…but the day was as black as prince Aemond’s heart

🌟She🌟affectionately boop Aemond Targaryen’s chest at least twice a day🌟18+, mature content.

[lizsapphirebewitched]

Aemond Targaryen.

Despite being portrayed as a villain in both the book and the show, is my ultimate comfort character.

My escape when I was in an episode of depression or panic attacks.

My unwavering love and loyalty to you, my fantasy husband.

[barbieaemond]

EWAN MITCHELL as AEMOND TARGARYEN | House of the Dragon S2E2 "Rhaenyra the Cruel"

[aemondtargaryensource]

EWAN MITCHELL as AEMOND TARGARYEN | House of the Dragon S2E2 Rhaenyra the Cruel."

[peachysunrize-deactivated202501]

AEMOND TARGARYEN — HOUSE OF THE DRAGON S2E2 -> Rhaenyra the cruel

[marthawrites]

Bloodlust

Aemond Targaryen x wife reader

Word count: 2.6k+

About: Aemond, unable to leave you behind in King's Landing on his way to Rook's Rest, returns to you after a successful scouting mission.

Includes: Contains future Fire and Blood spoilers (prelude to battle at rook's rest and a couple of the events leading up to it - mentioned, but not heavily described), and SMUT. Featuring murder (no descriptions of it), blood, Aemond's slightly (?) unhinged, blood eating (this is a fantasy in a work of fiction - please do not do this irl), reader is hot for Aemond's gloves, blowjob, rough Aemond, minor praise, unprotected vaginal sex, brief degradation, creampie, and reader and Aemond say 'i love you' at the end. Whew! Apologies if I missed anything!

Note: Hello lovely reader! This is pure filth. Sorry for the grainy header photo. This specific gif is still driving me insane and was the whole inspiration for this fic! As always, reader is non-descript and I hope you enjoy it! ♥

With Lucerys’ death, the war of ravens came to an end, and the war of fire and blood began.

Prince Aemond Targaryen, your lord husband, barely allowed you from his side much less from his sight. 

Kinslayer everyone called him. In fear, in awe, as a curse. 

After the murder of the King’s princeling son, Jaehaerys Targaryen, King Aegon II would no longer fight this war with quills and ink. He meant to win it with swords and blood. An eye for an eye. A son for a son. King Aegon dehanded his grandsire, Otto Hightower, as Hand of the King and gave the pin to Crison Cole instead. Criston was ravenous for it and immediately began planning an attack against the Blacks.

Duskendale would likely stand little chance against the Greens who were three-thousand men strong. If by some miracle they were able to defend their city, Aemond upon Vhagar and Aegon upon Sunfyre would overwhelm them from above.

Despite the odds being in your husband’s favor, anxiety still gnawed at you from the inside. The hour was late and sleep evaded you at every chance inside your martial tent. War was hardly the place for a woman, but Aemond refused to let you stay behind at the Red Keep while he marched to battle. He trusted your safety to no one except for himself. He deemed there wasn’t a safer place in all of Westeros than with him. You believed him.

You weren’t the only woman traveling with their army. There were other lady wives in similar positions to your own, a few cooks as well, and medics. Judging by some things you’d heard along the way, you weren’t too sure if there wasn’t a gaggle of whores somewhere too. 

The company of other women made you feel significantly better–whether they were whores or healers alike.

No one was allowed in yours and Aemond’s tent, however, and everyone knew that. Regardless if you and Aemond were inside or not, a pair of guards stood watch outside at all times. Tonight, a third armored man joined.

Criston, Aemond, and a small group of soldiers scouted ahead to gather what information they could on Duskendale’s defense. Hours had passed since they left. Ideas, scenarios, and other horrible images filled your brain on what might be happening. The entire scouting party was extremely skilled; the rational part of your brain knew they’d be able to handle anything that crossed their path. Yet… what if Duskendale housed monsters like the Targaryens housed dragons?

There wasn’t any room for a fire inside the tent. Nor was it safe. An oil lamp sat atop a makeshift desk and a few scattered candles lit the darkest corners of the space. Laying on your side, you watched all of the little flames and prayed for your husband’s safe return. 

Perhaps you dozed off, or went into a sort of prayer-induced trance, or simply lost track of time, but a clattering commotion outside seized your attention. Fight, flight, freeze: the instincts of any animal. Leaning up you grabbed a dagger from the makeshift nightstand. You held it in front of you, ready to defend yourself if need be. Fight. You would go down fighting. 

Aemond’s soft voice whooshed inside on a rush of cold night air. “Ābrazȳrys.” wife

“My love!” You said with an exhalation. You laid the dagger back down and stood, stepping to him with hurried strides. “Blessed Seven you returned! I’ve been so worried.”

He walked towards you as you came to him, long steps slow and sure. If he had taken note of the dagger in your hand he made no mention of it. His silence was almost as unnerving as the glint of his dilated eye in the low light.

You meant to throw your arms around his neck and squeeze him against you so you knew him to be real and true, right here and now, rather than a ghost summoned by your worst nightmare. But, something stopped you. You stared up at him, doe-eyed.

The blood splattered across his alabaster face spoke more words than he could vocalize. The smell of him–metallic and heavy–sent your own blood rushing. Even his hair was matted by thick streaks of dark blood. “What happened?”

A serpentine grin slid across his chiseled face and his seeing eye lit with deranged lust. His gloved hands gripped around your forearms, squeezing. “They’re dead.”

“W-who?”

“Duskendale scouts. We found them, questioned them, and killed them,” he answered with  soft-spoken intensity, gripping your arms tighter. “Cole’s speaking with Aegon now. We attack tomorrow. Duskendale will fall, and Rook’s Rest after. We will cripple my half-sister and uncle’s strategy before they gain it.”

Your pulse hammered against your chest. Behind your ears. You weren’t sure if Aemond realized how harshly he held your arms. It hurt. “Th-that’s wonderful news,” you stammered, looking up at him with a mixture of awe and creeping fright. “Are you hurt?”

He shook his head and let go of your arms. Then, he held your face as he crashed his mouth down to yours, kissing you with victory that smelled, and tasted, of copper. “My brother will have his throne,” he rasped against your mouth. “My whore of a sister and her bastard horde will never claim what is Aegon’s by right.”

You whimpered against his mouth, against his words, melting into him as he wrapped his arms around your waist and hip. Lifting your hands to grip onto the front of his dark green doublet, your breath caught in your throat. Blood stained the white of your chemise where he had squeezed your forearms. It looked nearly black in the tent’s candlelight. Leaning back half a step, you looked down your body and saw the front of you stained as well. Not only was his face and hair speckled with blood, but his new military garb was covered in it. “Aemond…!”

“Shh, my sweet wife,” he said against your neck, nipping the sensitive flesh.

Confusion, elation, and lust roared through your body, all of them trying to outdo each other. None of the emotions won. They only succeeded in tightening the muscles of your belly and making your entire nervous system quiver. Why were you like this? Why did your prince husband covered in other people’s blood make you yearn with dark desire? Goosebumps rose on your skin as Aemond nipped, kissed, and sucked all along your neck and shoulder. On instinct, you began to work open the buttons on his overcoat; you’d only seen him in this garb a few times, and your fingers fumbled with inexperience over them.

“I’d do it all again,” he said by your ear. “I will do it again. All across the Seven Kingdoms.”

You understood his meaning. You heard what he left unsaid. Pulling back, you peered up into his seeing eye. A hundred emotions lay bare for you to see: rage, satisfaction, confidence, hunger. “Who are you doing it for?” You asked softly.

“For my brother. For my hatred of my half-sister. For you.”

Aemond’s leather glove was warm when you grabbed his hand–the blood on it slightly sticky to your bare touch–and you nuzzled your face into it. “My sweet, dark prince,” you cooed, kissing his palm. His fingers. Languid. Dizzy on the intoxicating aura radiating off him. You bit the tip of one finger, sly; blood that certainly wasn’t your husbands smeared your mouth.

Witnessing your reverence had Aemond groaning in low inaudible High Valyrian. His soft raspy voice praised you in words you didn’t know. With his free hand he pulled you against him, his hard cock pressing firmly against the soft span of your belly.

You moaned behind his hand. “You will win this war for your brother,” you said adoringly. “Not Crison, not Rosby, or Stokeworth, or anyone else. You and Vhagar.” The feeling of him against your belly had embers searing your senses. Without allowing yourself to think twice about it, you licked one of his gloved fingers. The leather was smooth beneath your tongue, and your tastebuds exploded with the coppery taste of some man’s blood.

Aemond fucking groaned. 

You did it again.

Tension sparked down your spine like lightning and that delicate space between your thighs clenched around nothing. Despite the barriers of clothing between you two you swore you felt him throb. “You are the only weapon Aegon needs.”

He watched in fascination as you shamelessly licked the bloodshed from his glove. He nearly spent in his pants as you took his thumb into your mouth, sucking. “My filthy wife,” he hissed, pulling you further into him. He kissed you again and this time he tasted blood. He licked into your mouth, seeking it deeper. 

Each little moan his passion coaxed from you, he swallowed whole. Once again you began fumbling with the front of his attire, working the buttons open until you were able to push it off his shoulders. Beneath he wore a simple linen shirt, and you helped tug that off, too. With one final nip to his bottom lip you began to sink down to your knees before him.

Aemond watched you hungerly. 

You could unbuckle his belt behind your back by now–it stood no chance as you deftly slid it open. The front of his pants didn’t fight you as his tunic did. You pulled them down enough to free his cock, and you wasted no time in pressing deliberate, hot, open-mouthed kisses along it. You didn’t care that he was unwashed. If anything, the scent of leather, sweat, and battle on him made your desire boil over. Saliva instinctively collected in your mouth, and your eager kisses soon had your tongue sliding along him. By the time you wrapped your soft, lovely mouth around him it was lewd, and wet, and slow. You looked up at him, watching him unravel as you made a sensuous show of swallowing as much of him as you could.

Aemond’s eye hooded as he watched you. He would never fucking tire of watching you take him whole–your mouth or your cunt. Blood still streaked your exquisite features. It made the whole thing obscene. Blood from men he killed to protect his brother. To keep the throne for him. To protect you. “Fucking hells–,” he hissed. “There… yeah, oh yeah, hold my cock in that little throat of yours.”

Tears brimmed your eyes as you held, drool already threatening to dribble down the swell of your lip onto your chin. You knew your husband liked it slow and messy like this. You knew he’d have the muscles of your throat flex around him until your head became dizzy from lack of air. You loved it–and he knew that. You held onto his thighs for support, cunt soaked and throbbing between your legs.

He pulled back slightly, before pushing forward, giving your slobbering mouth deep shallow thrusts. “I love how you sound gagging,” he praised, threading his gloved hand into your hair.

You nodded, tears still threatening to leave your eyes, moaning deep in your throat to his lecherous praise.

With a handful of your hair your prince husband bobbed your head along his cock for his pleasure, fucking into your mouth with perfect timing. He tipped his head back. He could never get enough of this.

His strokes were getting longer and quicker, now, a sure sign that he was getting close to finishing. You held on all the while, savoring the rough treatment as much, or perhaps more, than he was.

Finally, he stopped. Looking down at you again he said, out of breath, “I want to fill your cunny tonight, not your mouth.” Then, he clicked his tongue and said, “up.” He helped you stand, and before he could stop himself he was kissing you again, wild and voracious, licking away any trace of blood he had left on your face from earlier. He walked you backwards to the bed all the while and only stopped when the backs of your legs bumped into the cot. Smirking, he helped you out of your shift. He pushed you back onto it before finally stepping out of his pants and boots. 

Below him, you didn’t even care that his Targaryen hair was clumped with dried bits of blood. No, all you cared about was the weight of his cock as he settled it against you. Hot, heavy, smooth. He was perfect. All of him was perfect.

He squeezed your breasts in his hands–he was still wearing those fucking gloves! Of course he took everything off except for those!–rumbling his appreciation at the softness of them. His cock lined up with you effortlessly. With a push of his hips, he sunk into you. 

The stretch of him, the fullness of him, the sensation of being as close to him as you ever could be, had your eyes rolling closed and mouth parting open. In that same effortless manner, your legs wrapped around his trim waist. You were so wet that your body immediately yielded to him. You bit back a moan, not wanting to draw attention from anyone who might be in earshot of your tent.

Above you, Aemond smiled a dark smile. Shadows danced across his features and made the angular lines of his face sharper. “How does it feel to be right where you belong? Under me, full of me, wet as a maiden and hungry as a whore?”

Your legs flexed around him tighter. Heat bloomed beneath your face. “S-so fucking good..!”

He could see you holding back your sounds of pleasure. “Let them hear you,” he said, thrusting into you harder. Deeper. “Open that pretty mouth and let them hear.” Fingers pinched your nipples as he plunged into you again and again, filling you to your body’s end.

Even if he wanted you to stay quiet there was no way you could. Your sounds of pleasure spilled from your mouth as he nearly fucked you through the cot. It was as divine as it was harsh. Rough as it was loving. You weren't going to last long. Aemond wouldn’t either. “God–! Aemond..!” His name left your mouth in a wanton gasp, back arching.

With your mouth hanging open, he pushed two fingers inside to muffle some of those beautiful noises. “My pretty wife overwhelmed with bloodlust,” he crooned, tilting his head as he watched your fucked-out expressions.  “Come with me,” he rasped, cock swelling impossibly harder. “Come with me.”

You did. The tension in your belly snapped, and any restraint you were holding vanished. Your thighs quivered around him. The emotion and sensation that overcame you was intense and all consuming. Aemond, Aemond, Aemond. You’d give him a babe tonight. You knew you would.

He throbbed inside your flexing and relaxing walls, his seed filling you past the brim of your cunt. It dribbled out of you while his thrusts slowed. His breath came heavy and labored, face finally softening in the orange glow of the tent. “Vok. perfect You are so perfect,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to yours as you both came down from the heights of shared orgasm.

Your legs loosened around him until they lay open, allowing him to slip out from the cradle of your body. “Duskendale will fall tomorrow,” you said to him, kissing him gently. “You will be the victor.”

He laid beside you, then, and pulled you against him so you were laying on your sides face to face. “Anyone who dare face me will fall. The entire realm will fall before me,” he answered with the softest utmost confidence.

Nodding, you smiled and kissed him again. “The world is yours, my prince. With fire and blood.”

“With fire and blood,” he proclaimed, hooking your leg over his waist. Then, he whispered, “I love you.”

And you said it back, meaning it wholly.

-

Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed, please consider a follow, and/or reblog, and/or letting me know as it all makes me vvvery happy! ♥

Masterlist

See comment section for my main taglist and Aemond taglist! To be added or removed from either, please hit me up!

[visenyaism]

I read dunk and egg they were nice. Conclusion tho: bloodraven is a homophobe and i dont like him :( georges anime self inserts are always lame :(

i literally saw brynden bloodraven at pride yesterday he was on the fantasy raytheon float

[ur-daily-inspiration]

[myfandompromptsside]

That right there, that hand.

That's the f- dream.

[barbieaemond]

Ewan Mitchell as Aemond Targaryen | behind the scenes of House of the Dragon (2022-)

[barbieaemond]

via badtaste on ig

[theliability]

never in my life have I felt the need to sit on a mans lap THIS FUCKING BAD 😭😔

[trgtowers]

x

[theromanticegoist]

Can I request Aemond becoming a stuttering and blushing mess after his crush kisses him on the cheek?

The cut had not been deep.

But still - blood had blossomed from the wound even as she’d pulled away, the embroidery needle falling at her feet as red bloomed bright at her palm.

“Oh,” she’d said.

And Aemond had glanced up from his book - had seen the wound and the blood and been at her side in an instant, pages fluttering as he’d discarded the book carelessly on the floor.

“It’s all right -“ she’d begun, but Aemond had already pulled a handkerchief from his pocket.

“Here,” he said, holding her hand gently as he staunched the bleeding with it. He could feel the steady pulse of blood in her hand, every hitched breath as she watched him.

With one hand still against hers, he’d reached back for the strand of leather knotted always in his hair, had wrapped it once, twice around her palm to secure the kerchief there.

“You’ll be just fine,” he assured her, a steady hand at her knee; it was only then that he realized how terribly close he was too her, heart quickening at the thought.

She hummed.

Leaned forward.

Kissed his cheek - a gentle brush of the lips that stopped Aemond in his tracks, that sang through every pulse-point, every nerve, that beckoned a furious blush to rise in his cheeks as he quickly stood, turned on his heel, made for the door.

She could not see the beginnings of a smile that played at the corners of his mouth.

Only watched him go, clutching tightly to the kerchief that he’d left her, his initials stitched carefully into the corner, now stained through with her blood.

[lizsapphirebewitched]

Only watched him go, clutching tightly to the kerchief that he’d left her, his initials stitched carefully into the corner, now stained through with her blood.

That’s already a commitment from him right there.

[theromanticegoist]

Bridgerton inspired Aemond and Reader? Like season 1? With the fake courting?

we could form an attachment

aemond targaryen bridgerton au

It had begun as an arrangement, an agreement -

“We could pretend to form an attachment. With you on my arm the court will believe I’ve finally found my wife. Every presumptuous lady in the Keep will leave me alone and every suitor will be looking at you. You must know men are always interested in a woman when they believe another, particularly a Prince, to be interested as well. Me - unavailable. You - desirable.”

Aemond had never meant for it to become anything else, as he’d held her close to him in the dark and the warmth of the gardens that night, his hand at her elbow and his voice low.

She’d regarded him carefully, the flush of the night high in her cheeks. “It is an absurd plan,” she’d said.

“I find it quite brilliant. Provided you do not wish to marry me and I do not wish to marry you - whatever should you have to lose?”

It was as he’d said - arrangement, agreement, attachment. She would have her suitors and he would have his solitude and it would be mutually advantageous, yes, would rid him of his mother’s bothering and secure for her a betrothal.

“Stare into my eyes,” he told her, quietly, hand at her back as he’d guided her through the crowd and to the floor.

“Here. Closer.”

The brush of her shoulder against his. He could feel her pulse, quick and lovely, as he took her wrist. He wasn’t sure she’d ever been this close to him - as they danced. And she met his gaze, drew her eyes from his to his nose, his mouth, his scar. She did not look away.

“If this is to work we must appear madly in love.”

It was a murmur in her ear. A whisper of an instrument that floated up and away into the sweet cacophony of the hall. His hands at her waist as he lifted her; her hands against his shoulders as he’d lowered her.

Arrangement. Agreement. Attachment.

As it turns out, he has an awful lot to lose.

It is a ruse.

Her hand strung around his arm as he walks her through the gardens: mid-day; sun high in the sky; breeze tangling its fingers in the trees and blowing tendrils of her hair against his shoulder, they curl and snag around the buckles on his leathers.

It is a farce.

The hitch in her breath as she laughs at something he says - the sound warm and languid as a summer afternoon; the way her fingers tighten on his arm as she does so.

It is a gambit.

He plucks a flower from a nearby bush, wind singing as he tucks it behind her ear with an errant lock of hair, thumb catching softly against her cheek; a blush staining the skin beneath his fingers as her eyes follow his movements.

He clears his throat. Pulls away.

“It is working, you know,” she says quietly, with a nudge. “My brother has informed me that several lords have come calling in the wake of our arrangement.”

He hums.

“Surely you’ll be married by the spring.”

***

Weeks pass, and Aemond passes them with her on his arm.

He had known her before, of course, had known vaguely of her family and had seen her about court, had heard whispers of her comings and goings flutter through the halls of the Red Keep like a pulse. He had never spoken a word to her until that first night in the gardens, when he’d found her ragged and teary-eyed amongst the trees.

And it is slightly breathtaking, how she steals into his life: daily strolls where they’re certain to be seen; her frequent presence in the training yard, her handkerchief the one to staunch any nasty blows or cuts; her place beside him at feasts, always at his right, under the gaze of his good eye.

He wonders, sometimes, when a suitor will put forth his hand and she’ll take it.

The notion of it is oft accompanied by a dark, toothy dread that steals through his lungs, leaves him gasping for air.

Because he likes her, in spite of himself, in spite of all that he’d said that first night. She is sweet, in a way that often catches him unawares, leaves him slightly stunned by the sincerity of it; she’s quick and smart and can hold a conversation with him; she is not afraid of him or, seemingly, his eye - looks at it, sometimes, when she thinks he cannot see, but never looks away.

And -

It isn’t love, he tells himself.

He tells himself this again and again and again.

It never quite sinks in.

***

It is well into the summer when Cregan Stark makes a rare departure from Winterfell and journeys to Kings Landing.

Aemond thinks nothing of it, at first.

He is well and thoroughly consumed by other matters. Matters that haunt his dreams as well as his waking, that grasp at his hand and murmur into his ear and think nothing of it - cannot hear the mad stirring of his heart.

She sits beside him at the tourney that Stark has traveled all this way to attend, in honor of the Kings somewhat recouped health.

“I really don’t understand why you never enter the lists,” she says, elbow knocking against his as she wrings her handkerchief through her fingers. “You’d win if you did.”

“I do appreciate your confidence,” Aemond replies, in a moment of daring taking her hand from its worrying and pressing a brief kiss to her knuckles. “Though I would much rather have your favor.”

She laughs softly. Allows her hand to linger in his before placing it slowly back in her lap.

“Well, if you’re exempt from consideration, who do you suppose is going to win today -?” She is leaning towards him, wisps of her hair brushing the back of his hand.

He had always thought her beautiful - had been careful to not allow his eye to linger on her anymore than was proper whenever he caught sight of her in the courtyard or at feasts - but to see her so close was a sight that rivaled no other. He wanted, badly, to run his thumb across her mouth, to kiss every slope and shift and plane of her face, to watch her eyelashes flutter and her mouth part and -

He does not have time to answer her.

Not as Cregan Stark rides up to the box, lance in hand and helmet slightly ajar.

“I would be honored to have the lady’s favor,” he says, nods just once towards her.

It is imperceptible - the way that she glances at Aemond, tightens her fingers around his before standing, moving to the edge of the box, dropping her wreath down onto Stark’s lance - flowers and ribbons singing in the breeze.

“I wish you luck, my lord,” she says.

Aemond burns in his seat. Is overwhelmed by the dread, the rage that gnaws and gnashes at his heart.

“A possible suitor, it would seem,” he says, as she once again takes her seat beside him.

“Hm.” She nods.

“You cannot do too much better than a Stark.”

***

His mother calls him to her solar the next day.

The seven pointed star about her neck catches the light as she takes his hands, bids him to sit beside her.

“Aemond,” she says, and it is the voice that she always dons for him - a tone meant to convey, always, duty. “You have not yet asked me about a bethrothal, though you have seemingly been courting a young lady for half the summer.”

He knows what she expects of him.

Wishes desperately that he were able to give it to her.

But he has always left her wanting - a second son, through and through. A boy with no dragon, who’d stolen into the dragon pit whenever the opportunity presented itself; a boy who’d stolen a dragon and lost his eye and had caused a bloody, calamitous string of events; a harsh, embittered man who gave way too frequently to his anger; a man who had not sought out a match made of mutual affection as she’d so hoped, but who spurned the thought of any affection for a fear that lurked in his heart, that he did not wish to name.

“I have heard tell that Lord Stark intends to ask for her hand,” she says, softly, slowly, her fingers grasping his as though he were a boy again.

He refuses to meet her gaze.

Cannot hear over the rush of blood in his ears.

“If you are not serious about her, Aemond, do not deny her such an opportunity. It would be a good match -“

He rises, suddenly. His mother’s words hang in the air as he tugs at his collar - everything too warm, to narrow, pressing slowly in on him.

“Thank you, mother,” he says, quickly, turning on his heel.

This had been the arrangement from the beginning.

Whatever he feels for her - it is a ruse, a farce, a gambit; neither wanted nor returned.

He’d asked you that first night, and he’d meant it: whatever should you have to lose?

He knows, now. Knows with a bone-deep, alchemical certainty: his heart.

***

He finds her in the courtyard, that night.

And she looks as she had that first night - wind-blown, wonder-struck - her arms about herself and her cheeks stained a bright pink. “Aemond,” she says, when she sees him, says it with a rush of emotion that he can’t quite catch.

He stops a few feet away from her. Leaves a careful breadth between them, arms clasped tight behind his back. “My mother tells me that Stark plans to ask for your hand.”

She knows, he understands as she meets his gaze. “He made his intentions clear, yes.”

Aemond nods stiffly, takes a step back. “It would seem that our arrangement is at an end, then.”

Her eyes linger on him, bright beneath the moonlight. He thinks of how Winterfell snow would look caught in her hair, smattered gently across her cheeks, her eyelashes -

“I suppose so,” she murmurs.

And Aemond - he has never been impulsive, no, has never acted without thought. He’d always hesitated at the dragon pit before stealing further downwards, painfully aware of the consequences that might await him; he’d known, how sure death might be, when he’d mounted Vhagar for the first time, had pressed his body to the sand and stolen a breath before moving forward; he’d held the word Strong in his mouth, had considered and contemplated and - no, Aemond Targaryen is not impulsive. But he is reckless -

“Are you satisfied -?” He asks, slowly, allows the words to hang in the evening air between them as he takes a measured step forward. “With him?”

He sees the hitch in her breath, the hesitation on her lips as she answers him. “He’ll make a fine match. It would be difficult to find a Lord more advantageous than him.”

Aemond hums. “If you enjoy the snow, certainly.”

She flushes. “Aemond -“

And it is reckless, he knows. Never before has he been so careless with his heart, no, not as he draws closer to her, till they’re a breath apart, his hands a ghost over hers, haunting her movements.

“Do you care for him?” He asks, quietly. Every pulse of his heart is a dangerous, desperate thing.

“He’ll make a fine match -“

“That is not what I asked.”

The words struggle on her lips as she meets his eye, reaches for his hand. “No,” she says, glances downwards, makes to pull away from him. “I do not care for him. There has only ever been one person I care for, wish to marry -“

Aemond kisses her. Draws her to him in a bruising embrace of his hands against her cheeks, his mouth against her mouth, his heart blooming between them.

“Marry me,” he says, when he finally pulls away.

Laughter sings from her swollen lips as she kisses him again, murmurs, “Whatever do I have to lose?”

[lizsapphirebewitched]

Satisfying. I’m beaming with content after reading this fic.

Especially love such detailed description of Aemond’s emotions and inner thoughts in the fic.

It is a ruse.

Her hand strung around his arm as he walks her through the gardens: mid-day; sun high in the sky; breeze tangling its fingers in the trees and blowing tendrils of her hair against his shoulder, they curl and snag around the buckles on his leathers.

It is a farce.

The hitch in her breath as she laughs at something he says - the sound warm and languid as a summer afternoon; the way her fingers tighten on his arm as she does so.

It is a gambit.

He plucks a flower from a nearby bush, wind singing as he tucks it behind her ear with an errant lock of hair, thumb catching softly against her cheek; a blush staining the skin beneath his fingers as her eyes follow his movements.

This part is CHEF’S KISS🤌🏻❤️

But he has always left her wanting - a second son, through and through. A boy with no dragon, who’d stolen into the dragon pit whenever the opportunity presented itself; a boy who’d stolen a dragon and lost his eye and had caused a bloody, calamitous string of events; a harsh, embittered man who gave way too frequently to his anger; a man who had not sought out a match made of mutual affection as she’d so hoped, but who spurned the thought of any affection for a fear that lurked in his heart, that he did not wish to name.

Aemond - he has never been impulsive, no, has never acted without thought. He’d always hesitated at the dragon pit before stealing further downwards, painfully aware of the consequences that might await him; he’d known, how sure death might be, when he’d mounted Vhagar for the first time, had pressed his body to the sand and stolen a breath before moving forward; he’d held the word Strong in his mouth, had considered and contemplated and - no, Aemond Targaryen is not impulsive. But he is reckless

So on point.

[theromanticegoist]

Steamy night at the library after much pining and tension?

18+ (smut)

Aemond finds you in the library.

Of course he does.

Finds you swathed in darkness in the dead of night - fireplace doused, windows open, curtains tangling in the soft wind - with an unread book on your lap and tears staining your cheeks.

He kneels before you, forefinger and thumb beneath your chin as he bids you to look at him.

“Is it true?” He asks.

Your heart riots inside your chest. Because it is - true, despite all your desperate hope that it is not. You’ve been betrothed, finally. And your mother had cried and your father had looked proud and it had been time, really, well past time, that you forgot all your foolish longings for Aemond and did your duty to your house.

You nod.

And Aemond is still, for a moment, fingers still beneath your chin and eye held steady on you. He hums. Glances down and allows his hand to fall away.

“Do you - dislike him?” He asks, finally, a question that is calculated and measured and careful.

You smile ruefully. Drag your fingers against the pages of your book. How long had you known Aemond? Kept his company and his secrets? Coveted his affections and wanted, badly -

“I hardly know him.”

“And is that the reason for your tears, my lady?”

A breeze murmurs through the room. Rustles the pages of your book and the ends of Aemond’s hair as he holds your gaze. He wants something from you, you know, and were you in anymore of a composed state you would be able to discern what it is, but here - with your heart heavy in your chest, with the truth held tight in your mouth - you can only think to say one thing.

“I don’t want anyone besides you.”

He stills for a moment.

And in that moment you wonder if you’ve wrecked everything - incurred his disgust or his hatred or -

He kisses you.

A harsh, desperate thing. Burning through you as he grasps at your cheeks, your hair, draws you to him. His kiss is full of teeth and soft breaths and time lost. It overwhelms you, as you cling to him, allow him to draw you up off the floor.

“My lady,” he says, voice quiet, words clouding the air between you. “I had hoped for so long that you might feel as I do. Never did I think you could return my affections.” His hands move to your waist, your neck; surely, he can feel every beat of your savage heart.

You murmur his name. Grasp at his collar.

And he understands, you’re sure, because he kisses you again, every bit as harsh as the first time. He kisses as he fights: unrelenting, sure, a steady blade in a steady hand as he pushes you back against the bookshelves, begins to gather your skirts in his hands.

You should tell him to stop, you know.

But he falls to his knees before you and glances up, just once, a silent entreaty that you can’t bring yourself to deny, no, not as he allows your skirts to fall over him, grips your hips, nudges open your legs.

There will be no going back from this.

Not as he presses his mouth to your cunt, drags his tongue along you, brings forth a moan from you that reverberates in the dull corners of your mind. You can only feel him - nose at your clit, tongue between your folds, fingers delving into you, curling against you in a way that makes you see stars.

You cry his name as you come.

And you taste yourself on his mouth when he kisses you, gathers you in his arms and sets you unceremoniously on a table nearby, two fingers still steady between your legs.

“Please.” And you’re not sure what you’re asking for, as heat licks through you, sings through your heart and your blood and your veins, only know that you need it, desperately, as Aemond undoes the laces of his trousers.

You press your hands to his chest, still adorned with leathers even as he pushes his breeches down just enough to free his cock.

It is more of him than you’ve ever seen - beautiful and pale as his hands, his neck. You want all of him.

“I want to see you.”

He chuckles; a dark sound that rises from him easily as he looks at you, mirth in his gaze. “We’ll have plenty of time for that, love, I swear. I’ll speak to mother tomorrow and once we’re wed I’ll have you slowly, show you all the ways you can be pleasured. But now -“

He drags his cock through your folds. You grip onto his shoulders, feel pleasure bloom and burst within you.

“Tell me you’re mine.”

He is so close to you, hands hard at your hips and mouth still faintly stained with you and you are his, you know, have been his for as long as you can recall.

“Yes, Aemond, I’m yours.”

You murmur it quietly, for only him to hear. But it is enough as he begins to sink into you, slowly, his thumb at your clit and his mouth on yours as he attempts to distract you from the pain, the burn.

You couldn’t care less. To have him inside of you; to have his hands against you, to have his mouth on you, to have his want and his desire and his longing -

The pain fades as quickly as it had come. Curls up and away into the darkened air as his hips press flush against yours. Is replaced by the beginning ebbs of pleasure, slow and steady as a summer day.

“Move,” you tell him, urge him backwards then forwards again, still hesitant, his eye on yours. “Please, Aemond.”

He does not deny you. Only slides you closer to the edge of the table, a hand at your back as he begins to fuck you in earnest, moaning sharply into the curve of your shoulder.

You can feel the heat again, tendrils of it grasping and gripping you, overwhelming as he fills you again and again. It’s your name, he’s moaning, low but sure. And you can’t keep your head upright as he rocks into you, throat bared to the sky and the words falling, again and again, from your mouth:

I’m yours.

I’m yours.

I’m yours.

“My good girl,” he breathes, pace quickening. He drags his palm against your clit and the friction drags you to the edge of an unknown precipice. “Mine.”

He removes his palm and presses deft fingers to you, working you closer and closer.

“Come for me,” he says, and you do, fall apart against his fingers and around his cock, fall till you’re weightless and breathless and you can feel warmth inside of you, his hips stilling against yours as he sighs your name one last time.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, again, hands cradling your head as he searches out your gaze.

“I intend to marry you within the turn of the moon. Whatever betrothal your parents have arranged will be dealt with.”

He kisses you again.

Slow, this time. A truth that cannot be spoken aloud.

“You’re mine.”

[lizsapphirebewitched]

Gods be good. Feeling fluffy and butterflies and HOT

[theromanticegoist]

play your part through to the end

aemond targaryen x reader

summary: aemond’s wife helps to dress him before his final battle

based on this request

In the years that came after they would call it the Battle Above the Gods Eye.

The maesters would write of the dragons tangled against the setting sun; of Caraxes’ teeth about the great Vhagar’s neck as she tore at his wing; of Daemon Targaryen and his Dark Sister, brought down against Aemond Targaryen’s blind eye. They would recall the shrieks of the dragons and their terrible flame; how Prince Aemond’s body sunk to the depths of the lake, chained steadfastly to his dragon.

But that afternoon, as you rushed your fingers through Aemond’s hair and helped him rise from his bath, you had no way of knowing, no -

Water still dripped and clung to him as you reached for the laces of his breeches with an unsteady hand. You had untied them in a haste just the night before, had gasped for breath and grasped for him. But that afternoon the air was still and silent. Somber and solemn as you dragged the thick tunic over his head, pressed your fingers to it and prayed to the Gods that it might protect him.

“You needn’t fret, sweet wife,” he murmured, sparing a glance down at you, knotting his fingers in your hair. “My nuncle is a craven, and years past his prime besides.”

He hummed. Tucked a lock of hair behind your ear. Whatever words rested in his mouth lay there for a moment longer as he looked at you, knee-deep in thought. “He has lived far too long, my uncle. I intend to rectify that.”

Aemond’s smile was a dark, hidden thing as you helped him into his leathers, fingers trembling against the buckles at his throat.

Tenderly, you grazed your fingertips along his jaw. Allowed yourself every stolen touch and gaze.

His words had done little to ease you.

You remembered, with bile high in your throat, Aegon’s burnt and blistered body after the battle at Rook’s Rest, all the horrible damage a warring dragon could truly do.

Aemond had narrowly escaped that fate, then.

Just as he had the night he’d claimed Vhagar.

He talked of fate often, in the quiet of the night, of what it meant and how he was tied inextricably to it.

And even that day, as you’d gripped his chainmail, eased it down over his head, you’d been faintly sure that he’d known fate was coming for him, closing around him in its darkened teeth.

Even so, he’d sought to reassure you.

Words hushed and whispered against your ear as he held the back of your neck in a sure grip.

“Vhagar is tried and tested, just as Caraxes is. She’s flown to battle more times than can be recounted. She will not be felled today.”

“No?” You asked, quietly, cheek pressed harshly to his. You could feel the conviction in his grasp, in the bruising way he touched you, as though trying to impart some unspeakable thing.

“No,” he said. “I will fly back to you and when I do we will have won the war. The bitch queen will not last long without him, I assure you.”

He drew back slightly.

The morning light fell between you and across his face.

“I will return to you both, I swear it.”

And his touch lowered, came to rest on the swell of your stomach. He tapped his fingers against it once, twice.

“Have I ever broken an oath to you before, wife?”

Quickly, you shook your head. “You haven’t.”

“Mm. And I do not intend to begin now.” He stole a fleeting kiss from you, parted your lips and traced his thumbs across the planes of your face. His touch was desperate, stealing. He’d held you as though he warred between parting from you and committing you to memory.

And when he finally pulled away the look that lingered in his eye was unreadable. A shadowed, distant look that you did not want to parse the meaning of, no, not as he rested his forehead against yours, continued to hold you close.

But eventually his touches fell away and that look - that look - stayed.

“Help me with the rest.”

The beautiful, night-black chest plate, chased in gold. You had helped him to don it before, had helped him to shed it, as well. And your fingers moved with the memory of it as you prayed quietly that you’d help to ease him of it once more.

Aemond Targaryen had never lied to you before. But that mattered little to your fearful heart, your quickened pulse.

Too soon his armor had been donned and he stood, ready to meet his fate.

“Do you still wish to come?” He asked, quietly, his hand again at your stomach.

In spite of yourself you nodded. “My wish is to always be at your side,” you murmur, the words only for him. “I will follow you to the end.”

The edges of his mouth tilted into a wry smile. “My lady,” he whispered, as reverent as a prayer. With his forefinger he stroked your cheek.

“I love you.”

It was barely a brush of his lips, barely a sigh. The words that he so often thought but never said.

He said them then, a soft litany, over and over again till you’d forgotten your fright, could think only of him, of those lingering, lovely words as he led you out to Vhagar.

The sun was stealing out of the sky by the time you arrived at Harrenhall, dust clouding the air as Vhagar settled in the outer ward.

“Do not be afraid,” Aemond whispered in your ear as he helped you from her back, turned to face his uncle at last.

You could not recall the words they’d said once they’d passed their lips.

Could recall not a moment besides Aemond turning back to you, murmuring his love once more against your mouth with a kiss.

Through your fear and the fading light you looked at him, watched as he mounted Vhagar, took great care to fasten the chains about the belt and the saddle.

In the years that came after you would remember how he’d felt against you, that last time, would reach and grope for how those words had sounded coming from his mouth, how his good eye had settled and lingered on you, even as he directed Vhagar upwards.

But that day all you could think about was the kiss-strung bruises he’d strewn across your skin the night before and how you hoped, prayed, that they would not fade.

taglist: @arcielee

[lizsapphirebewitched]

IT HURTS.

IT HURTS SO GOOD.

I WOULD NEVER BE READY FOR THAT BATTLE,

AND MY HEART WOULD FOLLOW HIM WHENEVER HE WOULD REST.

[asoiaffan]