[aemnd-moved]

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

—𝒷𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝒷𝑦 𝓅𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑒 & 𝒷𝑜𝑛𝑒 ⏾ ₊ ݁ ⊹

☠︎︎ ❀ ☠︎︎

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

☠︎︎ ❀ ☠︎︎

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

☠︎︎ ❀ ☠︎︎

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

☠︎︎ ❀ ☠︎︎

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

☠︎︎ ❀ ☠︎︎

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

☠︎︎ ❀ ☠︎︎

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

☠︎︎ ❀ ☠︎︎

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

❀ ᴇᴘɪʟᴏɢᴜᴇ—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑒𝑛𝑑.

© 𝑎𝑒𝑚𝑛𝑑. est, 2025.

[aemnd-moved]

♥︎ ᵐᵉʳʳʸ ᶜʰʳⁱˢᵗᵐᵃˢ ᵃⁿᵍᵉˡˢ ♥︎

[aemnd-moved]

y'all r soo not ready for this new dark fic i'm cookin up .. ! it's v dark, dddne & has underage!reader as a lowborn maid & v extreme book-canon!aemond (he is his own warning in this fic, frfr) .. ໒꒰ྀི ˃̵͈᷄ . ∩ ꒱ྀི১ i'm trying my v best to write him strictly canon cos that's lowkey my favorite kind of aemond to write about .. heheh ݂ ۟ ⟡ ݁ 𓈒 & so far i'm really loving it alot .. ! ໒꒰ྀི∩˃ ᵕ ˂∩꒱ྀི১ i really love writing about dark themes / taboo concepts cos it allows me to explore stuff in my writing that y'all have never really seen from me b4 .. ! c: anyways, now that y'all have been warned in advance for the next lil dark fic, i'll be seeing y'all asap .. 🐾 keep ur eyes open for some lil updates & maybe a teaser / sneak peek that's coming soon .. ⸜̑⸝͂ ⸌̑⸍͂

[aemnd-moved]

ewan mitchell wearing alexander mcqueen™ at the fashion awards, 2025. ⸜̑⸝͂ ⸌̑⸍͂

[aemnd-moved]

⸜̑⸝͂ ⋮ mdni, 18+ › book-canon!aemond 𝑥 little sister!reader ꪆৎ 𓏲 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒. hi, sweet bbs! ໒꒰ ⑅˶ᵔᵕᵔ˶꒱♡ i'm sry if u expected more from this drabble, but i'm currently on my period & i'm v horny.. ꒰∩∩ ྀིᥩ꒱ so this is literally just porn with v lil plot, lols. oki, happy reading, lil angels, & don't forget to lmk what y'all think! ⸜̑⸝͂ ⚔︎ ⊹ cw: pwp. incest. dubcon. manipulation. fingering. mean!obsessive!aemond. silver-haired!reader. possessiveness. aemond is lowkey v perverted in this. not edited.

you've always felt safest in the shadowy halls of the red keep, where torchlight flickers like caught breaths and the ancient stone seems to murmur warnings and lullabies in the same hushed tone. the walls bear the weight of centuries—of kings, queens, betrayals, and spilled blood—and you've grown up learning to read their silences as clearly as any chronicle. the salted wind from the blackwater bay slips through narrow windows and arrow slits, carrying the sharp tang of the sea and the distant, bone-deep rumble of dragons turning in their dens, as if reminding you with every gust of the legacy coiled in your veins.

as the youngest of the targtower brood, you drift after your siblings with the quiet inevitability of a shadow trailing the sun. aegon barrels ahead of you in bursts of reckless light—wild laughter echoing through the corridors, wine-stained mirth that bounces off stone as if daring the keep itself to scold him. helaena drifts beside him yet apart, murmuring her soft, cryptic visions to the embroidered sleeves of her gowns, fingers brushing along tapestries as though she senses truths woven between the threads. and then there is aemond—ever watchful, ever austere—his sharp, piercing eye finding you with the precision of a freshly sharpened blade's point, as if measuring every fear you hide and every truth you have yet to understand.

you move among them like the gentlest breeze after a storm, unnoticed at times yet woven into their orbit, a quiet pulse in the restless heart of a dynasty built on fire and blood. but it's aemond who watches you the most, his single violet eye tracking your every step since you were old enough to toddle after him on little feet. he's been your constant shadow, your shield, ever since that day long ago when he claimed vhagar on driftmark and returned with blistering fire in his veins, vengeance forming in his blackening heart, and his left eye swollen and bloodied, cut out due to the pug-faced bastard, lucerys velaryon.

you don't quite remember a time without his fierce protection, his unwavering devotion, the way he'd shove aside anyone who looked at you too long, his voice a low, furious hiss—she's mine to guard. nights like this, when the castle begins to quiet down and the moon spills thin, silvery beams through your chamber windows, you lie awake in your cool, silken sheets, heart fluttering like a caged bird.

the door creaks open without a sound; only you would notice, of course, attuned to him as the tide is to the moon. aemond slips inside, his tall frame cloaked in black, the faint click of his boots softened by the rushes. he's twenty now—all lean muscle, coiled intensity, long silver hair unbound like a warrior's mane.

you pretend to sleep, peeking through your silver lashes, savoring the quiet thrill of this game he enjoys playing with you, the one where he believes you innocent to his nightly visits. he approaches the bed with predatory grace, the air thickening with his scent—smoke from the dragon pits, leather from his riding gear, and something darker, uniquely him.

you feel the mattress dip as he sits on the edge, his large, calloused hand—scarred from reins and swordsmanship—reaches out to brush a delicate curl of your silvery-white tresses from your face. his touch is feather-light at first, tracing the gentle curve of your plump cheek, down to your elegant neck where your pulse flutters under his warm, rough fingertips.

"little sister," he coos, voice like a dark, velvety purr, laced with that teasing edge that always makes your cheeks burn with shame, your belly clenching with nerves, and your virgin cunt ache with uncontrollable desire. "always so sweet for me, so untouched, even in your dreams. tell me, sweet girl… do you dream of me yet?"

you stir then, as he intends, blinking up at him with your wide, naïve eyes—the soft-hearted girl he adores, who believes in the goodness of the world despite the poisonous vipers nesting in it. "lēkia? w-wha… what are you doing here? 'tis late..." your voice is a small whisper, breathy and uncertain, but there's no fear. no, you'd never fear your beloved brother.

he's always been your favorite sibling; after all, he's your loyal protector, the one who would chase off the young lordlings who pulled your braids and teased you mercilessly for your sensitive nature, and the one who always placed himself between you and father's cold disapproval. he chuckles, low and tender, leaning closer until his breath brushes your lips.

"can't your big brother check on his precious kin? or do you think i come for other reasons, hm? my naïve little dove, fluttering in her cage, all alone." his words sting just enough to make you squirm, but his eye burns with something deeper—obsession, raw and unyielding, the love that's always simmered in him since you came out from mother's womb, a babe he claimed in his heart long before he ever understood the meaning.

he's savored you growing up, your girlish body softening into soft, womanly curves under those modest gowns that mother always insisted upon you to wear, your laughter ringing like the sound of church bells in the gardens, always luring him to stand by your side, to stand guard and protect. no suitor would ever touch you; no, he's made quite certain of that with his devilish glares and whispered threats of his deadly wrath.

before you can protest, his mouth claims yours—not gentle, but starving, his tongue sweeping in to taste the addicting sweetness he often craves. you gasp against him, small hands pressing against his chest, feeling the hard planes of defined muscles beneath his tunic. he's possessive in his kisses, nipping your lower lip until it swells to his preference, drawing a small, meek whimper from you that he swallows down most greedily.

"so responsive," he teases, a low purr rumbling in his chest, pulling back just enough to watch your flushed face. "what would the court say if they knew their pure little princess melts for her brother's touch, hm? or are you far too dimwitted to see just how much you tempt me, hāedar?" he hums, raising a pale eyebrow.

the slight mockery curls his lips into a small, amused smirk, but his hand slides down your silky nightshift, cupping your plump breast through the delicate fabric, the pad of his thumb circling the hardening nipple until you arch into him, keening beautifully. you shake your head, sweet and stubborn as ever, soft curls tangling on the pillow, your mind a whirl of confusion and liquid heat pooling low in your belly.

"ae-aem… aemy, w-we shouldn't... mother would—" but your words dissolve into a soft, breathy moan as he pushes the shift up higher, exposing your heated skin to the cool night air. his large palm flattens against your stomach, tracing lower, fingers dipping between your plush thighs to find the slick, glossy folds of your cunt. he's touched you like this before, in the dead of night, teaching your body secrets your innocent heart doesn't yet fully grasp.

but he never takes that final step—no, he's never buried his cock inside you. at least, not yet; you already know your brother has always preferred savoring the chase, the way you bloom beneath his greedy hands like a precious bloom rooted in forbidden soil. "shh, sweetling," he soothes, though his tone drips with amusement at your naïvety. "i'd burn the fucking world to ashes before i would ever let another man have you, let alone touch you."

"no, you're mine, little sister, just as you've always been, ever since you left our mother's womb, crying and wailing into the night." his long, spidery fingers part your slippery folds, stroking the sensitive pearl of your needy clit with deliberate slowness, making your hips buck up involuntarily against his hand. you're wet for him already—embarrassingly so—your body betraying how much you've come to need these hushed, stolen moments with him, even if your soft, pious heart often whispers about how sinful your meetings with your older brother truly are.

he watches you intently, that sapphire gemstone glinting like an ominous warning in the moonlight, his obsession a living flame. he's loved you eternally, from the cradle, where he'd sneak in to just to watch over you while you slept soundly, to now, when he fights the violent urge to claim you fully, to pin you down and fuck you raw until you scream his name as his wife, his queen, unable to stop imagining your tiny cunt gaping, your belly full of his seed, your maidenhead torn apart, bloodied and spent, and bred like a common whore from the streets of silk.

you clutch at his broad shoulders, manicured nails digging into the fabric of his tunic, a soft gasp escaping from your pouty lips as he slips one long, nimble finger inside you, then two, curling them to stroke that sweet spot punishingly, making euphoric stars burst behind your fluttering eyelids. "ae-aemy... please, i-i can't—" you whine, babbling pure nonsense, your voice high-pitched and needy, not even sure what you're pleading for.

the stretch of his skilled fingers inside your virgin cunt burns sweetly with pain mixed with pleasure, your silken walls clenching around him as he pumps his fingers in and out, nice and slow and deep, the pad of his thumb still teasing your clit with quick, mean strokes. he leans down, capturing your nipple in his mouth, sucking hard enough to leave an obvious mark—his mark, hidden beneath your gown for the morrow.

"look at you; it's almost pathetic how eager you are for your brother's fingers… if not a tad endearing," he laughs, mocking, his voice gruff with restraint. his cock strains against his leathers, thick and hard and aching with the desperate need to stuff you full to the brim, but he ignores it, for now, focused entirely on your pleasure, on drawing out those sweet, breathy little cries that are music to his possessive soul.

"what a dumb, silly little girl you are, sister. thinking you could ever escape me," he chuckles, his voice dry and vicious. "i've thought about it, of course. i'd chain you to my side, keep you with me forever, and ride vhagar with you bound to me as we fly across the narrow sea, if i must." the words are half-jest, half-promise, a subtle threat, his free hand tangling in your soft, slightly matted curls to tilt your head back, exposing the slender column of your lovely throat for his teeth to graze, a clear warning of danger to come.

"i'd never leave you dry or wanting; i'd always keep you full of me, stuffed full of my seed—always safe, always loved, always mine," he continues with a cruel laugh, voice low and viciously gentle. "hmm... you know what else i think, sweet sister? i think you'd actually like that, wouldn't you?" he hums. "mmh, yes, i think you'd beg me to fill your belly with my sons," he taunts, smirking mischievously as his sapphire eye gleams with nefarious intent. "...and plenty of daughters, too. girls who're just as pretty as their mother."

the pressure builds, coiling tight in your belly as he quickens his pace, fingers thrusting deeper, slick sounds filling the chamber. you're naïve to the ways of men, but your body knows him, responds to his every touch like it was made for him. "come for me, little one," he commands, his eye locked on yours, intense and unblinking. "show me how much you love your lēkia." the orgasm that rips through your body crashes over you then, waves of endless ecstasy pulsing throughout your shaking limbs, your cunt spasming around his fingers as you cry out, muffled against his shoulder.

fat tears prick your eyes from the intensity, your soft heart overwhelmed by the forbidden bliss. he holds you through it, murmuring endearments laced with that teasing bite—my perfect, foolish girl—until your tremors start to fade. gently, he withdraws his hand from between your thighs, bringing his glistening fingers up to your lips. "taste yourself," he orders, and you do, shyly, your little pink tongue darting out as he watches with dark satisfaction.

then he kisses you again, softer this time, tasting the evidence of your sweet submission. and as dawn threatens the horizon, he rises, adjusting your shift with surprising tenderness. "sleep now, ñuha jorrāeliarzy," he coos, brushing a kiss to your forehead. "dream of me, as i dream of you—eternally." he slips from your chambers like a ghost, leaving you curled in the sheets, body humming with aftershocks, heart full of his obsessive love. of course, you know he'll return tomorrow night, and the next, chasing you in this endless dance he's destined to perform with you, his darling little sister. he's yours just as much as you're his, bound by blood and something fiercer, and in the quiet, you smile, safe in the knowledge that he'll never let you go.

© 𝑎𝑒𝑚𝑛𝑑. est, 2025.

[aemnd-moved]

ₙₒₘ ₙₒₘ ₙₒₘ ⸜̑⸝͂

[aemnd-moved]

⸜̑⸝͂ ⋮ mdni, 18+ › book-canon!aemond 𝑥 little sister!reader ꪆৎ 𓏲 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒. hi, sweet bbs! ໒꒰ ⑅˶ᵔᵕᵔ˶꒱♡ i'm sry if u expected more from this drabble, but i'm currently on my period & i'm v horny.. ꒰∩∩ ྀིᥩ꒱ so this is literally just porn with v lil plot, lols. oki, happy reading, lil angels, & don't forget to lmk what y'all think! ⸜̑⸝͂ ⚔︎ ⊹ cw: pwp. incest. dubcon. manipulation. fingering. mean!obsessive!aemond. silver-haired!reader. possessiveness. aemond is lowkey v perverted in this. not edited.

you've always felt safest in the shadowy halls of the red keep, where torchlight flickers like caught breaths and the ancient stone seems to murmur warnings and lullabies in the same hushed tone. the walls bear the weight of centuries—of kings, queens, betrayals, and spilled blood—and you've grown up learning to read their silences as clearly as any chronicle. the salted wind from the blackwater bay slips through narrow windows and arrow slits, carrying the sharp tang of the sea and the distant, bone-deep rumble of dragons turning in their dens, as if reminding you with every gust of the legacy coiled in your veins.

as the youngest of the targtower brood, you drift after your siblings with the quiet inevitability of a shadow trailing the sun. aegon barrels ahead of you in bursts of reckless light—wild laughter echoing through the corridors, wine-stained mirth that bounces off stone as if daring the keep itself to scold him. helaena drifts beside him yet apart, murmuring her soft, cryptic visions to the embroidered sleeves of her gowns, fingers brushing along tapestries as though she senses truths woven between the threads. and then there is aemond—ever watchful, ever austere—his sharp, piercing eye finding you with the precision of a freshly sharpened blade's point, as if measuring every fear you hide and every truth you have yet to understand.

you move among them like the gentlest breeze after a storm, unnoticed at times yet woven into their orbit, a quiet pulse in the restless heart of a dynasty built on fire and blood. but it's aemond who watches you the most, his single violet eye tracking your every step since you were old enough to toddle after him on little feet. he's been your constant shadow, your shield, ever since that day long ago when he claimed vhagar on driftmark and returned with blistering fire in his veins, vengeance forming in his blackening heart, and his left eye swollen and bloodied, cut out due to the pug-faced bastard, lucerys velaryon.

you don't quite remember a time without his fierce protection, his unwavering devotion, the way he'd shove aside anyone who looked at you too long, his voice a low, furious hiss—she's mine to guard. nights like this, when the castle begins to quiet down and the moon spills thin, silvery beams through your chamber windows, you lie awake in your cool, silken sheets, heart fluttering like a caged bird.

the door creaks open without a sound; only you would notice, of course, attuned to him as the tide is to the moon. aemond slips inside, his tall frame cloaked in black, the faint click of his boots softened by the rushes. he's twenty now—all lean muscle, coiled intensity, long silver hair unbound like a warrior's mane.

you pretend to sleep, peeking through your silver lashes, savoring the quiet thrill of this game he enjoys playing with you, the one where he believes you innocent to his nightly visits. he approaches the bed with predatory grace, the air thickening with his scent—smoke from the dragon pits, leather from his riding gear, and something darker, uniquely him.

you feel the mattress dip as he sits on the edge, his large, calloused hand—scarred from reins and swordsmanship—reaches out to brush a delicate curl of your silvery-white tresses from your face. his touch is feather-light at first, tracing the gentle curve of your plump cheek, down to your elegant neck where your pulse flutters under his warm, rough fingertips.

"little sister," he coos, voice like a dark, velvety purr, laced with that teasing edge that always makes your cheeks burn with shame, your belly clenching with nerves, and your virgin cunt ache with uncontrollable desire. "always so sweet for me, so untouched, even in your dreams. tell me, sweet girl… do you dream of me yet?"

you stir then, as he intends, blinking up at him with your wide, naïve eyes—the soft-hearted girl he adores, who believes in the goodness of the world despite the poisonous vipers nesting in it. "lēkia? w-wha… what are you doing here? 'tis late..." your voice is a small whisper, breathy and uncertain, but there's no fear. no, you'd never fear your beloved brother.

he's always been your favorite sibling; after all, he's your loyal protector, the one who would chase off the young lordlings who pulled your braids and teased you mercilessly for your sensitive nature, and the one who always placed himself between you and father's cold disapproval. he chuckles, low and tender, leaning closer until his breath brushes your lips.

"can't your big brother check on his precious kin? or do you think i come for other reasons, hm? my naïve little dove, fluttering in her cage, all alone." his words sting just enough to make you squirm, but his eye burns with something deeper—obsession, raw and unyielding, the love that's always simmered in him since you came out from mother's womb, a babe he claimed in his heart long before he ever understood the meaning.

he's savored you growing up, your girlish body softening into soft, womanly curves under those modest gowns that mother always insisted upon you to wear, your laughter ringing like the sound of church bells in the gardens, always luring him to stand by your side, to stand guard and protect. no suitor would ever touch you; no, he's made quite certain of that with his devilish glares and whispered threats of his deadly wrath.

before you can protest, his mouth claims yours—not gentle, but starving, his tongue sweeping in to taste the addicting sweetness he often craves. you gasp against him, small hands pressing against his chest, feeling the hard planes of defined muscles beneath his tunic. he's possessive in his kisses, nipping your lower lip until it swells to his preference, drawing a small, meek whimper from you that he swallows down most greedily.

"so responsive," he teases, a low purr rumbling in his chest, pulling back just enough to watch your flushed face. "what would the court say if they knew their pure little princess melts for her brother's touch, hm? or are you far too dimwitted to see just how much you tempt me, hāedar?" he hums, raising a pale eyebrow.

the slight mockery curls his lips into a small, amused smirk, but his hand slides down your silky nightshift, cupping your plump breast through the delicate fabric, the pad of his thumb circling the hardening nipple until you arch into him, keening beautifully. you shake your head, sweet and stubborn as ever, soft curls tangling on the pillow, your mind a whirl of confusion and liquid heat pooling low in your belly.

"ae-aem… aemy, w-we shouldn't... mother would—" but your words dissolve into a soft, breathy moan as he pushes the shift up higher, exposing your heated skin to the cool night air. his large palm flattens against your stomach, tracing lower, fingers dipping between your plush thighs to find the slick, glossy folds of your cunt. he's touched you like this before, in the dead of night, teaching your body secrets your innocent heart doesn't yet fully grasp.

but he never takes that final step—no, he's never buried his cock inside you. at least, not yet; you already know your brother has always preferred savoring the chase, the way you bloom beneath his greedy hands like a precious bloom rooted in forbidden soil. "shh, sweetling," he soothes, though his tone drips with amusement at your naïvety. "i'd burn the fucking world to ashes before i would ever let another man have you, let alone touch you."

"no, you're mine, little sister, just as you've always been, ever since you left our mother's womb, crying and wailing into the night." his long, spidery fingers part your slippery folds, stroking the sensitive pearl of your needy clit with deliberate slowness, making your hips buck up involuntarily against his hand. you're wet for him already—embarrassingly so—your body betraying how much you've come to need these hushed, stolen moments with him, even if your soft, pious heart often whispers about how sinful your meetings with your older brother truly are.

he watches you intently, that sapphire gemstone glinting like an ominous warning in the moonlight, his obsession a living flame. he's loved you eternally, from the cradle, where he'd sneak in to just to watch over you while you slept soundly, to now, when he fights the violent urge to claim you fully, to pin you down and fuck you raw until you scream his name as his wife, his queen, unable to stop imagining your tiny cunt gaping, your belly full of his seed, your maidenhead torn apart, bloodied and spent, and bred like a common whore from the streets of silk.

you clutch at his broad shoulders, manicured nails digging into the fabric of his tunic, a soft gasp escaping from your pouty lips as he slips one long, nimble finger inside you, then two, curling them to stroke that sweet spot punishingly, making euphoric stars burst behind your fluttering eyelids. "ae-aemy... please, i-i can't—" you whine, babbling pure nonsense, your voice high-pitched and needy, not even sure what you're pleading for.

the stretch of his skilled fingers inside your virgin cunt burns sweetly with pain mixed with pleasure, your silken walls clenching around him as he pumps his fingers in and out, nice and slow and deep, the pad of his thumb still teasing your clit with quick, mean strokes. he leans down, capturing your nipple in his mouth, sucking hard enough to leave an obvious mark—his mark, hidden beneath your gown for the morrow.

"look at you; it's almost pathetic how eager you are for your brother's fingers… if not a tad endearing," he laughs, mocking, his voice gruff with restraint. his cock strains against his leathers, thick and hard and aching with the desperate need to stuff you full to the brim, but he ignores it, for now, focused entirely on your pleasure, on drawing out those sweet, breathy little cries that are music to his possessive soul.

"what a dumb, silly little girl you are, sister. thinking you could ever escape me," he chuckles, his voice dry and vicious. "i've thought about it, of course. i'd chain you to my side, keep you with me forever, and ride vhagar with you bound to me as we fly across the narrow sea, if i must." the words are half-jest, half-promise, a subtle threat, his free hand tangling in your soft, slightly matted curls to tilt your head back, exposing the slender column of your lovely throat for his teeth to graze, a clear warning of danger to come.

"i'd never leave you dry or wanting; i'd always keep you full of me, stuffed full of my seed—always safe, always loved, always mine," he continues with a cruel laugh, voice low and viciously gentle. "hmm... you know what else i think, sweet sister? i think you'd actually like that, wouldn't you?" he hums. "mmh, yes, i think you'd beg me to fill your belly with my sons," he taunts, smirking mischievously as his sapphire eye gleams with nefarious intent. "...and plenty of daughters, too. girls who're just as pretty as their mother."

the pressure builds, coiling tight in your belly as he quickens his pace, fingers thrusting deeper, slick sounds filling the chamber. you're naïve to the ways of men, but your body knows him, responds to his every touch like it was made for him. "come for me, little one," he commands, his eye locked on yours, intense and unblinking. "show me how much you love your lēkia." the orgasm that rips through your body crashes over you then, waves of endless ecstasy pulsing throughout your shaking limbs, your cunt spasming around his fingers as you cry out, muffled against his shoulder.

fat tears prick your eyes from the intensity, your soft heart overwhelmed by the forbidden bliss. he holds you through it, murmuring endearments laced with that teasing bite—my perfect, foolish girl—until your tremors start to fade. gently, he withdraws his hand from between your thighs, bringing his glistening fingers up to your lips. "taste yourself," he orders, and you do, shyly, your little pink tongue darting out as he watches with dark satisfaction.

then he kisses you again, softer this time, tasting the evidence of your sweet submission. and as dawn threatens the horizon, he rises, adjusting your shift with surprising tenderness. "sleep now, ñuha jorrāeliarzy," he coos, brushing a kiss to your forehead. "dream of me, as i dream of you—eternally." he slips from your chambers like a ghost, leaving you curled in the sheets, body humming with aftershocks, heart full of his obsessive love. of course, you know he'll return tomorrow night, and the next, chasing you in this endless dance he's destined to perform with you, his darling little sister. he's yours just as much as you're his, bound by blood and something fiercer, and in the quiet, you smile, safe in the knowledge that he'll never let you go.

© 𝑎𝑒𝑚𝑛𝑑. est, 2025.

[aemnd-moved]

hi! i'm currently experimenting w writing in third person pov & i think i'm rlly starting to enjoy it .. ෆ side note, y'all will be getting a long, smutty oneshot of professional ballet dancer!aemond 𝑥 his ballerina!twin sister sometime during this week .. 𓍢ִ໋ ˖ ⁺ 𝄞 𓈒 ݁⑅ 🦢 ྀ ༘ 𓊇ྀི

[aemnd-moved]

⸜̑⸝͂ ⋮ mdni, 18+ › book-canon!aemond 𝑥 little sister!reader ꪆৎ 𓏲 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒. hi, sweet bbs! ໒꒰ ⑅˶ᵔᵕᵔ˶꒱♡ i'm sry if u expected more from this drabble, but i'm currently on my period & i'm v horny.. ꒰∩∩ ྀིᥩ꒱ so this is literally just porn with v lil plot, lols. oki, happy reading, lil angels, & don't forget to lmk what y'all think! ⸜̑⸝͂ ⚔︎ ⊹ cw: pwp. incest. dubcon. manipulation. fingering. mean!obsessive!aemond. silver-haired!reader. possessiveness. aemond is lowkey v perverted in this. not edited.

you've always felt safest in the shadowy halls of the red keep, where torchlight flickers like caught breaths and the ancient stone seems to murmur warnings and lullabies in the same hushed tone. the walls bear the weight of centuries—of kings, queens, betrayals, and spilled blood—and you've grown up learning to read their silences as clearly as any chronicle. the salted wind from the blackwater bay slips through narrow windows and arrow slits, carrying the sharp tang of the sea and the distant, bone-deep rumble of dragons turning in their dens, as if reminding you with every gust of the legacy coiled in your veins.

as the youngest of the targtower brood, you drift after your siblings with the quiet inevitability of a shadow trailing the sun. aegon barrels ahead of you in bursts of reckless light—wild laughter echoing through the corridors, wine-stained mirth that bounces off stone as if daring the keep itself to scold him. helaena drifts beside him yet apart, murmuring her soft, cryptic visions to the embroidered sleeves of her gowns, fingers brushing along tapestries as though she senses truths woven between the threads. and then there is aemond—ever watchful, ever austere—his sharp, piercing eye finding you with the precision of a freshly sharpened blade's point, as if measuring every fear you hide and every truth you have yet to understand.

you move among them like the gentlest breeze after a storm, unnoticed at times yet woven into their orbit, a quiet pulse in the restless heart of a dynasty built on fire and blood. but it's aemond who watches you the most, his single violet eye tracking your every step since you were old enough to toddle after him on little feet. he's been your constant shadow, your shield, ever since that day long ago when he claimed vhagar on driftmark and returned with blistering fire in his veins, vengeance forming in his blackening heart, and his left eye swollen and bloodied, cut out due to the pug-faced bastard, lucerys velaryon.

you don't quite remember a time without his fierce protection, his unwavering devotion, the way he'd shove aside anyone who looked at you too long, his voice a low, furious hiss—she's mine to guard. nights like this, when the castle begins to quiet down and the moon spills thin, silvery beams through your chamber windows, you lie awake in your cool, silken sheets, heart fluttering like a caged bird.

the door creaks open without a sound; only you would notice, of course, attuned to him as the tide is to the moon. aemond slips inside, his tall frame cloaked in black, the faint click of his boots softened by the rushes. he's twenty now—all lean muscle, coiled intensity, long silver hair unbound like a warrior's mane.

you pretend to sleep, peeking through your silver lashes, savoring the quiet thrill of this game he enjoys playing with you, the one where he believes you innocent to his nightly visits. he approaches the bed with predatory grace, the air thickening with his scent—smoke from the dragon pits, leather from his riding gear, and something darker, uniquely him.

you feel the mattress dip as he sits on the edge, his large, calloused hand—scarred from reins and swordsmanship—reaches out to brush a delicate curl of your silvery-white tresses from your face. his touch is feather-light at first, tracing the gentle curve of your plump cheek, down to your elegant neck where your pulse flutters under his warm, rough fingertips.

"little sister," he coos, voice like a dark, velvety purr, laced with that teasing edge that always makes your cheeks burn with shame, your belly clenching with nerves, and your virgin cunt ache with uncontrollable desire. "always so sweet for me, so untouched, even in your dreams. tell me, sweet girl… do you dream of me yet?"

you stir then, as he intends, blinking up at him with your wide, naïve eyes—the soft-hearted girl he adores, who believes in the goodness of the world despite the poisonous vipers nesting in it. "lēkia? w-wha… what are you doing here? 'tis late..." your voice is a small whisper, breathy and uncertain, but there's no fear. no, you'd never fear your beloved brother.

he's always been your favorite sibling; after all, he's your loyal protector, the one who would chase off the young lordlings who pulled your braids and teased you mercilessly for your sensitive nature, and the one who always placed himself between you and father's cold disapproval. he chuckles, low and tender, leaning closer until his breath brushes your lips.

"can't your big brother check on his precious kin? or do you think i come for other reasons, hm? my naïve little dove, fluttering in her cage, all alone." his words sting just enough to make you squirm, but his eye burns with something deeper—obsession, raw and unyielding, the love that's always simmered in him since you came out from mother's womb, a babe he claimed in his heart long before he ever understood the meaning.

he's savored you growing up, your girlish body softening into soft, womanly curves under those modest gowns that mother always insisted upon you to wear, your laughter ringing like the sound of church bells in the gardens, always luring him to stand by your side, to stand guard and protect. no suitor would ever touch you; no, he's made quite certain of that with his devilish glares and whispered threats of his deadly wrath.

before you can protest, his mouth claims yours—not gentle, but starving, his tongue sweeping in to taste the addicting sweetness he often craves. you gasp against him, small hands pressing against his chest, feeling the hard planes of defined muscles beneath his tunic. he's possessive in his kisses, nipping your lower lip until it swells to his preference, drawing a small, meek whimper from you that he swallows down most greedily.

"so responsive," he teases, a low purr rumbling in his chest, pulling back just enough to watch your flushed face. "what would the court say if they knew their pure little princess melts for her brother's touch, hm? or are you far too dimwitted to see just how much you tempt me, hāedar?" he hums, raising a pale eyebrow.

the slight mockery curls his lips into a small, amused smirk, but his hand slides down your silky nightshift, cupping your plump breast through the delicate fabric, the pad of his thumb circling the hardening nipple until you arch into him, keening beautifully. you shake your head, sweet and stubborn as ever, soft curls tangling on the pillow, your mind a whirl of confusion and liquid heat pooling low in your belly.

"ae-aem… aemy, w-we shouldn't... mother would—" but your words dissolve into a soft, breathy moan as he pushes the shift up higher, exposing your heated skin to the cool night air. his large palm flattens against your stomach, tracing lower, fingers dipping between your plush thighs to find the slick, glossy folds of your cunt. he's touched you like this before, in the dead of night, teaching your body secrets your innocent heart doesn't yet fully grasp.

but he never takes that final step—no, he's never buried his cock inside you. at least, not yet; you already know your brother has always preferred savoring the chase, the way you bloom beneath his greedy hands like a precious bloom rooted in forbidden soil. "shh, sweetling," he soothes, though his tone drips with amusement at your naïvety. "i'd burn the fucking world to ashes before i would ever let another man have you, let alone touch you."

"no, you're mine, little sister, just as you've always been, ever since you left our mother's womb, crying and wailing into the night." his long, spidery fingers part your slippery folds, stroking the sensitive pearl of your needy clit with deliberate slowness, making your hips buck up involuntarily against his hand. you're wet for him already—embarrassingly so—your body betraying how much you've come to need these hushed, stolen moments with him, even if your soft, pious heart often whispers about how sinful your meetings with your older brother truly are.

he watches you intently, that sapphire gemstone glinting like an ominous warning in the moonlight, his obsession a living flame. he's loved you eternally, from the cradle, where he'd sneak in to just to watch over you while you slept soundly, to now, when he fights the violent urge to claim you fully, to pin you down and fuck you raw until you scream his name as his wife, his queen, unable to stop imagining your tiny cunt gaping, your belly full of his seed, your maidenhead torn apart, bloodied and spent, and bred like a common whore from the streets of silk.

you clutch at his broad shoulders, manicured nails digging into the fabric of his tunic, a soft gasp escaping from your pouty lips as he slips one long, nimble finger inside you, then two, curling them to stroke that sweet spot punishingly, making euphoric stars burst behind your fluttering eyelids. "ae-aemy... please, i-i can't—" you whine, babbling pure nonsense, your voice high-pitched and needy, not even sure what you're pleading for.

the stretch of his skilled fingers inside your virgin cunt burns sweetly with pain mixed with pleasure, your silken walls clenching around him as he pumps his fingers in and out, nice and slow and deep, the pad of his thumb still teasing your clit with quick, mean strokes. he leans down, capturing your nipple in his mouth, sucking hard enough to leave an obvious mark—his mark, hidden beneath your gown for the morrow.

"look at you; it's almost pathetic how eager you are for your brother's fingers… if not a tad endearing," he laughs, mocking, his voice gruff with restraint. his cock strains against his leathers, thick and hard and aching with the desperate need to stuff you full to the brim, but he ignores it, for now, focused entirely on your pleasure, on drawing out those sweet, breathy little cries that are music to his possessive soul.

"what a dumb, silly little girl you are, sister. thinking you could ever escape me," he chuckles, his voice dry and vicious. "i've thought about it, of course. i'd chain you to my side, keep you with me forever, and ride vhagar with you bound to me as we fly across the narrow sea, if i must." the words are half-jest, half-promise, a subtle threat, his free hand tangling in your soft, slightly matted curls to tilt your head back, exposing the slender column of your lovely throat for his teeth to graze, a clear warning of danger to come.

"i'd never leave you dry or wanting; i'd always keep you full of me, stuffed full of my seed—always safe, always loved, always mine," he continues with a cruel laugh, voice low and viciously gentle. "hmm... you know what else i think, sweet sister? i think you'd actually like that, wouldn't you?" he hums. "mmh, yes, i think you'd beg me to fill your belly with my sons," he taunts, smirking mischievously as his sapphire eye gleams with nefarious intent. "...and plenty of daughters, too. girls who're just as pretty as their mother."

the pressure builds, coiling tight in your belly as he quickens his pace, fingers thrusting deeper, slick sounds filling the chamber. you're naïve to the ways of men, but your body knows him, responds to his every touch like it was made for him. "come for me, little one," he commands, his eye locked on yours, intense and unblinking. "show me how much you love your lēkia." the orgasm that rips through your body crashes over you then, waves of endless ecstasy pulsing throughout your shaking limbs, your cunt spasming around his fingers as you cry out, muffled against his shoulder.

fat tears prick your eyes from the intensity, your soft heart overwhelmed by the forbidden bliss. he holds you through it, murmuring endearments laced with that teasing bite—my perfect, foolish girl—until your tremors start to fade. gently, he withdraws his hand from between your thighs, bringing his glistening fingers up to your lips. "taste yourself," he orders, and you do, shyly, your little pink tongue darting out as he watches with dark satisfaction.

then he kisses you again, softer this time, tasting the evidence of your sweet submission. and as dawn threatens the horizon, he rises, adjusting your shift with surprising tenderness. "sleep now, ñuha jorrāeliarzy," he coos, brushing a kiss to your forehead. "dream of me, as i dream of you—eternally." he slips from your chambers like a ghost, leaving you curled in the sheets, body humming with aftershocks, heart full of his obsessive love. of course, you know he'll return tomorrow night, and the next, chasing you in this endless dance he's destined to perform with you, his darling little sister. he's yours just as much as you're his, bound by blood and something fiercer, and in the quiet, you smile, safe in the knowledge that he'll never let you go.

© 𝑎𝑒𝑚𝑛𝑑. est, 2025.

[aemnd-moved]

mm.. gonna try my best to release this nasty lil pwp drabble of book-canon!aemond 𝑥 his naïve little sister!reader asap .. !! maybe sometime late 2night or tmrw .. ૮ ᵒ̴̶̷ ᵕ ก̀ ྀིა pls wish ur favorite girly some luck cause these cramps aren't playin, lols .. ෆ

[aemnd-moved]

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

yes!

no!

mine 2 click .. ෆ

Voting ended onNov 24, 2025

[aemnd-moved]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© 𝑎𝑒𝑚𝑛𝑑. est, 2025.

[aemnd-moved]

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

—𝒷𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝒷𝑦 𝓅𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑒 & 𝒷𝑜𝑛𝑒 ⏾ ₊ ݁ ⊹

☠︎︎ ❀ ☠︎︎

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

☠︎︎ ❀ ☠︎︎

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

☠︎︎ ❀ ☠︎︎

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

☠︎︎ ❀ ☠︎︎

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

☠︎︎ ❀ ☠︎︎

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

☠︎︎ ❀ ☠︎︎

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

☠︎︎ ❀ ☠︎︎

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

❀ ᴇᴘɪʟᴏɢᴜᴇ—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑒𝑛𝑑.

© 𝑎𝑒𝑚𝑛𝑑. est, 2025.

[aemnd-moved]

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

[aemnd-moved]

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

[aemnd-moved]

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

ɪ. · ♰

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

i do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ɪɪ. · ♰

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

aemond, aemond, aemond….

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

always.

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

ɪɪɪ. · ♰

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

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

my love….

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

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

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

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

"always," you breathe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he stills. "no."

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

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

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

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

"i do not wish to return."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© 𝑎𝑒𝑚𝑛𝑑. est, 2025.

[aemnd-moved]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© 𝑎𝑒𝑚𝑛𝑑. est, 2025.

[aemnd-moved]

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

you should write a drabble about this idk 👀

⸜̑⸝͂ ⋮ 2:43am.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© 𝑎𝑒𝑚𝑛𝑑. est, 2025.