly civil. Your partners would remain untouched.”
He laughs out loud, quick and sharp, and you huff. “I must admit, I’m rather tempted to walk right back and ask Lady Floris for a dance if only to see how you’d tear into her.”
“I’m afraid Floris Baratheon would not be my only victim if you did that,” you say, frowning up at him.
His eye flashes, a distinct hunger sneaking into his features. “Would you sink your teeth into me, my lady? Would you dig your nails in and tear me apart?”
You want to, consequences damned. You imagine biting him, scratching him, burrowing as deep into him as he had into you. You want it all. You want to possess him completely. You are his and he is yours. He had torn his mangled scar up and put your sapphire in it, had filled it with you. What else would he let you take? What else would he let you claim?
You wonder how people can bear this desire - surely you’re not the only one. It’s more than carnal. It’s all-consuming. It’s absolution. It creeps around constantly, haunting every thought. Surely you can’t be the only one who has ever felt this complete burning.
“Perhaps I will, my prince,” you murmur, meeting his eye, wishing he didn’t have the eyepatch on so you could see him completely. “I may not be a dragon but a lion still has claws.”
He smiles, a sharp edge to his expression. He’s hungry. He’s starving. “I’ve known that truth about you since I first met you. Only being a Targaryen saved me from your wrath when you spilled that water over yourself.
The memory flashes in your mind and you think you can almost feel the phantom pain of the needle going through your finger, feel the cool water soaking the front of your gown. You had snarled at him. Briefly but it had been there. The moment had passed so fast that even you had barely registered it. Anyone else would have let the moment pass, counted it as a quick flash of emotion that meant nothing else.
Not Aemond.
He had seen the truth of it. Try as you might, pretend all you will, but there’s no hiding the truth of it - you’re a Lannister. You’re a Lannister to your bones with all the ambition, all the cunning, all the greed that it entails. You’re a lady, yes. Gods know that you’ve dedicated yourself to your etiquettes, to your embroidery and your songs. You did it not just because you had to but because you wanted to. You were a lady but it did not mean that that blunted your edges. It did not make you soft or gentle.
You had told him that truth in his bedroom in Driftmart, in a whispered promise over a gift, but he had already known. He had known from the very first moment he had seen you.
A slow grin spreads on your face. “It saved you the initial moment,” you reply. “Then it was because it was you. Do you remember when you snapped at me after the Dragonpit? I asked you a silly question about the Baratheons and you had just come back from the Dragonpit, from Prince Aegon and the Str… and your nephews.”
Not even your treasonous near mishap stops the downward curling of Aemond’s mouth. “I wasn’t at my… best after the Dragonpit in those days.”
You laugh, more cheery about it now than you had been back then. “I can recall, my prince. You called me a nosy bitch. I wanted to strike you across the face for it. I nearly did too.”
“I apologized,” Aemond grouses, sounding like a little boy again in his annoyance and embarrassment. It’s a far cry from the starved man he had just been and you laugh for the sheer ridiculousness of it.
“I know,” you reply, smiling. “That’s what I was trying to say; I was prepared to apologize to you. Not because you were a Targaryen but because you were Aemond. I didn’t care that you were a prince in that moment. I just cared that you were my friend and I didn’t want to hurt you like you had me.”
Aemond stays silent for a moment, studying you closely. His eye trails across your face, searching deep into you. He’s looking for any sign of deception, any tiny crack in your honesty, but he won’t find it. Not with you. Not with him.
Eventually, he sighs, looking away. “I was terrified I had pushed you away that day,” he murmurs, softly as if he doesn’t mean for you to hear. “I was convinced you were about to demand your return to Casterly Rock and it would have been all my fault. Helaena would hate me for losing her her closest companion. My mother would skin me for losing Lannister support.”
“Were alliances the only thing that kept you in check?” You ask, tilting your head at him, exaggerating a confused expression.
He scoffs lightly, more out of exasperation than annoyance. “No. I didn’t care that you were a lady of House Lannister in that moment. I cared that you were you. My… My friend.”
Distantly, you register the first dance beginning and a small part of you regrets that the two of you hadn’t gotten to join, even if it had meant that you would have had to watch him with other ladies of the court. The rest of you, however, is focused on Aemond, on his words.
You laugh after a second, softly. “So we both spent that night thinking the same thing. Capable of hurting most everyone except each other.”
Aemond hums. “You were the first person I had ever apologized to - outside of the apologies my mother would drag out of me whenever my brothers and I fought or on the rare occasions Helaena and I would argue. The only person I ever apologized to because I wanted to.”
“Don’t worry, it came out very naturally. Not practiced or rehearsed at all,” you reply, grinning when he shoots you a droll look, only the tiniest of movements at the corner of his mouth letting you know he’s amused by your teasing. “Come. I’m sure Floris is beyond herself now that she’s realized we didn’t leave her to go dance the first dance. Let’s find Helaena before she can come to demand her turn.”
“You’ll have to find your cousin as well,” he reminds, following easily enough when you tug on his arm to lead him up to the raised dais where his sister stands, pressed up arm to arm with Aegon, as their mother speaks to the pair of them. “I may have escaped a turn with that particular storm but you did sacrifice Ser Tygett in my place.”
You wince. “He’s not going to want her to be his first dance in case she thinks this is a show of his interest. I’ll have to dance with him for that particular favor,” you say, slightly wishing you hadn’t made that promise. You enjoy dancing but you find you have little interest in it if your partner isn’t the man you’re leading through the crowd right now.
He glances down at you. “I’d ask to have your first dance then, my lady, before you ask him.”
A surprised smile breaks through as you look up at him. “You meant it then? You do mean to dance tonight?”
He nods, looking as serious as he had when he entered the tourney grounds, as if he hasn’t spent this week turning all the expectations you had of him on his head. “Perhaps not a mixer dance so we can ensure that every lady wakes up in the capital tomorrow with their hands still attached but I do intend to have your first dance if you mean to take a turn with other partners.”
“Other partners?” You ask, blinking, realizing belatedly that dancing with him would open you up to dancing requests from men who weren’t him. “So the ladies of King’s Landing can keep their hands but the lords will get to have breakfast with Victor Florent tomorrow?”
He snorts softly. “More that the men of King’s Landing are at least aware of what could happen and will endeavor to make sure the same does not happen to them. I’m afraid the ladies are, as of now at least, ignorant of the true danger.”
“The true danger?” You ask, laughingly, as the two of you reach the foot of the throne, right before the steps of the dais. “I can’t swing a sword, my prince, nor do I have a dragon to send after my enemies.”
“Don’t you?” He tilts his head, smiling when your cheeks flare with heat, as you join the small circle of his family.
Helaena notices you first, always attuned to you, and she smiles at you brightly when she sees that you’re still arm-in-arm with Aemond. Aegon, predictably, already has a goblet of wine in his hand and, judging from the way that he’s downing it as quickly as possible, deaf to his mother’s scolding, he’s not planning on leaving this wedding feast close to anything resembling sobriety.
“I’ve done my part Mother,” Aegon grumbles, his lips stained a deep red from his drink. “You can’t ask for more from me. Not tonight.”
Alicent sighs, wringing her hands together. She seems blind to you, completely oblivious to your presence. She’s focused on Aegon for now. “I just ask you don’t shame yourself. Please just control your habits for this feast at least.”
“I’ve already done what you asked,” he grumbles before he spots you. His eyes brighten and he gets that all too familiar grin on his face, the one that promises trouble. “Here’s your true crowning achievement in your matchmaking skills. Perhaps you should concern yourself about Aemond’s marriage bed instead of mine.”
You don’t react, simply meeting his gaze steadily, but Aemond tenses next to you.
“Enough,” Aemond rumbles and Aegon barks out a laugh.
“Enough? Enough?” He hisses. “It isn’t enough. It’ll never be enough for Mother.”
“Aegon,” Alicent hisses, her eyes flashing with an anger you’re unused to seeing on the Queen. It makes her look so much younger. A sister arguing with her brother than a mother of four. “Finish your drink then. Drink your heart out. Do as you always have for tonight then. But you will do what you must tomorrow. For the rest of your life, you will do your duty.”
“And what is that Mother?” Aegon says, his voice soft.
She looks at him, disappointment warring with grief on her face. “What is necessary, Aegon.”
There is a moment suspended, where they stare at each other, blind to the rest of the room. The music fades, the chatter of the room ceases. All that matters is the two of them.
You think Alicent wants to say more. You think Aegon wants to fight. They’re both hurting for it. They both want to make the other bend to their will, make the other understand, but there’s an insurmountable chasm separating the two of them. Nothing could bridge it - not unless one of them caves to the other and that could never happen. You think neither of them would even want it.
Alicent breaks first, sighing as she looks down at her hands, her fingers clasped tightly, her thumb digging into the cuticle of her other thumb. “Enjoy the feast. All of you.” Her voice fades slightly, cracking on the final word.
You bow your head, murmuring your thanks, but your voice is the only one that answers. When you straighten up, Helaena is looking down at the floor, looking lost in her own mind, while Aemond watches his mother. She gives him a wan smile before she brushes past, her perfumed scent lingering in the air as she moves into the crowd, melting into it.
There’s silence. Even in the loud, busy room, there’s silence in the shadow of the Iron Throne.
Then Aegon scoffs. “Of course. Of course.”
He sounds angry and you look up, your hackles rising as you want to snap back in defense of Alicent.
But he has tears in his eyes. He’s angry. He’s spitting. If you spoke, he’d find a target for his rage, someone to pin all of this anger and rage on. He’d say unspeakably cruel things.
But he has tears in his eyes.
Your fury dies in your throat.
It feels pointless.
He doesn’t linger. He leaves quickly, pushing through the crowd, the crowd parting around like a ship through water. All of you watch him go, the air thick with unspoken grief.
Helaena breaks the quiet first. “The broken emerald ring,” she murmurs. “The ruby shattered.”
You look over at her but she’s already shaking her head, knocking her head clear of the words she had just said. She meets your gaze and smiles. “The feast went well.”
You pause for a moment, registering her words, before nodding, trying your best to smile. “Your announcement went perfectly. I’m sure there’s already smallfolk singing your praises outside the keep.”
She makes a face and your smile turns more genuine. “I mean it Helaena.” You slip from Aemond’s grasp to get closer to her, wishing that you could reach out to her to pull her close. “How are you feeling?”
Helaena doesn’t say anything for a while, looking down at her fidgeting hands before looking up and meeting your eyes. She doesn’t smile but she nods her head. “I feel the same. Things have changed but… Not everything has.”
You nod. “You’ll remain here at least. With your brothers and your mother.”
“With you too,” She reminds, a smile finally flickering on her face.
You nod again, stronger, confident. “With me too.”
She gives you a final fond look before she turns her attention to Aemond. She looks at him, her eyes openly roving over his face and body. She’s looking for something, you think, but you don’t know what. You know Helaena as well as you know yourself. She’s so tied up into your own sense of self that you don’t think that, if you ever felt even the slightest desire to, you could ever cut her away from you. Her roots are deep in you, curling tight around your heart and soul.
But her mind can be as secretive as her prophecies.
“The iron crown,” Helaena says as she looks at her brother, her eyes bright. “The throneless king.”
Aemond doesn’t say anything but when you look over at him, he’s tilted his head up, gazing down at his sister with satisfaction glowing in his eyes.
He covets the crown. How could he not? He could have listened to his father and gone to Dragonstone to try for one of Syrax’s hatchlings or taken one of her eggs. Instead, he had claimed the largest dragon in the world - the Queen of All Dragons. He had lost his eye for that prize, had forever damaged his standing in the view of his father. His ambition knew no bounds and could not be satisfied in remaining as only a second son. Only his love for his family, the loyalty to his brother, kept his fanged desire caged behind his teeth. But he couldn’t keep it down. Not forever. Not in moments like this. It would always bubble to the surface, always threaten to break free.
You watch him, tracing the proud jut of his chin, the tilt of his head, and his overconfident pride.
He should wear a crown. He suits one - far more than Aegon.
You suit a crown. If you were born less than two centuries earlier, you would have had one. If Aemond had been born first, perhaps you would have still gotten one.
You quash the desire as soon as it rises up in you. If Aemond had been born first, he would have married Helaena more likely than not. Even now, if something were to happen to Aegon, the question of what to do with Helaena’s marriage would arise. If they were to have children, the matter would only complicate.
You were willing to do a lot of things. You were willing to bloody your hands, willing to burn bridges and move your family about like they were nothing more than pawns in this game you were playing. You were willing to do much.
But you’re not willing to sacrifice Helaena. You’re not willing to risk anything that would bring her harm.
There’s no use wishing and longing for a crown that just wasn’t your’s. That could never be yours. Perhaps if you played your cards right, a daughter of yours could one day grow to wear one on her head. Your grandson could one day sit the Iron Throne.
But not you. Not if there was Helaena and if you had it your way, you’d rip your plans to absolute shreds if you could ensure that she would remain safe through it all.
You swallow thickly, looking down at your hands. Even the thought feels treasonous, feels like a betrayal.
The soft call of your name pulls you out of your thoughts and when you look up, both Targaryen siblings are looking at you, their eyes both gleaming in the same way underneath the multicolored candlelight. An apology bubbles up in your throat and it’s only at the last second that you remember to apologize for what would make sense rather than what you really want to apologize for.
“Sorry,” you say, laughing slightly. “My mind left me. What were we discussing?”
Helaena is gracious even if Aemond narrows his eye. “I was asking if the two of you really mean to go dance or if you’re going to spend all night hiding with me.”
You frown slightly. “If you want me to hide with you.”
She snorts, so unladylike that you can’t help but to smile. “Absolutely not. If you hide with me, Mother will notice that you haven’t taken to the floor with Aemond which means she’ll notice I haven’t taken to the floor and she’ll make it her mission to make sure I dance with at least a few lords.”
“I’m sure she wouldn’t force you,” you try to defend her, your resolve weaker than it would have been before - now that you’ve witnessed her demands of Aegon. Still, it seems impossible that she would ever ask the same out of Helaena. Helaena was her only daughter, her only girl. She was sweeter and softer with Helaena.
Helaena nods her head, his smile only flickering a little. “Still, I wouldn’t want to push my chances.”
You watch for a beat longer, wishing that there was something you could say or do to make it easier, but eventually, you heave a sigh and nod.
“You needn’t look like you’re marching to your doom,” Aemond murmurs under his breath as he comes to stand next to you, offering you his arm once more.
You ignore him for a moment, giving Helaena one final look, letting her know that if she needs you, she need only call and you’ll come to her side but she waves you off. You focus your attention back on Aemond only to see him eying you with a small smirk.
“I should refuse you the dance,” you warn. “You only asked so you could beat my cousin to my first dance.”
He laughs. “Would it please you if I declared my intentions again - In front of all? What prize would you like this time? Another crown?”
“Perhaps the head of another Florent,” you reply, catching sight of the familiar shade of blue on the other side of the crowd, only visible as the two of you still stand on the dais. Erren Florent stands alone once more, dark and moody around the edges of the room. His son and good daughter stand by his side, subdued but preoccupied in speaking to well wishers as they approach. He speaks to no one, choosing to only stare at the pair of you.
Aemond hums. “My mother was almost a Florent. She told me earlier this week that the Hightowers once debated betrothing Grandfather to a Florent lady. They eventually decided on Lady Alerie Redwyne and she was convinced that was why the Florents chose to insult us by their repeated badgering of you and their less than subtle animosity towards us.”
You blink, letting the information settle in, before peering up at him. “So in another life, Victor Florent may have been a cousin or something of sorts. You’d have been a kinslayer.”
“There’s one in every line,” he replies, his eye glinting knowingly. He’s referencing the library, your debate about King Brandon and the night’s king all those years ago, but your mind races to the carriage ride here with your father and uncle and what you had said about his own uncle and sister. There were kinslayers in every line.
What would one more be?
You smile at him, suddenly pleased by the turn of his conversation. “The next dance will be a waltz,” you remind him. “It’d be terribly bold if our first dance was a waltz.”
“Bolder than crowning you?” He asks and your smile only grows.
“No,” you agree. “Not bolder than that.”
He begins leading you down to the dance floor and, when the two of you arrive, the mixer dance ends. Some of the floor dissipates but the majority of the crowd stays, people finding their partners and a free space for the two of them to claim on the borders of the floor. Some people slink on, grabbing partners as they go, and you and Aemond do as well, heading for a spot close to the center.
People greet the two of you as you pass and you smile and greet them all back, playing the kindly lady to Aemond’s aloof prince. You spot your father in the crowd, Lady Tyrell on his arm. You can spot Ser Edwyn Sand, a charming smile locked on his face as he leads a blushing lady of House Crakehall onto the floor. You can even see Baela towards the back of the room, laughing with someone who can only be one of her Velaryon cousins.
The two of you slow to a stop, settling in a spot next to an unsmiling Stormlands lord and his quiet wife. You turn to face Aemond, him copying your movements, and two of you wait for the rest of the room for the bards to begin their songs.
It takes a moment or two, most of it filled with the soft sounds of people chattering or the repetitive click-clack of peoples’ heels on the smooth stone floor.
But then the soft twang of the harp filters through the air, over the low brass of the pipes, and you curtsey deep to the ground, in unison with the other ladies in the room, as Aemond bows in response.
He reaches for you first and you respond in kind, lifting your arm high to settle on his shoulder while he grips your waist tight. The two of you spin slowly, the skirt of your dress flaring through the air, but the dance picks up, your feet never once taking a pause as the memories of your old lessons start reawakening.
At first, no one in the room speaks, as if there’s a spell cast over all demanding silence, but eventually the splatters of the conversations break out in the watching audience, spreading slowly and surely to the dancers in motion.
“You’ll have to forgive me, my prince, if I miss a few steps. It’s been years since I’ve actually studied the dances,” you start, more to open conversation than to actually apologize.
Aemond snorts. “I’m sure you danced your fair share back in Casterly Rock during the feasts for your brother’s birth.”
You immediately shake your head. “The feasts were a mite different there than they’ve been here. Tyshara and I mostly preoccupied ourselves with ensuring everything was going smoothly as our mother entered her confinement. I didn’t have much time for dancing. More to the point, I think the lords were rather scared to approach me after a time.”
He looks down at you as he dips you low and your heart flutters a bit in your chest without your permission. When he pulls you up, he pulls you closer than he ought but you don’t have it in you to push him away. “How so? Had they heard there was a Targaryen awaiting your return in King’s Landing?”
“I doubt it though I’m sure some suspected,” you reply, holding down a laugh. “No, they were all rather put off by me after I castigated two lordlings from House Clegane and Tarbeck for mocking my sister.”
“They mocked her?” He asks, raising an elegant brow. “Were they allowed to leave with their tongues?”
“I’m not your kingly father,” you mockingly scold. “I’m a Lannister. I wanted to toss them in with the lions my family keeps in the bowels of the Rock so they could see if they found their joke as funny as they did.”
“What was the joke?” He asks as he spins you out.
When he pulls you back, you take a half moment to catch your breath again, suddenly gratefully that Aemond was meant to be leading this dance since you’ve forgotten how you’re supposed to move relative to the rest of the floor. Thankfully, he has not or, more likely, all his years in the yard have taught how to read his opponents’ body language and he was just naturally inclined to move in response.
“They called her Cerelle the Almost Heir,” you say once the pair of you have settled in the new movement of the crowd. “I’d applaud the rhyme if it wasn’t for the fact that that name was meant to hide the fact that any of their houses would count themselves lucky to have Cerelle as their heir. She spent her entire life preparing for that possibility. Every waking moment was spent getting ready for the chance that she might become Lady of the Rock. Little Loren kept her from that but, if she was to be Lady Lannister, the true Lady Lannister, she would have been the fiercest in our history.”
“Did she want to be the Lady of the Rock?” Aemond asks after a moment and your eyes dart up to his. “Does she regret having it taken away from her?”
You know what he really wants to ask.
Does your sister sympathize with Rhaenyra Targaryen? Does she, like the Princess, resent the younger brother born to take it all away from her?
You had asked yourself that very question in the lead up to your brother’s birth. When the two of you, along with all your sisters, would make the trek to the golden sept in your home and kneel on the floor, letting the incense burn your noses and eyes, as you had all prayed fervently for a boy to be born, did a part of her pray for another little sister?
When she had cried in the birthing chamber, when she had whispered to you about buying a thick cloak for her journey north, were her tears ones of joy or loss?
How would you feel, you had dared wonder in the sanctity of your mind, if what had been yours was ripped from your hands by a mere babe? A baby that you had in equal parts prayed for and dreaded?
How would you feel if you were the Almost Heir?
You release a sigh, faintly aware of Aemond awaiting your response, faintly aware of the music reaching its crescendo. “She knew what would happen to us if Loren had been a girl,” you say in lieu of answering his question. “Our bannermen were already lying in wait to push their sons onto Cerelle in hopes that their boys would get to be the next Lord of the Rock, Warden of the West. House Lannister survived it once in our history, when Queen Leila was the only child born to King Gerold III. Our vassals’ hunger has only grown in size and ambition since.”
Aemond hums in response. “As hungry as they may be, their ambition is outpaced by the one inherent in Lannisters. Your sister herself recovered the title lost. She might not be Lady of the Rock but she is Lady of Winterfell now.”
It’ll sound natural eventually, you reason to yourself. Soon, the name Cerelle Stark will be as familiar to you as Cerelle Lannister is. Decades in the future, she will have spent more time with her married name than she ever had with her maiden one.
But it is not now and, in this moment with only Aemond patiently waiting for you, you do not have to pretend.
“I should have been there,” you murmur, voice soft as to not be overhead though you doubt anyone is listening and, if they are, they can hardly hear you over the constant hum of the crowd. “It was my idea. My plan. And I sent her there alone.”
“You were that invested in a trade contract with the Starks?” Aemond asks, with only the faintest hint of humor in his tone telling you that he knows damn well that the earlier lie that you maintained, the current lie you’re maintaining in the court, was just that. A lie.
A lie you want to dispel - at least with him.
“I was that invested in soldiers,” you reply softly. “In blood alliances. In oaths. Lord Cregan Stark is my good brother now. He has a line to the Lannisters as steady as the Rock. Which means he has a line to the Targaryens. He has an investment.”
The humor leaves Aemond’s face quickly and he looks at you as seriously as he had in the sanctified Dragonpit. “There’s never been a Stark who has forgotten a vow,” he murmurs, a hint of warning entering his voice. Not a warning of anger or rage but rather a reminder. It was for naught, he tries to remind you. You’ve lost your sister for no prize at all.
You smile again, confidence laced through it. “What’s an old vow to a wife’s warm embrace? What’s an old promise to a blood tie to the next ruler of the Seven Kingdoms? Lord Cregan is loyal, yes, but he’s pragmatic. He understands that for his people to survive, he needs to do what he must. His father’s vow was to the princess but he swore no vow. His vow is to the rightful heir and the rightful heir is supported by the house that helped him to his claim, the house that his lady wife is of.”
Aemond doesn’t say anything, looking at you over, only leading you through the dance out of sheer memory.
“You said earlier that you couldn’t swing a sword,” Aemond finally says as the dance slows to a stop, as he bows to you again and you curtsey in response. This time, his voice is firm and loud, loud enough for people to overhear. He wants them to hear this. “A sword would not be a strong enough weapon for you, my lady. You yourself are fiercer than any knight, more dangerous than any battalion.”
You don’t have time to bask in his compliment - not when another voice chimes in.
“Yes, the Lady Lannister is fierce. Fiercer than most know,” Erren Florent says, a cold smile plastered onto his face when your eyes jump to his.
Aemond and you rise up, the prince stepping in front of you slightly so you’re tucked behind his body, but Erren Florent’s smile does not flicker.
If you thought his soft countenance was a cover before, it is a grotesque death mask now. His gray eyes are bright but empty, utterly soulless as he keeps his smile firmly on his face. His skin stretches tight around his skull, as pale as any corpse now. If you hadn’t met him before his son’s death, you would swear that he was no human. No, you’d say, no human can look like that - as if they’ve peeled someone else’s face off and are wearing it as a mask, as if their own body is not your own.
Aemond is tense but he can afford to be tense. His weapon is a sword. His weapon is the largest dragon alive.
The only tool you have at your disposal now is your courtesy.
You smile brightly at him, as sweet as any lady could ever be, pushing down Aemond’s arm slightly so you can peer around him more easily. “My lord,” you greet, bowing your head, keeping your grip on the Targaryen firm. You’re here, you’re safe, you want to remind but you can’t, not with Lord Florent watching you with his dead eyes, waiting for any chink in your armor. “I meant to meet with you but time got away from me. As the Maiden in the wedding party, I was kept well occupied until this feast. I wish to pass along House Lannister’s, as well as my own, condolences. The loss of Ser Victor was a tragic one, one that will be surely felt in the City Watch for years to come.”
Erren bows his head, keeping his head down even as Aemond echoes your words, passing along the Crown’s sympathies. When he looks up, the first hint of emotion has broken through his closed expression.
Cold rage dances in his eyes.
“It’s a loss I will feel until the Stranger comes to claim me,” he says, his voice soft like a whisper. “A loss that will haunt my every waking moment.”
There’s nothing you can say to that. No words you could conjure that would make that blow any easier, would make him hate you any less.
You don’t want to. You don’t want to soften the blow. You want him to feel every moment of his grief. You hope that the pain of his loss will remind him of what his son had forgotten.
You are a Lannister, a daughter of the Rock. Your blood is old, the blood of kings. Even without Aemond, you are above a Florent even if their line stretches back as far as your own. A lion could not be caged by a fox, no matter how hard it might try. A lion could be caged by no one.
Not even a dragon.
“I pray you will find comfort, my lord,” you finally say, stepping out from behind Aemond, walking closer to Erren Florent. The old lord does not step back to accommodate you, letting you get within arm's length of you.
If he wanted to, he could reach out and strangle you here. He could pull a knife out and push it deep in your heart and not even Aemond would be able to stop it. If he wished it, Erren Florent could kill you as easily as you draw breath and there was nothing anyone could do about it.
But he can’t and that pain must be equal to the loss of the son. To have the reason for Victor's death, the true reason and not just the means through which it was delivered, so close at hand and being unable and unwilling to do anything.
How hateful a scene. How horrid.
You step closer, a smile dancing on your lips.
“May you find peace, my lord,” you murmur, your words intended for only you and him.
“May I find justice,” he snarls back, his mask slipping even further, his face twisting in his vengeance. His hot breath washes over your face, burning and awful, and you can taste the sharp smell of wine on your tongue.
Aemond steps closer, his chest pressing against your back, but you don’t move, not even to accommodate his touch. You stand in front of Erren Florent, smiling as innocent as a lamb.
“Justice, my lord? You found it. Your son earned it. The debt is paid,” you say, voice serene and calm. “But if you wish to seek further satisfaction, you are welcome to it. I could hardly deny it.”
You step closer, your expression never slipping.
Your smile grows, hunger sharpens it. “I pray you do, in fact. I pray you aim for more than your station affords you, just as your son did.”
“Why? So your prince might drive a sword through my throat?” Erren growls, all pretense of civility gone from his face.
You lean closer. “So that I might.”
There’s a moment where the two of you stare each other down, when the rest of the room including Aemond fades and it's just the two of you in the room together.
All he wants is to wrap his hands around your throat and squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. He wants to break your neck. He wants to smash your head against the stone floor, crack it open like an egg and spill your brains out for all to gawk at.
Try it, you want to whisper. Try it and let me loose the hounds of war. Let me rip your house out by root and stem and seed. Let me wear your carnage and gore as a crown. Let no one utter the name Florent as anything but a warning. Try it and let me pay the debt.
The moment passes. The opportunity fades.
His anger festers. Your hunger grows.
He steps back, his mask sliding back into face.
“My lady,” Erren says, bowing his head.
“My lord,” you reply, dropping into a curtsey.
He leaves as quickly as he had come. You watch him go, slithering through the crowd towards the large doors of the throne room.
“I was his purpose,” you say softly but Aemond is close enough that he hears you.
“You are his purpose,” his voice is low and harsh and fierce and you turn to look at him, your skirt moving around you in a flurry. His eye is locked on you, concern sharpening his features into a fury. “He only lives now to seek his satisfaction. He won’t rest until he has your head mounted on his wall. ”
“It is a nice head, I’ll grant him that,” you laugh, your heart still pounding fast in your chest. “But it is mine and I have never been one to share.”
Aemond takes in a sharp breath, closing his eye. When he opens it, his worry is tempered by growing anger.
“You should carry a dagger,” he murmurs, his voice low, his tone leaving no space for disagreement. “I am your sword, I will always rise to defend you, but I cannot be everywhere at once. There are places that I cannot follow, places he will go to seek his vengeance.”
Your smile drops slightly. “I don’t know how to wield one. I’m more likely to stab myself than do anyone any real harm.”
His hand reaches out to touch your face, only pausing in mid air when he remembers himself. He drops his hand, clenching it into a fist at his side.
He’s angry, his brow furrowed tight with an anxiety you haven’t seen since Driftmark, since he was helpless and defenseless.
Your hands itch with the desire to smooth out the tightness in his face and you wish you were alone with a fierceness that threatens to tear you in half.
“I’ll show you,” he insists, his eye flickering all over you as if he’s already imagining what you would look like if Erren Florent had his way with you, as if he can already see imaginary wounds littering your body and even the mere thought of them is too much for him to bear. “I will show you and you will keep yourself safe when I cannot. You say you’re not one to share - I’m not either. I won’t be forced to suffer the loss of you. I’ve killed one Florent for you. I’ll kill another. I’ll keep slaughtering them until I’ve bled their house dry and even then, I won’t stop until all threats are gone, until you are safe in this new world that I will build for you.”
Your heart stutters in your chest. “And if there’s no end to the enemies you’ll make?”
“Then I won’t stop. I won’t stop until it’s just you and me left.”
You stare at him but nothing in his face flickers, nothing flashes. He is serious. He means what he says and you feel the weight of his devotion come crashing down on you. It is the heaviest thing you have ever felt. It knows no bounds and it crushes you completely, consuming every last bit of you and leaving room for nothing else.
And you relish it.
You’re not alone in your all-encompassing thoughts. Your hunger, your aching, raw desire, has its match, its partner, in him.
The enormity of it steals your breath from you, filling your lungs.
You’re not alone. It is complete ecstasy. It is utter bliss.
He stares at you, anger and worry fading away into anxiety, when he sees you’re not responding. Try as he might, hide as he will, but he cannot escape the little boy he once was, the boy desperate to be seen, the little boy desperate to be accepted, to be taken in.
“You are mine,” you say, the words leaving your mouth as easily as air enters your lungs. He sways towards you when he hears the weight of your voice, the adoration, the worship. “You are mine and I am yours.”
His eye grows wide and he stares down at you, his mouth dropping open slightly, looking as if you couldn’t have affected him more than if you had hit him over the head with a wooden beam, and you smile finally, feeling tears prick in the back of your eyes.
You had imagined saying it differently. You had imagined the library, had imagined being alone with none to disturb you.
But somehow, you can’t imagine it any different than this, any better than a stolen moment at the edge of a dance floor.
You reach out and grab his clenched fist, wrapping your hand around it as you bring it up to your mouth, pressing a gentle kiss on his knuckles.
“With this kiss,” you say, feeling almost delirious in your desire to do this. To prove yourself. To say something that can match his endless devotion. “I pledge my love. I pledge my life. I pledge my strength.”
It’s not enough. It won’t be enough. Not until you die in service of him.
But you need it. Oh gods, but you need it.
You drop his hand when you hear Daeron’s voice call, when you hear Alicent say his name right after.
You drop his hand and you smile at him, swallowing the thick tears down.
