I have a type.

18+ Writing fanfiction about the characters I obsess over. Daemon, Homelander

[mmogurl]

Master List

Hey, I'm Mgurl / mmogurl and I write fic about Homelander and Daemon Targaryen. Fic index below! Sticking to a schedule has been difficult.. So how about we just try to get something posted on Tuesday.. LOL. Fic requests will always be considered, so don't hesitate to send me an ask. If I like the idea, I'll run with it. If not, don't take it personally. The creative mind is a fickle mistress. <3

House of the Dragon

In the Shadow of Dragons (Updates Tuesdays) Start Reading > Chapter 1 | x Original Female Niece OC | Ryna 48k | WIP Currently on Chapter 9 | Read on AO3 Dragonseed Start Reading > Chapter 1 | x Female Dragonseed Reader | You 9.3k | WIP Currently on Chapter 2 | Read on AO3

Last To Fall Start Reading > Chapter 1 | x Female Maid / Dragonseed Reader | You 17.4k | WIP Currently on Chapter 3 | Read on AO3

The Boys

Sympathy for the Homelander (Still Working on Getting This Posted) Start Reading > Chapter 1 | x Original Female OC | Natalie 55.5k | WIP Currently on Chapter 15 | Read on AO3

Daddy Issues Start Reading > Chapter 1 | x Female Reader | You 10k | WIP Currently on Chapter 4 | Read on AO3

[mmogurl]

Short Hiatus

Sorry I didn't get a new chapter out today.. And probably won't for at least another week or so. I have been sick since the day after Halloween.. and finally got to the doctor today since it just wasn't going away and found out I have pneumonia. I've had horrible brain fog, so writing is impossible. Hopefully, it will go away soon now that I have antibiotics.

[mmogurl]

In The Shadow of Dragons Chapter 1: Requited Passions

18+ | 7.2k | Daemon Targaryen X Female OC | possessive, protective, objectifying, simping, raunchy Daemon | Uncle / niece incest, Smut, Dragons, Political Intrigue, Plotting, Murder, lots of old timey concepts that don't make a lot of sense today, but are still kind of hot/fun.

The second born daughter of King Viserys Targaryen, Ryna, is nine and ten years old and still unwed. Despite being surrounded by suitors, she has yet to find a man who captures her interest, and bristles at the pressure to select a husband. But a chance encounter with her enigmatic uncle, Daemon, promises to disrupt all her assumptions and to set her on a path she could never have anticipated. (Loosely set in episode 6, but Laena has already died a year prior)

CH 1 | CH 2 | CH 3 | CH 4 | CH 5 | CH 6 | CH 7 | CH 8 | CH 9 Also on AO3

The Great Hall was bristling with celebration held in honor of Viserys’ latest grandson, Joffrey Velaryon. The massive chamber was alight with dancing shadows, decorated grandiosely with Targaryen tapestries hung where all could witness to demonstrate wealth and power. Long tables filled with the most toothsome of fine delicacies lined both sides of the throne room. Perhaps Father was trying to distract the noble assembly with pomp, away from the very obvious fact that Rhaenyra’s children were all bastards.

Numerous guests filed in with their entourages in tow, announced by the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Criston Cole. Ryna grimaced at who he declared next.

“House Lannister with their lord, Jason Lannister, Lord Paramount of the West, and Master of Casterly Rock,” Cole’s voice was stout enough, but had nowhere near the authority his predecessor, Lord Harrold Westerling had in his day.

The Lannister strode at the head of his retinue, like a preening peacock adorned in so much crimson and gold that one might think he were royalty and not the hosting family.

Ryna sat sandwiched between her good-brother Laenor Velaryon and Lyonel Strong, a position that made her feel most irritable as she was not even allowed the courtesy of being placed next to her own kin. The Hand was pleasant enough, albeit mostly a stranger, but she had never grown close to Laenor given how much time he spent preoccupied with affairs outside of his marriage.

As always her father, Viserys, sat proudly next to Rhaenyra, his named heir and, one might wonder at times, favored daughter, despite how much he protested to the contrary.

When the Lannister party drew close to the high table, Lord Jason bowed before them with a flourish and as his party withdrew, he climbed the steps and approached the King.

“Congratulations, Your Grace,” he fawned in the manner only a Lannister could muster, a tone both disrespectful and servile at the same time. “Healthy babes are a worthy cause for celebration. Where is the strapping lad? I had hoped to pay my respects.”

Rhaenyra piped up this time, looking exhausted and not fully recovered from child bearing even though it had been days since Joffrey’s birth. Ryna supposed the wee babe had been keeping her awake more often than not.

“Prince Joffrey is resting. He would not tolerate staying up any longer. You know how babes are, always sleeping,” she replied, playing into Jason’s feigned deference.

It was then that the Lannister shot a glance down the table at Ryna. She tried to smile just politely enough so as not to encourage more attentions from the man, but it was without success.

“Your Grace…” he started off in that same falsely sycophantic tenor. “Has the Princess given any more thought to the courtship I proposed?”

Father looked down the table at her, leaning forward slightly so that he might see the expression on her face. Ryna’s eyes were pleading ‘No’ while trying to remain civil in the lord’s presence. Viserys’ features hardened with annoyance and he rested back into his chair.

“The Princess should be happy to consider your attentions. After all she is but ten and nine summers and still not wed,” his voice was stony and strict, markedly cross with her for shirking her duties even longer than Rhaenyra had.

Jason Lannister ruffled his feathers as he voiced appreciation to her father and stepped down the length of the table until he came to stand before her. Ryna had to choke back a smirk when the thought occurred to her that the Lannister’s sigil should be a primping cock instead of a lion, for Jason had more in common with a fowl than the fearsome and proud predator.

“Princess, I trust you will save me a dance?” he squawked and it took all she had to keep from rolling her eyes.

“I shall try, Lord Jason,” she answered with a prim smile through grit teeth. “But, I have not been feeling well. It might be something I ate.”

Father shot her an irate look and Ryna had no doubt that if they had been seated next to each other, that she would have felt his palpable frustration.

“The Princess is in good health,” Viserys said, with a snide smile. “Expect her company once the revelry starts.”

With a pompous smirk, Jason Lannister excused himself and made his way down the steps and back to the banquet. Ryna heaved a sigh, finding it difficult to hide her true feelings on this subject, despite years of learning to comport herself in the presence of refined company.

Viserys was still glaring at her, and she reckoned he might be wrathful enough to cause a row amongst guests and their kin alike.

“Ryna, draw near,” he called out and she rose from her seat and came to where he sat.

“We are gathered here today to celebrate the birth of my grandchild, but unofficially, I had hoped you’d make use of the congregation of eligible lords and find a husband once and for all. Enough of this procrastination. Find a man worthy or I shall make the choice for you.” His voice was low so that the company in attendance of the great feast could not hear them.

“You would wed me to a Lannister?” she practically spat. “Just to fill the coffers with his dowry?!”

“Watch your tone with me, girl. You have heard me and I will not suffer your insolence any longer. Leave me so I might enjoy the festivities.” Viserys turned his head back to the next guests approaching the King’s table. He was done with her, his decision final.

Ryna could not help but to stomp swiftly away with a childish petulance that did not become a lady. Leaving her family behind, she slipped into the shadows of the great pillars that lined the throne room and made her way down a short corridor until she was outside in the crisp night air.

She let out a troubled sigh, wishing now that she had brought a goblet of wine with her. Ryna walked to the edge of the stone parapet and looked down at the splendor of King’s Landing in fall of the leaf. The color marking the trees was apparent even at nightfall and the sea was glittering in the moonlight just past the city’s edge. The sight made her feel both reverence and panic in equal measure, with a mounting desire to climb atop her dragon and take flight away.

Why should a princess of Valyrian blood be constrained to laws of man when she had the power to tame a dragon? She should be free to do as she longed to - to wed whom she desired, and not be forced to play along to such formal vulgarities, duty or not.

Ryna was so deep in thought that the nearby sound of a clearing throat startled her back to awareness. She turned sharply and could just barely make out the figure of a man leaning against the massive stone bricks of the castle wall behind her. Then her eyes caught the blinding billow of moonlit tresses and she knew it must be her uncle, Daemon, for no other Targaryen males yet had his height.

Daemon had returned from exile a year ago to attend to the funeral of his wife, Laena Velaryon, who had died in childbirth. Although to be more technically accurate, her dragon Vhagar had incinerated her once the baby would not come out. The end result was the same; Daemon widowed once again.

She had been closer with her uncle in the past, back before Rhaenyra’s wedding to Laenor, but her uncle had made himself scarce as of late. He spent much of his time away from King’s Landing, presumably finishing up his business in Pentos or simply behaving restlessly as Daemon was wont to do. Often she had observed his comings and goings from a distance by the sight and screech of Caraxes in the sky outside her window.

Daemon stepped forth from the shadows and approached her, yet halted at a pace’s length, his eyes roving up and down her form in keen appraisal.

He leaned in closely, his eyes of violet hooded as he whispered in a velvety, ardent tone, “My you’ve grown, niece.” His closeness and the heat of his gaze caused her cheeks to flush, and she could not help but feel a flutter in her chest.

For a moment, Ryna just stood there incredulously, unable to think of how to respond. He had never shown any interest in her before, no matter how much she had desired it. Daemon had only ever had eyes for Rhaenyra it seemed, and Ryna had always remained a child in his eyes. She had honestly forgotten those long lost unrequited desires until his simple greeting brought them all rushing back like a wave breaking hard as the tide comes in.

“Uncle,” she acknowledged him, yet scarce a word could she find in answer to his bold suggestion.

“Such beauty should never be sullied with a frown,” he continued, his demeanor charming without effort as he brushed a strand of blond hair behind her ear. “Tell Uncle what is troubling you.”

His inquiry proved to be somewhat of a balm to her tensions, providing a welcome transition into a topic she could put words to.

“Father has given me ultimatum to choose a husband lest he choose one for me,” she pouted, her lips pursing and her eyes sullen.

“Surely it cannot be so grim, sweetling,” he reassured her smoothly and she now saw he was holding a silver chalice adorned with the the three-headed dragon, likely filled with wine. “I imagine you’d have your pick of many fine and wealthy lords.”

“I’m afraid the selection is quite lacking,” Ryna scoffed gently, feeling a fondness stir as she recalled the old pet name he’d given her in many years past. It had been some time since she had heard him utter the word, but the fact that it sounded so well when spoken by him did not escape her notice.

Daemon quickly turned her around by the shoulder, then with a firm yet gentle hand placed against the small of her back, he led her towards the balustrade. His hand remained steadfast even as they halted, and Ryna shivered involuntarily at the feel of his fingers tracing the fabric of her gown with a tender and possessive touch.

“Let me guess,” he relished with sardonic glee. “Some old and fat oaf of a lord… No doubt a widower with a dozen children?”

“That and much worse,” she scowled thinking of all of the potential suitors that had approached her father for her hand. “A Lannister so full of himself that is makes my skin crawl to think of his paws upon me.”

An easy laugh escaped Daemon’s mouth and she thought with a wry smile that many must share her disgust for the lions.

“Ah, Lannisters. What a bunch of cunts,” he chuckled condescendingly, stealing a wanton glance down her bodice. “And the rest? Are there none suitable, niece?”

Ryna pondered the question, but could not think of a single man that had caught her attention. Except for Daemon of course, but that had never been a real option, especially after his transgressions with Rhaenyra some years back. Father had tried to keep it secret, but she’d crept into the throne room upon hearing his furious yelling and had heard the entire ordeal take place between the brothers.

Even still, she could not imagine marrying anyone of plain blood. In fact, it repulsed her to think that Father would ever marry a Hightower without an ounce of Valyrian heritage. And even though her brothers were technically half Targaryen, they were both young, and while Aemond seemed sweet, Aegon was a reprehensible human being.

The answer it seemed was simple after all. “No,” she replied curtly with a rueful sigh. “There are none who please me… But, I fear Father will not be thwarted this time. He will not permit me to celebrate my twentieth nameday without a husband.”

She glanced over at her uncle and took in the almost ethereal way his pale skin glowed in the moonlight. He hadn’t changed at all, like an ageless god from the legends she’d so loved as a girl. His hair swayed against his shoulder in the slight breeze as he took a sip from his cup.

“Ah yes, sweetling, It would seem your father has you in quite the bind,” he said matching her somber tone. “No doubt he believes that time is running short. That you must fulfill your duty to the family and start producing heirs before you get much older.”

“He has been patient with me. Rhaenyra shirked her duty at first, but still acquiesced to marry at seven and ten years, but I… Well, they will be calling me an old maid soon.” She hung her head down, feeling ashamed for the way she’d behaved towards her father. He had meant well for her after all, and Ryna had done nothing but rebuke him as reward for years of lax freedom.

Daemon removed his hand from her back, sliding it gently up her arm until it came to rest below her chin. He tipped her jaw up to meet his face and she was met with a kind smile.

“Do not ever lower your head, sweetling. You are a dragon,” he said warmly, letting go so that he could sit against the stone wall beneath the balustrade. “Now, perhaps we can solve this little problem.. What would make a suitor worthy of your hand in marriage?”

She felt a hot wave of embarrassment rise within her, for she knew well the answer that rested upon her tongue, yet dared not speak the words aloud. Surely, Father would never let her have him even if she begged on her knees. Even so, Ryna didn’t see the point in lying completely. She would be honest about the qualities she sought in a partner, even if not being direct about the person whom she had in mind.

“It is important to me that my offspring remain pure. I do not wish to mix with those who are laden to the ground. That doesn’t leave me with many options,” she spoke softly, her head tilting up towards her uncle as she finished.

There was an intrigued sparkle in Daemon’s eyes as he comprehended her words and a smile wove its way across his face. “A dragon’s clutch should remain undiluted and pure, I agree. The blood of Old Valyria is powerful and should be preserved.” He hummed in approval as he wrapped his free hand around her waist and pulled her a touch closer. She gasped softly, unaccustomed to being so close to him.

“Tell me, little dragon. Have you never considered your uncle as a match before?” Daemon’s words cut like his sword, Dark Sister, through the cool night air.

Ryna’s lips parted as if to speak, unsure of how to proceed. He had taken the bait she’d unintentionally laid out and given he suggested it himself, the prince must be partial to the idea. But, Daemon was an enigma and she found it difficult to gage his intentions at all times.

“I have,” she said concisely. “It is the only obvious choice when it comes to such aims, but… It is… complicated.”

She saw his eyes flare, brow rising in challenge as he gripped more tightly around her waist. He placed his chalice down on the stone and drew her even closer to him. His knee wedged between her skirts to rest between her legs and her breast was now pressing indecently against his chest. It was not a position she was familiar to enduring. Ryna knew she should pull away, but Daemon had lulled her into compliance like a Dragonkeeper.

“Oh? And why is it so complicated, sweetling?” he asked with a smug grin and mock concern as he looked down at her.

Her uncle’s words snapped her out of it. How could he feign ignorance to the current situation?

“After your,” she began but found her mouth grow exceptionally dry after only two words. She turned her head to the side and brought her hand to her lips, clearing her throat before she continued. “After your exploits with Rhaenyra, Uncle… I doubt Father would consider letting us wed.”

Daemon’s gaze darkened with the mention of Rhaenyra. “Ah yes, that little indiscretion.” He said with an air of indifference that turned into an irritated smirk. “What do you know of it?”

“I overheard the two of you in the Great Hall that day. Father’s booming voice drew me in and then I stayed once I saw you lying on the floor with guards on either side. I was worried for you, but then I heard Father’s words. That you had taken Rhaenyra’s purity in some brothel… And you did not deny it.” The memory was not a fond one for Ryna. She could remember the inebriated state he’d been in as he asked her father for Rhaenyra’s hand in marriage as a result of their transgression.

“No, I did not deny it. And I did not confirm it either,” his voice was harder than usual, sterner as though upset by her knowledge of what transpired that day. “In all truth, I didn’t do much. I merely took her to a decent establishment to show her the reality of life outside the castle.”

“If you did not sully her virture, then why would you not refute such slanderous claims made against you, Uncle? Why accept exile for it… Again?” she asked furrowing her eyebrows, her hands with a mind of their own coming to rest on his shoulders.

He chuffed like a dragon, the only aspect missing was perhaps smoke escaping from his nostrils. “Why would I deny it? What would be the point?” his words were gruff. “What could I have said to convince your father that Rhaenyra was still untouched? Was I supposed to prostrate myself before him as a loyal dog to prove it?”

“You were already at his feet. Why not tell him the truth? Unless you hoped only to make him believe you besmirched her honor, just so you might wed her and recover your claim to the throne,” there was a certain amount of hurt in her voice as well as misgiving.

Ryna had never spoken to her uncle in this manner, or anyone so far her elder for that matter. But, part of her felt scorned, wronged for how much stock he had placed in Rhaenyra instead of her. She had to know what his true motivations had been and what he was capable of carrying out in order to get what he desired.

“You are treading on thin ice, little girl,” he voiced dangerously as his grip on her hips tightened. “How dare you make me out to be some incorrigible fiend. If anyone has been wronged in this whole… ordeal it has been me.”

His knee shifted a bit higher between her legs as he pulled her hips forward onto his lap, his thigh pressed firmly against her center. She whined faintly with the force of it, even through the layers of her skirts it made her core throb with unknown want.

“Iksos bona skoros ao pendagon hen issa?” he resumed in a more measured tone, his voice lower now. Is that what you think of me?- “That I only wanted Rhaenyra for the throne?”

His hands slid up her back, pulling her flush against him. Ryna’s lips pressed against the leather of his collar as he whispered in her ear, “Or do I detect a hint of jealousy?”

Was she so transparent? The very thought of him reading her so accurately made her feel about as obvious as the sun is bright. Despite Daemon’s embarrassing insinuation, it was impossible to think whilst being held in such close proximity to him. She attempted to regain her composure, but his hot breath against her ear and the way he dug into her heat with his knee was driving her mad.

“And what if I was?” she finally blurted out. “You never once glanced my way, not like you did her. I do not wish to be second best even to my own husband.” Ryna tried to make distance, attempting to push away from his chest.

Daemon wouldn’t allow it. His grip was strong and possessive, making it clear that he was not willing to let her go just yet.

“Who said you would be second best?” his words spilled out gravely, sweet, yet viscous as they fell from his lips. “Have you so easily forgotten how I used to dote on you? How I called you my little sweetling? Do you not remember how I would let you ride with me on Caraxes before you claimed your own beast?”

Ryna was taken aback by his perception of the past, not realizing that her uncle had remembered her so fondly. Perhaps she had spent too much time dwelling on inconsequential matters. She peered up at Daemon as he held her forearms tightly in front of his chest. The matter of Rhaenyra was still of some concern, but clearly she was mistaken about a great deal.

“Yes, Uncle, I do recall. And that is what made my envy all the more dire when you attempted to pursue my sister, barely noticing me as I tried to bid you welcome home. I felt you had forsaken me in favor of her.” She didn’t feel obligated to mention how desperately lonely she had felt when he was sent away once again, nor the deep sense of heartache she had experienced upon hearing about his wedding to Laena.

Dameon’s grip on her lessened and the softness now present in his features made her feel a little more relaxed. His hands caressed up her back once more as he sat down on the stone parapet and brought her fully onto his lap. Ryna’s dress protested, the skirts fighting as he pulled her knees forward to straddle him. It was an obscene, intimate position for a young maiden, but she couldn’t help be reminded of better times when she found great comfort in that same lap.

“Your envy?” he mused almost sympathetically. “Have you been pining away for me all of this time, sweetling?”

“No,” she answered abruptly, feeling the hot sting of mortification as he continued to reveal the inner yearnings of her heart.

He let out a deep, hearty chuckle as he brought a hand to her face. Long fingers traced the outline of her cheek before wrapping around her chin. She had forgotten the contentment of his affections even though the way she recieved them had been altered now that she was grown.

“No?” he echoed with mock disbelief.” He gently gripped her chin between his fingers, forcing her to look at only him as he spoke harshly. “Do not attempt to deceive me, niece. You could never tell-tale when you were young, and you still lack the talent.”

Daemon’s hand released her chin, sliding it down to rest against the base of her throat. “You forget I can see right through you… I know what you’re really thinking.”

“What am I thinking then?” Her voice was not haughty, but tinged with awe as his rakish wiles seduced her into calm once more.

“You’re thinking…” he paused, bringing his hand to brush a strand of hair from her face before caressing her cheek. “You’re thinking that you would welcome my touch further. You’d welcome my affections. My attention.”

His hand slipped further down, sliding along the neckline of her bodice he drew a finger against the top of her breast. “You’d welcome more than that. You want so much more than that. No matter how you pretend otherwise.”

Ryna’s breath stuttered out disjointedly, her chest heaving not just from his capricious words, but the unfamiliar touch of his hand at the swell of her breast. It was not at all unpleasant, but it was unseemly. The sounds of the banquet carried on from inside, but nobody had disturbed their solitude yet. She would venture an allowance, just this once.

“And what do you want, Uncle?” Ryna gazed at him, entranced at being the object of his focus after having been starved of it for so long.

As Daemon looked into her eyes, his expression darkened with what appeared to be lust and longing. His palm lowered over the curve of her breast, cupping her soft mound gently as he leaned his forehead against hers. A low whimper struck against Ryna’s closed mouth as his fingers grazed lightly down her bust, traveling over her ribcage and then rounding to her hips.

“Nyke jaelagon ao, jorrāelagon mēre,” he purred deeply. I want you, dear one- His lips brushed against hers as though trying to lure them open. “I’ve always wanted you, but thought it too wicked, even for the likes of me, to tarnish you with my degeneracy.”

His hands slid around to the small of her back, pulling her closer with a satisfied grunt. “But, now that I know you’ve been hungering for me, sweetling, I’m beginning to think… that you’ve always been mine. That I’ve wasted so much time hiding from the truth.”

She could feel the heat of his breath upon her face, coaxing her so enticingly into his thrall. Her lips parted to release a quiet breath, but before the air had fully escaped her mouth, Daemon sealed them with a kiss. Even though she had never kissed a man, she was consumed by his fiery passion. She closed her eyes, her fingers wrapping around his back as she whispered hushed, sultry mewls against his lips.

His tongue swept her lower lip, teasing at her mouth until she yielded to him and allowed entrance. The kiss was urgent and demanding, filled with untold desire she’d only read about in old tales of Valyrian mythology. One of Daemon’s hands roamed to the exposed skin at her right knee, bunching the fabric up higher and groaning as his fingers felt the bare skin of her thighs. His lips tasted of Westerosi strongwine and spices, his tongue plundering her mouth as though it were an indulgent ambrosia all its own.

“I should stop before I go too far, sweetling,” he groaned, tearing his mouth away as he regarded her. “I don’t want to ruin you out here in the open… Or at least I do not wish to get caught doing so.” A wicked smirk tugged at the corners of his lips, but the yearning was still present in his eyes.

Ryna fussed at the loss of his sweet kiss, an aching throb now coursing throughout her entire core. Lost in the affections she’d always wanted, she could not possibly think to stop now.

“No, please,” she pleaded without meaning to. The words were barely a soft gasp against his neck as her lips found the pulse of his throat and pressed a gentle kiss to it.

Daemon chuckled at her protestations, leaning his forehead against hers again. It was a simple gesture he had always used in the past to ease her distress, although there was an entirely new meaning to it now, it still made her feel at peace in much the same way.

“What will people say if they see us?” he whispered with feigned anxiety, his hot breath skimming against her dampened lips. “A wicked prince spoiling a young innocent maiden with his turpitude. What sort of debauchery is this?”

Her uncle’s words were laced with a sense of mockery, but she knew he spoke true. She sighed and kissed him once more, making sure to keep it brief lest she become unable to refrain from continuing. Ryna slipped off his lap, feeling her senses slowly return to her. She glanced at the glowing light coming from the hall and exhaled with relief when there was nobody present to see their misconduct.

She smoothed her skirts so that they were not so unkempt and tucked away any loose strands of hair back against her scalp. Daemon took his time in rising from his seat on the parapet, adjusting the front of his trousers slightly as he did so.

“You should return to the party,” his voice was rough with lust and did not sound pleased by the prospect. “At least for now we should keep up appearances. For now…”

“And what of our earlier conversation?” she asked almost demurely, with a submissive tone she was not frequently used to employing. “What of Father’s ultimatum?”

Daemon took a few steps forward, crowding into her as he rested his hands firmly at her waist. “I won’t suffer any suitor but myself to claim you,” he hissed possessively. “Especially not some timid lordling whose ineptitude would bring your heart naught but bitterness, my sweetling.”

Ryna couldn’t help but smile with the ornery way he insisted no other man should wed her, but it would still be difficult to convince Father to allow it.

“How shall we persuade my father that you are worthy than, Uncle?” she peered up at him, her fingers gently clutching the sleeves of his doublet.

“Worthy,” Daemon said with a scoff. “I have the blood of Old Valyria. I am the Prince of the City. I am a dragon, little niece.” He let his hands slide around to her back, gripping her hips greedily. With a swift tug, he yanked her flush against his chest and whispered quietly in her ear. “Name another who is more worthy?”

Gods, he was too good at this. With barely his low trill in her ear, Ryna’s knees felt weak.

“I do not question your value, Daemon. There is no better match in my eyes,” she placed her small hands on his chest and pushed him back so she might look upon him face to face. “But I fear Father will think the worst of your intentions.”

He let out a gruff chuckle at that, a knowing smile spreading wickedly as he tilted his head. “Intentions?” he mused with thick sarcasm. “Yes, how horrible it would be to bed, wed, and impregnate his sweet innocent darling daughter. I’m sure the thought of the latter will be a dagger to his heart.”

“I am speaking in all earnestness, Uncle,” she ruffled, her lower lip pouting out at his jest. “He will think you wish to claim the throne by way of wedding me.”

Daemon chuffed, clearly amused by her petulant scolding. “So, my brother thinks me a scheming opportunist, does he?” With a shrug he dismissed the notion, yet added, “Well, he isn’t wrong.”

A wolfish smirk pulled at his lips as he leaned his head down to her ear once more. “Although, if the throne comes to me as a result of seeding your belly with my babe, my sweet niece, then I certainly won’t complain.”

“You are awful…” she scoffed with disbelief, making space between them again. “How can you not take this seriously? I don’t want you to be sent away again. You know you should renounce any claim to the throne.” Her pale lilac eyes grew wide, peering at him with thinly veiled worry and beginning to gleam as tears threatened to come.

He clenched his jaw at the mention of relinquishing the Iron Throne. “Daor. Nyke jāhor daor,” he growled. No. I will not.- “Do not ask me to lie down like a whipped dog. And do not bring tears to your eyes in an attempt to soften me.” Daemon’s eyes remained cold as they narrowed at her, the fondness all but gone from his voice as he continued.

“I have spent my entire life living to the expectations of others. I will follow the path I know I am destined for.” He gripped her chin roughly, forcing her to look up at him and meet his gaze. “I will claim what is mine by right, and you will be a part of it whether you wish it or not, little niece.”

Ryna attempted to speak, but he stopped her by placing a single finger over her lips.

“You have made it clear that you are mine. You will do as I say. You will wed me and stand at my side when I ascend to the throne. Those are the only outcomes I will accept,” he ordered sternly. “And to ensure it, I will have to use any means necessary. If that includes ruining your innocence to ensure you do not wed another… So be it.”

There was a palpable tension in the air between them. She wished to have the sweet man she had shared her first kiss with back and not the tyrant that stood before her. But, Ryna understood his ambitions, just as everyone in their family did. She knew she had touched upon a sensitive subject, perhaps too insistently, and now regretted digging into a wound that ran exceptionally deep.

Most distressing of all, was that she believed his purpose to be true, even though the thought of what lengths he might have to go to achieve it sometimes haunted her. Now, he might not even trust that she had any faith in him or his calling at all.

“I am grieved,” she replied with a quiet whisper. “I did not mean to say that you should not seek the throne, Uncle, but use it as pretense so that Father lets his guard down. He knows you want it and he does not wish you to have it.”

The truth of it was that between Rhaenyra’s bastards and the Hightower half-blood mongrels, the pairing she’d make together with Daemon would have the strongest claim to the throne. If something were to happen to Rhaenyra, the throne would pass to Ryna, but the realm was still not wont to have even a Targaryen Queen rule over it. If she wed Daemon though, then there would be no question of a higher authority. She had no desire to rule and would pass it to her uncle gladly.

His grip on her chin faltered, the anger leaving his voice and replaced by a tired sigh. “My sweetling, you know not how difficult it has been for me to restrain myself for all these years. You have grown more beautiful than I could have ever imagined.” He spoke low and deliberate as he gently brushed along the line of her jaw. “It was a challenge unto itself, not to ravish you the moment you became a woman, but I was certain your father would geld me for it.”

She could not help but laugh at his admission, although Father had certainly not opted to castrate her uncle for his supposed transgression with Rhaenyra.

“You laugh but only I know how it felt to resist you day after day, year after year,” he growled, voice husky with need. “I was tempted on so many occassions to claim you as my own, to steal you away to Dragonstone and keep you there.”

He leaned closer, burying his nose in her platinum tresses and inhaling deeply of her scent. “And now you’ve left yourself vulnerable, sweetling. Now that I know you want me as much as I desire you… There is nothing that can keep me away.”

“Not even the King,” he added with a huff, his lips moving to trail the smooth skin along her neckline.

She was not sure how to reply to such conviction, especially when it concerned her father. Ryna did not wish ill of him, but then she was sure Daemon would not hurt his own brother. Well, mostly certain at least.

Daemon must have sensed her hesitation, for he murmured softly against her temple. “Let me handle your father, my sweet little niece… Just focus on being my good girl, alright?” His grip was firm, but tender on her shoulders as he pushed himself away from her. “Now, you must head back, before anyone comes. I wouldn’t be surprised if Viserys hasn’t had the servants upturning the keep for you by now,” he chuckled wryly and pressed a kiss against her forehead before disengaging from her completely.

As he released her, Ryna suddenly felt an unbearable emptiness. His lips left her skin feeling warm and wanting more, but he was already taking steps away from her, retrieving his chalice from the surface of the parapet. The tone of his voice told her he would brook no disagreement in this and she knew it would be for the best that she return.

“Return to the celebration, sweetling,” he said with his back to her as he looked out over the city. “And do not worry your pretty little mind of all this. I will take care of your father. You have my word.”

Ryna had so wished to ask him if he would dance with her this evening, but soon realized something as she turned and headed back inside. That once they were wed there would be a week-long celebration and she would have as many chances to dance with her uncle as she liked.

She paused for a moment as she stood in the flickering shadows of the hallway that led back to the Great Hall. Ryna had seen it clear as day when she was only but ten and two years old. She did not understand what it meant, but had spent weeks combing the library for information trying to understand it with no answers to be found.

She’d had a strange daydream or perhaps a vision. In it, Ryna had seen a beautiful young woman with flowing silver-gold hair standing beside her uncle Daemon as he sat upon the Iron Throne.

It had befuddled her for years until finally she began to mature, her skinny, tomboyish body blossoming outwards like the petals of a flower. And, one day she looked in her hand mirror and realized that the woman she’d seen, was none other than herself.

It did naught but break her heart when she then found out that his affections, nay his ambitions, laid with Rhaenyra. And, she’d forced herself to tuck that long lost song of what might come to pass away, when she heard Laena gave birth to twins. Ryna locked it all tightly, somewhere she might never think of it again.

And yet now, it might all be coming to pass regardless. She didn’t know whether she should be excited or aghast at what might happen in the coming months.

She stepped into the Great Hall and was pleased to see that most every guest had imbibed much of her father’s generosity since her departure. Nobody seemed to take notice of her as she walked through the crowd aside from Ser Criston Cole who eyed her wearily. She cared little for the man, thinking him a miscreant since observing him beat a man to death at Rhaenyra’s wedding. Ryna wondered how it was he still held such an esteemed post regardless.

Heading right up to the King’s table, she was not surprised to see that most everyone had abandoned her father as they always tended to do once a banquet got underway. He sat alone in his chair without a soul to even pour his wine. Ryna lamented how lonely he appeared. The most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms and here he sat deep in his drink and completely alone.

Father’s eyes brightened as he saw her, a slur in his voice, “Daughter! I was wondering where you ran off to. Come and pour your father another.”

“Do you think it wise, Father?” she asked with a playful tone, knowing he would not be denied despite her pestering.

“Your King demands it, girl,” he jested with a smile and she obediently filled his cup.

“I’m sorry, Father,” she apologized, her voice demure and meek in an attempt to show him the deference he deserved, not just as her King, but as her forebear.

He waved a hand, scoffing as though it mattered not. “I should bid you apology, my child. For suggesting you dance with that Lannister fellow. He is truly insufferable.” Father’s eyes grew wide with joy as he let out a boisterous laugh and she could not help but join in the royal ribbing of Jason Lannister.

“But you still must choose a husband, Ryna,” he said somberly, the mirth still poking at the edge of his words.

“I know,” she replied with a smile, trying to show her appreciation for the years of independence he’d allowed her. “I will perform my duty for you and the realm, Father.”

“That’s my good girl. Disobedience never suited you,” he took a long swig from his ornate chalice. “Besides, I have all that I can handle of that with Rhaenyra,” he quipped with a chuckle and quick raise of his brow. “Now leave me, child. I have wont to pass swiftly from drink to slumber tonight.”

“Good evening, Father,” she bowed her head to him slightly and turned to give him the space he desired.

She glanced around the hall looking for a certain blond uncle, but did not catch sight of him. Perhaps he was being cautious by not being seen together with her in front of the masses gathered for the celebration. It was an intelligent idea that she thought she would abide by as well for now. After all, she’d had enough excitement for one night.

Ryna nodded at several lords and ladies she know of, but barely knew as she retired from the banquet hall. The path to her chambers was quiet and uneventful and after minimal effort undressing, she soon found herself comfortably lying in her bed, ensconced in plush blankets.

Thoughts swirled of the moments she’d shared with Daemon on the balcony. Ryna could still taste him upon her lips and feel his hands upon her body. As though attempting to reprise the memory, she ran her fingers gently over her breast in much the same way he had. It was too much to bear. She clenched her thighs together and turned harshly on her side with a squeal of flustered arousal.

She tried to clear her mind of lustful thoughts and peered out the window at the high moon. Would Daemon be able to convince Father that he would be a worthy suitor? Truly there was no better man in terms of Valyrian descent, but her father had been so angry with her uncle, so many times over the years. She worried he might not be able to let it go.

Given all that had occurred and the pressing marital matters at hand, she’d thought it might be difficult to sleep, but surprisingly it found her quickly.

Notes: This was the longest chapter I have ever written! I could not stop - a woman possessed!

So, I know this is not entirely necessary, but I thought I would write up a little post-chapter introduction to explain some of the setting I’ve chosen for this story.. And why I decided to make these choices.

I wanted the OC to be young, but not too young as it wouldn’t make sense that she would remain unmarried if allowed to get too old. I also did not want such a huge gap of time to pass after Rhaenyra and Laenor’s wedding. Ten years is such a huge amount of time, and I wanted the OC to have been within a comparable age to Rhaenyra when she last sees Daemon.

Now, with that in mind, the timeline of the show is also very confusing when you compare it against the timelines on the wiki, which is based on lore. There is an understanding of an approximate amount of time that has gone by on the show, but even when using those estimations, the years don’t come close to the dates on the wiki. I know I shouldn’t focus on such trivial matters, but it did in fact bother me while planning my own outline. I decided that I would base it more loosely off the official lore dates of events and ages of characters, and not the show's. This is something you may or may not notice, but it is worth mentioning. Any changes made are not necessarily for lack of being informed about it, they are just conscious changes.

One glaring issue is the birth of Rhaenyra’s first three children.. All of which are born in pretty quick succession, 115 AC, 116, AC and then 117 AC. That means that technically, this fic should be starting in 117 AC.. Only 4 years after the events of Rhaenyra’s wedding to Laenor (114AC). And Baela and Rhaena were born in 116 AC, which certainly causes some difficulty in lining these dates up with the show. Laena dies in 120 AC and yet her children look much older than 4 and the same can be said for Rhaenyra’s as well.

So, I’ve decided after much deliberation, that Joffrey’s birth will take place in 119AC instead of 117AC, meaning that instead of 10 years, only about 5 years have passed since the wedding. And Laena’s death will be moved to 118AC, 2 years earlier than in the lore, and much earlier in the show. I think if you add the time skips together.. That the (10 years later) jump that occurs ends up being about 126AC which doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to me, except for the fact that they’re likely trying to line things up for the Dance of the Dragons, but the timing still feels off.

I also wanted to say that I had several starting points in mind for this story, but this was the one I just happened to like the most in terms of the timeline and how close it is to Viserys’ death and all the major events that take place afterwards! So please enjoy, and I do hope I can capture the tone and feel of the show and characters without stepping on my own feet too much. I have never attempted to write a story in this time period or style, so I guess we’ll see how it goes. Expect some growing pains until I’m more practiced and do not judge me too harshly.

Another thing worth mentioning is that I wrote the first chapter in a rather obsessive flurry that lasted most of one day and all of a night. Suffice it to say, it slipped my mind to add in the High Valyrian, given how much I had my hands full with grasping a more Shakespearean take on English. I will likely add placeholder Valyrian in, so that it does not hold me up too much as I write. When finished, I’ll take the time to research how to make it more accurate. So don’t worry too much if you do happen to know High Valyrian and find any glaring errors.

But! Please DO tell me what you thought! Also.. Yes, there will be a lot more. This is planned to be a rather big story... Read Chapter 2 here.

[mmogurl]

Last to Fall Chapter 3 - Dark On Me

18+ | 2.9k | Aegon II Targaryen X Female Dragonseed Reader | Unresponsive Aegon | half sister reader - you're a princess now! Fastest elevation in class ever! wholesome, fluff, severe injury and burns, mentions of death and other bad things, but still... this whole thing is actually kind of sweet compared to what I usually write.

Ok! This chapter was actually very emotional for me to write. I think sometimes I put my mind too closely into that of my characters, because as I was imagining several parts of this chapter from the reader's perspective, I found myself tearing up. Hopefully that emotion comes across in the work and makes it better.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 On AO3

I've also decided that I'm going to try my best to fit every chapter to a Starset song because the whole Series is based off the title of one (Last to Fall). I'm enjoying the challenge of finding one that suits each theme/ story! They're not all going to be perfectly aligned, but I'll try my best. This one is Starset - Dark on Me I especially like the line - 'But I found in you what was lost in me.. In a world so cold and empty.' Thanks to @zaldritzosrose for headers and I actually made all the gifs myself again! Tags: @coffeebooksrain18, @lexi-anastasia-astra-luna, @meggletoomanyfandoms, @theanbitchless (If you wanna be removed or added from/to the taglist, just let me know)

You hear the horns sound and watch from the balustrade as the procession makes its way through the city up towards the Red Keep. The soldiers return from battle victorious, carting the head of Meleys upon a wagon, but you haven’t seen Sunfyre return yet and nobody will tell you what has become of the king. You’ve heard his mother, Queen Dowager Alicent, mention Aegon in hushed whispers with some council members, but she has not deemed you worthy to share whatever information she has.

Even with the king’s decree elevating your status to that of princess, none will tell you what has happened. You must assume the worst. As the caravan draws closer to the castle, you can see another cart led by two horses. It carries what appears to be a casket covered by many blankets and your heart sinks at the thought of your most dire fears come true.

He cannot be dead. No, no. You won’t accept it.

You rush down to the courtyard, to await the arrival of your king, praying to any gods that might listen that he is still alive. A large contingent of the Kingsguard greet you outside and you feel even more strongly now that your assumption must be true. That Aegon is indeed in that wooden tomb, very likely deceased, but your heart still holds out hope that you’re wrong. The massive gates open to the inner wall of the keep and you watch with despair as the wagon is pulled forward.

As the wooden cart stops, your eyes dart to and fro as men step up to bear the casket forth. You catch the gaze of one of the white cloaks standing near you, and plead with him for answers. “Is he dead?” you whisper, desperate to know the fate of the man who had asked you to be his.

He offers a knowing expression of remorse, but nothing more. You are forced to follow behind as six men carry the king inside, be he dead or alive. You can’t help but wonder where everyone is. Where is his mother? His brother? Where is the small council? Is nobody here to witness the return of the king? You can’t help but to cry quietly as you follow the men of the City Watch and Kingsguard combined with your hung head low.

They carry the massive wooden crate all through the castle, heading upstairs until they enter Maegor’s Holdfast. You pass by Queen Helaena who is standing outside of her chambers, observing the procession with curiosity. You can’t help but wonder if they had kept the truth from her as well. When your eyes lock onto each others, her features twist with curiosity at the sight of your tears, but there is no malice present.

Helaena has never been rude or cruel to you, despite her knowledge of your role in Aegon’s life. She almost seemed grateful that you were able to offer him the companionship that she could not. The queen did not follow further, opting to stay back, likely having a sense that even more tragedy was on the horizon. You didn’t blame her for that, but it didn’t change that you must know. You had to see with your own eyes what had become of your love, Aegon.

As the doors to the king’s chambers opened, your gaze fell upon Alicent standing to the side by the windows. Of course she had known, but chose to leave you in the dark, suffering alone with your doubts and fears. When she saw you, she averted her eyes for a moment, her facade of calm cracking slightly before she steeled herself and offered you a nod. You returned the gesture with a trembling lower lip stepping aside to watch what came next.

They removed the lid of the casket and a whimper escaped your lips as one soldier took Aegon’s sword, Blackfyre, from within and placed it to the side with reverence. The soldiers cleared the room as men dressed in black heaved a dark canvas bag from within the wooden coffer. The sight of this actually made you fall to your knees with grief, finally seeing proof that Aegon was not of this world anymore.

A lamenting wail throbbed through your chest as they placed Aegon’s body on the bed. Your hand clutched the footboard as you fell down on one knee, barely keeping yourself upright. Alicent came to stand beside you, and you barely noticed the presence of the maesters entering through your sobbing.

“Is he alive?” the Queen Dowager asked with a mixture of shock and trepidation. The words stopped your weeping instantly as you pulled yourself up and leaned over the bedframe.

“His Grace, remains with us, for the moment,” Grand Maester Orwyle answered somberly.

You let out whining gasp that makes you sound like a pathetic animal, but you can’t help it. “He was alive? And you carted him through the streets as though he were a corpse!?” You cannot help but cry out as you stare accusingly at Alicent, appalled by the treatment he’d received.

“I didn’t have much say in it,” the Queen Dowager replies looking bewildered as the sight before her seemed to sink in. “They told me.. They thought it would be best that nobody saw the injuries he sustained.”

You stop your outrage, realizing that she likely didn’t know the extent of the damage either. Still, you wish she would have confided in you what little she had known so that you might have better prepared for this.

Orwyle takes an instrument from his medical kit and begins to remove pieces of Aegon’s armor. The more you look, the more you begin to understand what has happened to him. The entire left side of his body, from his head all the way down to his leg, has been scorched by dragonflame. His arm appears to have been dealt the brunt of the damage, where the Valyrian steel has melted into his limb, leaving it a gored tangle of flesh and metal.

A cry threatens to escape your lips once more, but you stifle it. There will be time for sobbing later, but for now you wish to keep yourself preoccupied. “I wish to help,” you say desperately, but everyone is so busy at work that nobody even responds. “Please,” you ask again, your brows furrowed with anguish. “I need to help.”

Alicent offers a glance at one of the maesters assisting Orwyle and from there, a chain reaction of assent occurs, until finally a young man tugs your arm and pulls you to the side.

“You can aid me in making the poultices,” he says softly. You cannot possibly express how grateful you are for the opportunity to stay busy, while attempting to save your king. You offer the Queen Dowager an appreciative look from across the room and return to learning how to prepare the treatment for Aegon.

It is likely a good thing that you are not watching as they remove the king’s armor, for you can hear his ragged breaths and the gasp that startles from Alicent’s mouth in response to it.

“Is my son going to die?” she asks sounding petrified. You do not wish to hear it, but you can’t tune it out either.

“I’m afraid I cannot say,” Orwyle responds quietly, turning his head to regard the Queen Dowager for a moment. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Your Grace, these next hours are most critical.”

“Of course,” Alicent replies, taking a step back so that she’s no longer interfering with the healers work.

The young maester in training hands you a plate filled with individual leaves of steamed cabbage and notions for you to take it to the bed. “Take these,” he says quietly as a mouse. You don’t hesitate to obey, not wanting to hinder Aegon’s chances for survival.

You hold the tray out, leaning over Aegon’s bed, to an aged maester with a gray beard dressed all in dingy whites. He begins to take one piece at a time, placing the wraps at the bottom of Aegon’s broken leg and working his way up. Your hands shake slightly, but you do your best to stall your trembling so that you might be of use. Stealing a glance down the length of the bed, you see Orwyle sponging charred bits away from Aegon’s once pristine face.

Your heart aches, but you push it deep down. There will be time to grieve later if he dies, but you refuse to give into despair again before that actually happens.

“Someone will have to rule in his stead,” the cold and familiar voice cuts through your thoughts.

You turn to your right and see Aemond standing there, dead center at the foot of Aegon’s bed. He had always seemed dangerous to you, but has never looked this unhinged before. You can’t help but wonder what might have happened at the battle of Rook’s Rest to change his demeanor so drastically. The way he looks at Aegon, it reminds you of a cat playing with a mouse, holding it by the tail and swatting at it.

You can’t help but wonder how he stands there without an ounce of concern for his brother. As your discomfort grows, you decide that you will have to keep an eye on the prince from now on. You swear solemnly to yourself, glaring at Aemond while you do so, that you will keep watch on the king as though your life depended on it. Just in case.

————

It has been a couple of days now and while Aegon has not yet woken, he has not yet passed into the arms of the Stranger either. He’s been cleaned up considerably, and his wounds all tended to. The only remnants of the horror you witnessed when he first arrived in the Red Keep being the charcoal still tinting his cheek and of course all of the burns that lace his left side. His broken leg is propped up to keep the blood from swelling, but otherwise Aegon looks peaceful in his slumber, despite the audible struggle he has breathing. You lay next to Aegon on the bed, unwilling to leave his side for any reason lest he might wake alone without a caring face to welcome him back. Nestled carefully against the side of him that is not horribly burnt, it almost feels comforting to feel his chest rise and fall beside you with a fire crackling in the hearth.

At first, you worried that Aegon might pass at any given moment, but once he was out of imminent danger, it became a waiting game. Inevitably boredom overcame you as the king continued to sleep. You took to cleaning to pass the time. First, washing and scrubbing every nook and cranny of the floor in his chambers despite the objection of everyone that came across your endeavoring to stay sane. You then moved onto dusting and cleaning out the tapestries. It was one of the few times you’d left the king’s chambers since he returned, but you wanted to take everything outside to be aired out, lest there be a dust storm within.

A soft sigh pulls you from your memories and your eyes open to see Alicent sitting at the side of Aegon’s bed. Her hand is clinging to his as she leans slightly onto the bed. You can tell from her expression that this whole situation has been very taxing on her. Within such a short span of time, she’s almost lost her eldest son and king, and been passed over for the regency of the realms in his absence for Aemond. Given the predatory way the new Prince Regent had been staring at Aegon days prior, this is a decision you wholeheartedly disagree with.

As much as you hate to admit it, you’ve grown to appreciate Alicent’s company. At first she seemed annoyed by your presence, but you can only assume that in seeing your dedication to her son, she’s softened towards you. She’s even shared several kind words with you, which felt incredibly awkward, especially when she began referring to you as ‘The Princess,’ a title you are still not accustomed to hearing anyone speak, let alone her.

The Queen Dowager had never acknowledged the decree previously, but then none of the acceptance really matters without Aegon here to share it with. He’d talked of marrying you upon his return and now you wondered if that would ever happen. Your fingers caress softly along his arm, a motion that has become almost involuntarily by now as you huddle to him, hoping that your touch will bring him back.

Alicent stands suddenly, her eyes bleary as she places a hand on her son’s good cheek. She almost looks afraid to get too close, as though admitting the depth of her care for him might somehow make it hurt more to lose him. She nods a soft ‘good night’ to you and goes to leave the room. You watch for a moment as the maester opens the door for her in anticipation, and rest your head back down on the pillow.

And that’s when you hear it, so quiet and coarse that you might have missed it if you had not been right beside him. “Mummy,” he whispers without opening his eyes.

You dart up from the bed with haste, looking at him incredulously, as though he had just risen from the dead. “Queen Dowager!” you cry out, not wishing to disturb him, but needing to get her attention. “Maesters! He spoke!” You realize you are laughing with relief as you call out to the them, brushing the backs of your knuckles upon Aegon’s cheek gently as you coo to him. “She is coming, my love.”

As Alicent rushes back to her son’s bedside, you both share a look of hopeful promise. “What did he say?” she asks, her eyes searching over Aegon as though he might move, and than glancing back to you.

“He said ‘Mummy,’” you answer with a smile, happy to see the look of touched gratitude that appears on her face.

“Oh my sweet son…” she trails off, seemingly unable to put words to how she is feeling. She stands beside him, reaching out with a little more confidence this time. “Mummy’s here,” she offers quietly as the two maesters on duty gather behind her.

Aegon lets out a gravelly sound, his breath hitching as he fights for consciousness.

“We’ll let Grand Maester Orwyle know of this development,” one of the men in white offers. “But if he is soon to be speaking with us, it is good news indeed.”

The Queen Dowager is in high spirits when she is finally ready to leave for the night, so exhausted she can barely keep her eyes open. “Thank you,” she says, looking you in the eyes as she rises from her chair. “You didn’t have to call me back, but I’m glad that you did.”

“Who am I to deny him his mother if that’s who he’s ask for?” you say as though there was no other possible outcome in your mind.

She smiles at you with a warmth she’s never shown you before, nodding slightly. “Will you have them fetch me if he wakes again?” she asks with fondness in her voice.

“Of course,” you reply, settling back into the bed beside Aegon. You are surprised when she walks around to your side of the bed, and proceeds to mother you under the covers.

“If you’re going to spend your nights in here, than the least you can do is keep comfortable,” Alicent says with a hint of jest in her tone.

It is definitely a touch strange as she pulls the blanket up and around you, tucking it underneath you slightly. It’s almost suffocating, but in a nice way. “Good night,” you say, turning on your side towards Aegon. You’ve practically made a nook at his side from the amount of time you’ve spent there by now.

“Sleep well,” Alicent calls as she extinguishes the candles, leaving nothing but the hearth to light the immediate vicinity. She ushers the maesters out of the room, with an authoritative pitch. “Get some rest for the night, my son is in good hands as you can plainly see.”

As the doors close and you’re left in silence, you can’t help but consider how sometimes the worst things in life can really help to bring people together. You’ve also seen tragedy tear relationships apart, but when something beautiful can blossom from the ashes of destruction, it almost feels like everything is going to be alright again. Like Aegon is going to wake up and get out of his bed and move on with his life. And when he does, he’ll find himself rousing to a world in which his mother might feel a little more comfortable showing her thanks for his company.

You nuzzle your face into the crook of his neck, inhaling deeply of his scent. Despite all of the medicinal herbs and the lingering remnants of carbon, you can still smell him. You press a tender kiss on his neck, right below his ear, humming softly as you taste him on your lips.

Whispering softly, you beseech him with kindness, “I love you, Aegon.” You run the tip of your nose against his jawline, savoring the feel of him. “I’ll wait for you… As long as it takes. Just come back to me.”

[mmogurl]

Last to Fall Chapter 2 - The Future Is Now

18+ | 4.3k | Aegon II Targaryen X Female Dragonseed Reader | less miserable now and more typical, alcoholic, still needs reassurance Aegon | half sister reader - you're not really a maid anymore - I guess that means you got a promotion? P in V, smut, wholesome, fluff, this whole thing is actually kind of sweet compared to what I usually write.

I've decided to take this story home and revisit some of the scenes from the show going forward. Because the more I looked back at them, the more I realized a lot of messed up shit happens in season 2 with Aegon that I don't personally like! Let it be known, I'm mostly using scenes from the show, but I'm also going to be mixing in a lot from the book from now on. So, it's going to come off like a weird amalgamation of show, book, and my own fiction thrown in there! So, here we're going to overhaul the small council meeting where Aemond makes a fool out of Aegon and we're going to bring it in line with something more like what they would have discussed if the show followed the battle plans from the book.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 On AO3

I've also decided that I'm going to try my best to fit every chapter to a Starset song because the whole Series is based off the title of one (Last to Fall). I'm enjoying the challenge of finding one that suits each theme/ story! They're not all going to be perfectly aligned, but I'll try my best. This one is Starset - The Future is Now Thanks to @zaldritzosrose for headers and I actually made the above gif myself! Tags: @coffeebooksrain18, @lexi-anastasia-astra-luna, @meggletoomanyfandoms, @theanbitchless (If you wanna be removed or added from/to the taglist, just let me know)

-You “I find it highly unorthodox for you to keep your mistress as cupbearer, Aegon,” Alicent spoke up with clear distaste written upon her features as you filled her glass. You smile awkwardly in acknowledgment and she quickly diverts her eyes from you and onto the king. “We cannot trust one such as she with matters in need of the utmost secrecy.”

“I trust her more than I do any of you,” Aegon says nonplussed by his mother’s complaint. “I wish for her to be here and so she shall. Now back to more pressing matters.” He turned his sights towards Prince Aemond, gesturing for him to continue as he took a swig of wine from his cup. “Please continue with our efforts on the war front, Brother.”

Aemond sat perched like an owl in search of prey, one hand resting on the table while the other manipulated a golden coin effortlessly over the tops of his knuckles. The prince always held a slight smirk taut at the corners of his lips that unnerved you, holding back a viciousness that seemed barely restrained. He had his eye trained on you and it made the hair on the back of your neck prickle with discomfort. It was a relief when he met Aegon’s gaze and spoke.

“Ser Criston is marching on Rook’s Rest. The castle is small, weakly defended, and Lord Staunton sits on Rhaenyra’s council,” his words are deliberate and precisely executed as though he’d rehearsed the very words all morning in the mirror, yet you know that’s not the case.

“Whittling away at her morale seems a worthy effort indeed, “Aegon says with a devious grin. “And when Rhaenyra sends reinforcement, which she is sure to do… We’ll be lying in wait?”

You notice Lord Larys Strong’s brow raise in concern at the mention and soon the meaning washes over you as well. You quietly step towards Aegon, filling his cup and looking down at him anxiously as you try to swallow the lump that is forming in your throat. He does not return your worried stare, instead engaged deeply in the conversation with his brother, excitement written all over his face at the prospect of action.

“Precisely,” Aemond replies with cool clarity, his expression more serious now. “Cole will set the bait with his forces and Staunton will send word to Dragonstone for support. The only aid that might answer in time is a dragon and when it arrives, the trap will be sprung and we shall answer it with advantage on our side.”

“One less dragon to face later,” Aegon chuckles mirthfully, not taking the situation seriously at all. If you could, you would grab him by the shoulders and shake him until he snapped out of it and realized how dangerous this idea was.

“Surely we cannot risk losing our king on the field of battle?” Lord Strong finally speaks his dislike of the strategy out loud. “Would we not be handing the throne to our enemies?” You cannot help but feel relieved that he has voiced your fears, even if it wasn’t for your benefit.

The other members of the council all share glances with each other, neither Lannister, nor Orwyle, nor Ironrod willing to lend their thoughts. You take your place to the side of the long table, standing next to one of the newly appointed Kingsguard, regarding the scene with trepidation.

“I agree,” Alicent states with a growing look of concern. “What if you are both lost? Then who will rule?”

“You show such little confidence in our capabilities, Mother,” Aemond replies in a voice that sounds surprisingly sweet despite the venomous sarcasm that laces his words. “Surely encouragement would serve us better at this hour.”

Alicent’s eyes widen as he puts her on the spot. She quickly schools her expression, her lips flattening as she clenches her jaw briefly before speaking again. “Yes, of course, I wish you both well. But that does not change the potential losses we might suffer. Strategies do not always go as planned.”

“They do when you have dragons,” Aegon quips, still treating the war as though it were a game. You are glad to see his spirits improved since that very first time the two of you laid together, but could certainly do without the impetuousness he’s displaying at the moment.

“What if Rhaenyra sends more than one dragon?” Lord Strong poses the possibility to the king.

“It is highly unlikely,” Aemond interjects with a smug menace so intense that only the bravest of men might continue to argue. “Rhaenyra will no doubt be advised not to venture into battle herself and Daemon is presently holding down Harrenhal.”

“And no doubt she would be loathe to send another of her sons forth after what happened to the last,” the king concurs, letting out a derisive, pointed laugh. He runs his tongue along his teeth as though anticipating the taste of blood that will be spilled and relishing in it. “No other dragon yet tamed offers a significant challenge to the might of Vhagar and Sunfyre combined,” he adds, his eyes beaming with pride and superiority.

“Indeed,” Prince Aemond replies with barely curling lips, his eyes sharp as he regards his brother.

The Queen Dowager sighs, knowing she has lost this dispute and exchanges a despairing glance at Lord Strong. Your attention is drawn back to Aegon as he picks up his stone ball and places it in the large dish on the center of the table.

“We will leave when the second sun rises, then?” Aegon confirms to his brother who nods in return. It seems clear to you now that they have already spoken of this matter in private before even bringing it to the attention of the small council, and that it had already been decided upon.

The king steals a glance back towards you, nodding slightly in your direction as his eyes urge you to follow him. You eagerly oblige, anxious to have some words with him about his risky tactics in private. Aegon heads back to his chambers and you shadow him quietly as two of his Kingsguard take up the rear.

You almost can’t recognize the sweet and tender lover you’ve come to know so intimately. The sorrowful and lonely man you once comforted now replaced with a bloodthirsty warrior, a change you do not fully understand. Perhaps you are not fulfilling your duties as his companion well enough to satisfy the demons that haunt him, for he now seeks relief in brutality instead of you.

Aegon throws open the doors to his apartment and you are right behind him, closing them shut as you enter. He walks towards the table, not wasting any time in pouring a chalice of wine for himself. Bringing the cup to his lips, he takes a long swig before turning to face you.

“Alright then. Get on with it,” he says with mild annoyance. “I can already tell you are not pleased.”

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” you say against your best judgment to quarrel with the king, but spurred by concern for him. “Any number of things might go wrong. I would prefer you stay here where it is safe in the keep. With me.”

He rolls his eyes with clear indifference to your worries, striding up to you confidently and running his knuckles softly against your cheek. “It will be fine,” he counters smoothly, his voice smooth like silk as he leans in to press a brief kiss against your lips. “We have the upper hand with two dragons, love.”

“Did you not ask me to sit in on your council meetings so that I might assist in offering you sincere and valid counsel?” you retort, hating his lackadaisical attitude towards the situation.

When he’d first requested you be his cupbearer, you had argued that you had no place in the chamber of the small council. Aegon had insisted though, stating he needed someone with a keen eye who was on his side for once. Now you wondered if he had even meant those words.

“Yes, but this is a matter of war, not court nor politics,” he replied with a scoff, turning and walking towards the center of the large room. “And you are just letting your womanly heart lead you.”

“Womanly heart?” you repeat, feeling your shoulders tighten at his cruel implication. “Or perhaps you must accept that war is not a child’s game,” your voice runs cold as anger grips you. “That a king has a responsibility to his people and not just to his own sense of glory.”

Aegon turns with a chuckle, regarding you snidely. This condescension actually bothers you more than the fury you expected from him. “Tis not glory I seek, but the alleviation of my boredom,” he says plainly and there’s an apathy in his voice that makes your chest ache.

“Am I not enough to keep you engaged?” you ask quietly, feeling your wrath fade into pain.

The king’s smile falters, a flicker of guilt crossing his face as you speak. He hesitates a moment before letting out a long, drawn out sigh. “Love…” he murmurs, sounding a bit repentant now. “It has nothing to do with you. I simply feel… constrained in this city. While everyone else fights to retain my crown, I am expected to stay here and be idle. I wish to prove myself.”

He closes the distance between you both, his violet eyes piercing into yours. Aegon reaches out to cradle your face, his touch gentle and his demeanor much warmer now. “I know that you worry for me,” he says, his voice tender as he rests his forehead against yours. “But I cannot lead my army from behind these castle walls. I trust you understand?”

“You didn’t have to be so cruel,” your voice is a whisper as you try to hold back the desire to cry. “Treating me as though I matter not to you.”

Aegon tugs you closer towards him, wrapping his arms around you and resting his chin on top of your head. He lets out another weary exhale, seemingly releasing all of the tension that had held him taut moments prior. “I didn’t mean to be a bastard to you, my darling,” he says, voice heavy with remorse.

“You are not my enemy,” he adds, leaning back slightly to kiss your golden crown of hair. “There are whispers afoot within the Red Keep, they abound in the city as well. The people all speak of my cowardice. How I have usurped the throne and now hide in my castle, afraid to face the might of the true heir’s forces. I find myself on edge.”

“You might have told me this sooner,” you reply, shifting your head to peer up at him. “I am here for you, my king, and you alone. If you cannot confess such tensions to me, than they will only serve to devour you whole. I am not here to judge, but to listen, to offer support.”

“Such habits are not easy to break,” Aegon says with a flicker of shame adorning his features. “I have been ridiculed my entire life and it has made me averse to showing weakness.”

“But you revealed yourself to me and it brought us together,” you argue his absurd logic. “Do not hide from me. Ever.” Your hands slide across his chest, moving upwards until your fingers dance delicately across the line of his jaw.

Aegon lets out a shaky breath, his body easing under your gentle touch. “What is it about you, love?” he asks closing his eyes as your hand rakes back into his hair. “You always manage to disarm me so completely, breaking down the fortress I’ve spent a lifetime erecting.”

He opens his eyes and smiles at you with amusement. “Very well then. I will not distance myself from you, or at least I shall try not to. But I still intend to join Aemond and fight. Can you stand to watch me go?”

Your grip tightens slightly in his hair at the mention of the battle. You had hoped you could sway him to stay, but it is clear now that he will not listen. The king was dead set on clearing his name, on making his constituents believe that he truly deserved his seat on the Iron Throne.

“You must promise me that you will be careful,” you plead with him, knowing deep down that such a request was impossible to accommodate in war. “Do not take any unnecessary risks.”

“That shouldn’t be hard to accomplish from the back of a dragon, my darling,” Aegon lets out a small laugh, resting his hands on your hips. “But I will do my best and I have no intention of dying at Rook’s Rest.”

You lean up to kiss him once more as your hands wrap around his back, clinging fiercely. His lips are hot and wet and so alive with passion as he hungrily returns the embrace. You cannot help the gnawing feeling beginning to coalesce in your gut, that something horrible is going to happen to him. Each press of your lips against his echoing your desperation and the fear that he might not return to you.

He walks you back to the table and plucks you up, placing your bottom on the hard surface. His hands work at bunching up your skirts, lifting and pushing them aside so he has access to you. His hands slide up to your hips, hooking his fingers into the waistline of your smallclothes and pulling them down. He doesn’t waste any time in spreading your thighs apart with his knee, stepping closer until you can feel just how much he wants you.

“I’ll return to you, love,” he says breathlessly between kisses against your jaw. Aegon urgently unties his breeches as he continues, “Nothing could keep me from you.”

His lips crash into yours, devouring your mouth with intensity as he grinds against you, making you weak in your desire for him. Withdrawing from your mouth, he peppers kisses down your neck, and along your décolletage before letting out a gasping groan of lust.

Pulling you to the edge of the table, his purple eyes appear black with arousal as they lock onto yours. He slides into your wet slickness in one fluid motion, filling you completely. Aegon leans forward again, his face buried in your neck as he grasps onto your hips and moves into you with a desperate frenzy.

His lips nibble against your lobe as he whispers raggedly in your ear, “You will be waiting for me when I return, won’t you?” his words almost sounding insecure. “Tell me you love me. Tell me you need me. I must hear you say it.”

You are powerless to your king’s wishes, especially when he is fucking you so well. “I love you,” you say panting as his throbbing cock invades your wanting cunny. “I need you.”

Aegon groans loudly at the sound of your voice, the table quaking as he increases his pace, his hips snapping forward and driving into you harder, deeper. He is relentless in his efforts, pounding into your core with an urgency you’ve never experienced before. “Say it again,” he demands, his breaths short and heavy. “Again…” he growls as he buries himself within you, his grip on your hips bruising as he holds you steady.

It is hard to concentrate, let alone ponder the king’s strange choice of dirty talk, but Aegon’s vulnerability has always drawn you to him. It seemed mixing physical and emotional release at the same time was becoming quite commonplace for you both and you could not deny how therapeutic it felt for you either, to give of yourself and receive his devotion in return. Even if you had not been together for very long, you were sure that your attraction to Aegon was not simply fueled by sexual pleasure alone.

“I love you, Aegon,” you repeat, breathless and gasping as he chases his high within you.

He moans your name, a pained sound as he leans back and takes in your expression. “Make me believe it,” he pleads, pressing wet kisses against your face as he punctuates each spoken word with a particularly hard thrust.

“Gods, Aegon!” you cry out, feeling your peak near as his pelvis rolls mercilessly against your pearl. Each deep invasion paired with a ruthless grinding motion that makes your toes curl. “I-I do…” you confess with shaky breaths. “I have since I came into your service.”

“You what? I need to hear you say it,” he prompts you yet again, searching always for reassurance in you. “Let me taste the truth in your words,” his voice is ragged as he beseeches you.

Your hands that had been braced on the edge of the table, now find his hips and grasp firmly. The motion of your bodies like waves on the ocean, and it is not long before the familiar feeling of completion spreads through your inner walls. He immediately devours your lips in a desperate kiss. It’s tender and passionate at the same time, making you forget every rational thought or worry that you had.

Against his lips you reaffirm your adoration, your voice rough as you speak your convictions, “I love you, Aegon… Only you make me feel whole.”

A grunt breaks from the back of Aegon’s throat as he buries himself completely inside you, prodding against the tender entrance to your womb. His length swells as he spills his seed within you, his body twitching as he moves to wrap his arms around you.

Aegon collapses against you for a time, capturing his breath as you leave hungry kisses all along his neck and shoulder. You make a startled sound of shock when he suddenly pulls you off the table. His hands slip under your bottom, urging your thighs around his waist and you cling to him dearly making sure you don’t fall.

He holds you tightly in his arms and moves to the large velvet couch against the wall, flopping down on it and pulling you into his lap. Aegon cups his hand behind your head, pulling you close until he is all you can see, his violet eyes fixed on you.

“I don’t believe I’ve said it as much as I should,” his voice is low and quiet. “But I love you as well.”

Your expression softens from one of lusty playfulness to something more sincere at his heartfelt words. It was true, he hadn’t often, if ever, acknowledged his direct feelings towards you, but you’d still known that he cared. It was plain to see that needed you, even if he didn’t always admit it.

“I will come back to you, I swear it…” he says with a knowing smirk, reading the affection in your tender eyes. “And when I do, I intend to you make you mine forever.”

“How?” you ask quirking a brow in confusion, the haze of your orgasm still lingering.

“By wedding you, of course,” Aegon replies, as though it is the most obvious answer in the world. “I will take you as my second wife. There is no rule that states I cannot. Besides, it might be seen as disrespectful to my namesake if I did not follow in his footsteps.” His hand lifts to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear as he regards you with a dreamy look, as though imagining a future where you are his wife.

“Do you think it prudent to cause an uproar with such a controversy?” you say with a look of worry deepening your brow. “With the civil war? With the food shortages? As you said, there are already whispers among the people. Should we give them more to talk about?”

Aegon releases a heavy sigh, a look of displeasure crossing his face as his jaw clenches. You continue before he can get too upset.

“I am overjoyed that you’d have me as your wife, my love.. But I am also concerned. Perhaps we could have a private ceremony? Keep it secret until the war has passed?” You run you fingers gently from his forehead down his temple until your palm is resting on his cheek.

“Why should I keep you a secret!?” he asks petulantly. “My wife, Queen Helaena, sits in her rooms all day, crying and speaking to herself. I cannot blame her for the pain she has suffered, sadly, she was quite fragile to begin with… But as it stands, she is no queen. The people could do with a figurehead, someone to follow, to reassure them that everything is alright in these trying and uncertain times. I have never been adept at such persuasions, but you… You would be wonderful in that role. It is how a queen should behave.”

You shake your head and let out an exasperated breath. “Be that as it may. You seem to forget that I am not a noble. The people will not accept it.”

“And you forget that I am king,” Aegon replies with a shrug. “In fact, I will fix this issue before I leave for Rook’s Rest.” He gently places you to his side, setting you onto the plush cushions. You watch dumbfound as Aegon gets up from the couch and ties the laces of his breeches absentmindedly as he crosses the room to his desk. He takes out a piece of paper, a quill, some ink, and begins to write.

“What are you doing?” you ask with furled brows as you make your way over to him, impossibly curious to know what he is up to.

“I’m writing a decree,” he says, not looking up from his parchment. “It is not unheard of for nobles to petition the king to legitimize their offspring. Given you are my father’s daughter, that would elevate you to a Targaryen princess, with all the rights and privileges the title entails.” Aegon finished writing and signed the paper with a flourish. As he blew on the ink, impatient for it to dry, he added, “I think a princess would be considered more than suitable for a king, don’t you?”

You are dumbstruck at the precise and confident way he asserts such a complicated matter as concluded. “Is such a thing possible? Truly?”

“It’s as good as done,” Aegon says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “It is likely for the best that I take care of the issue before I leave for battle. I would not wish for my mother to think she had any say when it comes to your well being in my absence.

He examines the parchment, making sure that the ink has set and then carefully folds it. You watch as he melts a chunk of red wax and presses his seal into it, sealing the decree and placing it aside on his desk.

“There, the matter is resolved,” he says with a satisfied smile as he pulls you down into his lap. “Now what are you going to do while I’m away?” he asks softly. “Without your king to serve?”

“You might still change your mind and stay here with me so that I do not wither away from loneliness,” you riposte with a slight puff in your cheeks as your lips purse.

The king lets out a laugh, shaking raising a finger to your mouth to shush you. “You are incorrigible,” he purrs fondly, placing a kiss upon your pouting lips. “You know I must go, love. I need to prove it to Mother, to the council, to the people… Hells, even to myself that I am worthy of the crown.” He looks at you earnestly, his eyes searching yours as though trying to convince himself that he’s right in this. “But, I will miss you terribly. More than you could possibly know.”

“What will I even do without you?” Leaning in you press a chaste kiss against his cheek, letting your nose nuzzle against his skin. You sit back in his lap more, fixing his hair by tucking it behind his ears dotingly. “Everyone treats me even more coldly now that we are together so openly. They all turn their backs to me as though I’m invisible,” you say sadly. Even though he is not due to leave for another day and night, you feel as though you miss him already.

Aegon’s arms tighten around you possessively, his hand caressing your back. “When you are queen they won’t dare turn their backs to you,” his voice was low and gravelly. “They will bow and scrape at your feet , and if they don’t…” he trails off, leaving the threat hanging the air.

“Ah yes,” you say with a morose chuckle. “There is nothing more civil then the threat of a noose.”

He laughs wholeheartedly at your jest, his eyes beaming with affection. “You worry too much,” he says with a warmth written in his expression. “There is only one matter left unresolved as far as I’m concerned.” Aegon looked you over with an almost stern gaze, sizing you up.

“And what is that, my love?” you ask with a curious glint in your eye.

“You haven’t said yes yet,” he says with a smooth grin, his hand moving to cup your cheek. “Will you be my wife?”

You gaze into his eyes, a happiness building in your chest as you realize the levity of this moment. You’re not sure if it’s the right choice to make in terms of harming his reign as king, but deep down you know there is only one answer you could ever give him.

“Yes,” you reply with a humble smile, your eyes threatening tears as you lean in and taste the lips of your lover, your future husband if the Gods so willed it.

Read Chapter 3

[silverdragonfly]

Pomegranate Seed

Demon!Aemond x Reader

summary: When your life goes downhill, you take the plunge and summon a demon to make a pact. But the dream life comes at a price.

warnings: !MDNI! Dark themes, mature content (p in v, fingering, oral (f), bondage, blindfolding, unprotected sex, praise kink, and snake… yep, you read that right). English isn't my first language.

word count: 7.1 K

a/n: the idea captured my brain like a fever, so in the spirit of Halloween and in honour of the deliciously freakish kinks harboured in the darkness, I share this story with crimson cheeks! Enjoy! 🖤

divider credit: @saradika-graphics

They say the darkest hour is just before the sunrise. Well, not in my case. What I thought was my sunrise turned out to be a bright flash—a burst of a supernova—before darkness swallowed everything up.

“You’re so kind, so smart, so beautiful, but you’re… detached, as if you’re always holding back.” That’s how things ended with Cregan just days before our second anniversary. His rugged features, softened by dark curls, are now out of reach. He was the one I could confide in, who believed in me at my worst—until he left me. Leaving me to sink to the very bottom.

“Your writing is captivating, nothing like I’ve ever read before! If only there were more… passion. Do you think you could work on it?” my editor, Sue, asked, checking her watch every minute while I sat across from her. You could tell she was uneasy having the conversation, but I swear she didn’t care a bit. My nails dug deeper into my palms. This was my chance to get a royalty to cover the flat—a place that was too pricey a few months ago. But since things were finally going my way, I took the plunge. And I fucking lost.

Now, you might think I’m here to pour out my soul and make you sympathize with me. But no, that’s not what I’m after. I actually want you to see why I have no other choice but to do this. This letter is to justify my actions, to make you understand I’m desperate, lonely, and left with one bullet only—so I’d better not miss. This is me making a pact with a demon, so I can breathe again.

Shutting down the laptop, you let out a deep sigh, rubbing the bridge of your nose in an attempt to relieve the tension. Your eyes burn from all the research you’ve done these past few weeks, not to mention the sleepless nights.

Would it even work? You wonder, casting a wary glance at the massive candles and the paper bundle containing the herbs on the table.

Night has fallen, and as your windows overlook a dark forest, there isn’t a single light in sight. The blackness presses close, watching, still. Perfect time to summon a demon, you think wryly.

A few weeks ago, in a moment of total despair, you stumbled upon a website dedicated to dark magic. It had everything from creating a voodoo doll for your boss—option number one on your list, considering you’d had to move into a cramped apartment on the outskirts because of her—to a premium subscription promising greater wonders to fulfil all your dreams. The price was ridiculous: $5,000 per month. No way people in despair could afford it. But later, you received a 30% discount for being the most active user, checking updates 24/7. Small comfort, as your bank account sat at under $1,000.

You glanced at the “increase loan limit” option, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. Something in you dared to take the risk. After all, could things get any worse? With a deep breath, you clicked the button.

Now here you are, setting the candles in a careful circle around yourself, your hands trembling as you unwrap the paper bundle. The smell is thick and pungent, filling your lungs until you almost cough. Whatever this package contains, the delivery guy must have been relieved to drop it off.

You place the herbs in a cup, crushing them with a masher before pouring the powder into a glass of pomegranate juice. Inside the paper bundle, a phrase in an unknown language is scrawled, along with the number 3. Repeat three times?

“Is this what I truly want?” you ask the void, your voice barely a whisper.

Your gaze drifts over your cramped apartment—the littered mess, the misery. The weight of every failure presses on your shoulders as you stare down at the drink.

So, as no answer comes to stop you, you grab the glass, holding your nose with your other hand. You gulp it down. It’s thick, almost fleshy; each gulp is a struggle as the substance coats your throat.

You clap a hand over your mouth, desperately hoping to keep it down as it stubbornly climbs up. It makes you swallow again and again before the drink finally settles in your stomach.

Right. The phrase.

You grab the paper with trembling fingers.

"Ad alt… altiora tendo. Ad altiora tendo. Ad altiora tendo."

Your gaze darts around the room as the candlelight trembles, casting abstract shapes on the walls.

Nothing but utter silence greets you.

You frown, biting back a curse. Did that first attempt count, or was it nullified by my stumble?

“Ad altiora tendo,” you repeat, louder this time, the desperation cracking in your voice.

Still, nothing.

Did you just throw away 3.5K bucks?

The glass hits the wall and shatters into countless pieces, the sound echoing down the long corridor, followed by your low growl.

“Fuck!”

Blowing out the candles, you storm into the bedroom, leaving the mess untouched.

No choice but to go to the only place where things still feel right: to dreams. Whatever was in that bitter concoction works quickly, sleep greets you like the embrace of an old friend.

You find yourself on a stage, seated in a plush chair beneath a glaring spotlight that halos around you. The woman across from you asks something, her voice reaching you muffled and distorted, as if coming from underwater.

“What?” you whisper, confused, staring at her crimson lips as they part in a slow, graceful smile. Her poise stings, almost mocking you—she’s everything you aren’t: confident, magnetic, entirely sure of herself. You wish you could be… And then it hits you.

It’s you.

You’re staring at yourself.

You transformed.

No dark circles. Lustrous hair. A wine-red dress that flows like liquid confidence.

Behind you, a display showcases the book with your name, labelled “The Bestseller of the Year.” The audience watches you with rapt attention, their gazes warming you like sunlight soaking into your skin.

This is your book launch. Your moment in the light.

The applause thunders, pride swelling in your chest, flooding your body with heat and joy—

Then you wake up.

The darkness is a stark contrast.

Cold. Silent.

You sit up, pressing your palms hard against your eyes, as if the lingering spotlight could still hurt. Your skin is damp and warm with tears. What a weird comfort.

Your stomach suddenly lurches a low, queasy growl making you cover your mouth.

This isn’t good.

Barely able to walk, you shuffle toward the bathroom, reaching the toilet just in time for the maroon liquid to erupt from your mouth. It burns on the way out, forcing you to double over as fresh tears sting your eyes.

Flushing it down, you can’t help but think bitterly that you just poured all that money straight into the sewer. Cold water brings you back to your senses as you rinse your mouth. Goosebumps race across your arms—a strange comfort in the sudden chill.

You turn to leave, and your foot slips on something cold and slimy. You gasp, fumbling for the light switch, pressing it down repeatedly, but it flickers uselessly in the darkness, humming softly without illuminating the room.

Then you hear it—a faint, shifting sound from down the hall, underscored by a low, breathy hiss. Every hair on your body stands up as the primal instinct to flee runs through you.

Slicing through the quiet, a velvety voice says, “Vhagar means no harm.”

It’s coming from the living room.

“Who are you?”

“The one you called. Come and say hello.” Amusement dances in his tone.

In the dim light by the window, you see him. A tall, lean silhouette clad in a black suit. His presence exudes effortless confidence. His profile is striking, with a strong jaw, a long nose, and slightly dishevelled hair that gives him a rebellious look.

As he takes a drag, the tip of the cigarette flares to life with a soft pop. The smoke dissolves into the air like a ghost.

His gaze flickers to you, eyes glinting dark blue like two sapphires.

“Are you...” Your voice trails off, uncertainty hanging between you.

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

A pause lingers, full of tension.

“Oh?” he mocks, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips as he takes another languid puff. The teasing lilt in his voice sends a shiver down your spine.

A soft hiss from below captures your attention, and you glance down. A long, slender snake slithers past you, its dark green scales glistening as it moves with hypnotic fluidity. As if drawn by an invisible thread, it curls near his legs.

“No! I just… didn’t think you’d actually come,” you stammer, surprised by your own honesty.

He studies you for a long moment. Even in darkness, the intensity of his gaze is ablaze, making you want to hide your naked legs and tug your shirt longer to your knees.

“Hm.” He casually puts out his cigarette on the windowsill.

Your landlady will kill you.

With measured steps, he approaches, and his proximity makes everything inside you tremble. “There’s nothing to be afraid of,” he murmurs. His voice works like a calming pill, settling warmth in your chest.

He stops just inches away, and your breath hitches as he lifts your chin, coaxing your gaze to meet his. “Now, tell me—what is it you want?”

Despite the self-preservation instincts yelling inside you to call it off—to resist being lured into the biggest trap—the words come out involuntarily.

“I want… I want my life to get better. I want Cregan back,” you say, your gaze becoming teary. “I want to be better at writing. I want to be happy again.” The words spill from your lips, almost a prayer. For the first time in forever, it feels like God can hear you.

He hums softly, withdrawing his hand. The warmth lingers where his fingers touched your skin. He begins to circle you, his hands clasped behind his back. You hold your breath, waiting for his verdict, as your heart could jump out of your chest.

“You must choose what you want most,” he stresses, “and I shall grant it.”

You blink, caught off guard, as a few tears fall, dispersing into the darkness of the room. Choose?

As if reading your thoughts, he says, “You humans are so insatiable.” Despite the reprimanding nature of his words, his tone feels like an amused chuckle.

Your cheeks flush.

“But it’s understandable.” He stops behind you, his warmth brushing against you, making you want to lean into it. There’s something oddly comforting about his presence. “To have it all is… tempting,” he murmurs, his voice low against your ear, and you swallow hard at the sensation. “But you must choose.”

He brushes a few hair strands aside as if to sense how they feel under his touch before pulling away. Settling into a wide armchair, he sprawls lazily, his eyes locked onto you, as though he’s savouring every flicker of your reaction. The snake crawls beside his foot like a protective guard.

“What will it be?” he asks.

You weren’t ready for this. Cregan or writing. Writing or Cregan. But then, like a beam of sunlight breaking through clouds, the answer crystallizes.

Both Cregan and your editor have left you, unable to find the passion they craved. They couldn’t ignite that spark within themselves and blamed you for not having it, too. You felt as if you should shine like a star—not just any star, but a supernova. That’s what you felt you lacked—a brilliance that could light it up, to make darkness disappear.

“I want passion,” you say. He raises an eyebrow, his gaze glinting with intrigue.

“To be more passionate,” you clarify, “in both my personal life and my writing. Is that possible?”

“Quite so,” he replies, his lips curving into a smirk. “Let’s make a pact and consider it done.”

The ease with which he says this stirs a flicker of suspicion.

“What would you want in return?” you ask cautiously.

“Oh, that’s simple,” he says, tilting his head slightly. “My price is as sweet as you are.”

You stare at him in confusion, the implication is totally lost on you. “And that is…?”

“You. Your body. For one night.”

Your mouth falls open at his brutal honesty.

“It’s very generous of me,” he says, adjusting his maroon tie, “since most demons would demand your soul. Consider this your lucky day.”

You cross your arms as if attempting to shield yourself from his oddly predatory gaze. “No way!” A pang of pride hits you. Demon or not, you won’t trade your body.

“You desire passion, and you’ll get it this way,” he says composedly.

“I don’t know you! I’m not going to… sleep with you!”

He laughs softly. “Who said we’d be sleeping?” The way he easily twists your words sends a shiver down your spine. “No, no, my little dove,” he shakes his head as he speaks, “that’s not part of the arrangement.”

Your cheeks burn, flustered by both his implication and your own reaction.

“It’s Aemond,” he adds smoothly, as though sharing a simple courtesy.

You stare, unsure of what to say or do. Your investment is either going to pay off or be wasted completely. Perhaps there’s a way to reason with him.

“Is there another way…?” you try, desperation creeping into your voice.

“No.” He shrugs, cutting off any hope. “Choose. One night of passion for a life filled with it.”

This is insane. Completely insane.

“It is,” he says, nodding his head. 

“Get out of my head,” you snap, and the snake hisses at you, as if warning you not to disrespect its owner.

But Aemond just chuckles. “There’s no need. Everything you feel is written on your lovely face.”

“This isn’t what I want,” you protest, shaking your head.

No, no. You can’t do this. Summoning a demon was one thing, but giving yourself over—no, that’s too far. Madness.

“Have you thought carefully?” His voice rumbles like distant thunder. “There may be no second chance.”

You meet his gaze, your heart pounding. Even if it’s the only way, it’s not right.

“I can’t. It’s not who I am,” you say somewhat hesitantly, feeling ashamed by your lack of confidence. You’re not that woman from your dream, and you’ll never be.

“Hm.” His response holds a note of bitterness. He stands up, shaking off the invisible dust from his jacket.

“Well, you could’ve had it your way.”

You frown in confusion, but before you can respond, he says, “Good night, sweet dove,” and disappears into the shadows. The snake vanishes with him.

The next few days, you spend in a fog. You clean up your flat, collecting the broken glass and mopping the floor from the pomegranate juice. And he… as if he were never present here.

At times, you wonder if you made him up or if it was a sick fever dream caused by the eerie mixture. But the dark stain from the cigarette on the windowsill serves as a reminder that he was not a figment of your imagination.

Searching through job vacancies, you circle a few with a pencil, sometimes biting down on the eraser. Maybe, just maybe, you can piece together a life that feels right if you put in enough effort.

It was so stupid to risk your life and challenge dark powers for the sake of a life you could create on your own. Yes, going back to square one feels shitty, but starting small is still a start.

An Instagram notification pops up on your screen: Cregan shared a story. You haven’t muted his notifications. You tap the link, and his lit-up face appears alongside a stunning blonde in a décolletage that would make one very aware of their movements not to let it slide. Bold chick, that’s what her look screams. Unlike you.

The emptiness and pain clash in your chest, washing over you. Slowly, you put the phone aside, staring blankly at the wall. Has he moved on so quickly? After all the years you’ve had together? Has he found a passionate substitute for you?

In the kitchen, you grab a bottle of dry red wine. The cork goes into the rubbish bin as you pour the dark red liquid to the brim, more than etiquette allows. Fuck it. You gulp it down, letting the alcohol warm your chest. The bile is swallowed for a fleeting moment.

You should’ve made the deal. You could’ve had it all. But here you are, on the same road once again. You fucked it up.

On your way to the bedroom, you slip out of your pants, leaving only a long t-shirt—Cregan’s. At the thought of it, a wave of revulsion washes over you, and you fling it aside with a grunt. You open the wardrobe and slip into a burgundy peignoir, its fabric soft against your skin. At least you’d feel sexy, even if it was just for yourself, alone in the vast bed of this compact room.

You close your eyes, curling into a ball, whispering into the void, “Ad altiora… tendo.” You draw your knees tighter, wrapping your arms around yourself. There’s no way to pull it off without those nasty herbs, without that pomegranate—a desperate attempt, akin to the final words of a condemned man before death.

The temperature drops, your erratic breath disappears like a fleeting puff of vapour in the cold air. No tears are left to shed. Cregan. If only he were here. If only he would offer his warm embrace—just one more time. Yet, in the silence of your grief, another name slips past your cold, blue lips. “Aemond.” The name hangs in the air.

Your eyes fall shut. If you're lucky enough, you'll fall asleep soon. Perhaps the dream will offer you some comfort.

“Changed your mind, little dove?” His question crashes over you like a thunderclap, jolting you upright in bed. In the dim glow from the table lamp, he appears more tangible, dressed in the same dark suit and maroon tie, that familiar glitter dancing in his blue eyes.

“You came,” you whisper in disbelief, your gaze drinking him in as if he were a mirage sitting upon the chair.

“You summoned me,” he replies, tilting his head slightly. “Not that I had much of a choice.”

“But what about the pomegranate and…?”

“Not needed since you have my name.”

“I see.” Suddenly aware of your sheer, lacy gown, you fumble to cover yourself with the blanket. His smirk widens, catching the moment with delight.

His cocky demeanour might have irked you—were he not a demon, potentially the strongest creature around. But there’s also something magnetic about him. The way he tilts his head, the fluidity of his movements, the elegance in each smirk—they’re deliberate, drawing you in against your better judgment. He could easily be one of the characters in your book, no doubt he’d be loved by readers.

“If you haven’t changed your mind, what is it then?” he hums.

You remain still, your eyes falling to your hands. It’s salvation or a curse—this dark creature steps in after the one you loved left you in your darkest hour.

“I accept the offer,” you mutter under your breath. Or maybe those are the remnants of wine speaking on your behalf.

“Interesting,” he says unemotionally. Either he’s foreseen it coming or no longer cares. “What prompted the change, if I may ask?”

You glance at him warily, suspicion creeping in—does he not know everything? But his gaze holds no trace of insincerity.

“Cregan,” the name burns on your tongue, “my ex has already moved on with another girl.”

“And?” he cocks an eyebrow at you.

“And I think I shall be moving on too.”

“The wish is still the same?”

You nod.

“Let me think,” he murmurs thoughtfully, a calculating glint in his eyes. “You summoned me once and refused the most generous deal. Now you summon me again over your lousy ex. Given the circumstances, I shall increase the price.”

A chill runs through your veins. “How much higher?”

With that question, you feel yourself shrink beneath his piercing gaze.

“You’ll be running errands for me every three weeks for the next seven years.”

You swallow hard.

“That’s still very generous of me,” he adds.

“What kind of errands?” you ask hesitantly.

“Minor stuff. I’m sure you’ll manage,” he says, shrugging.

“Not connected to…?” Your voice trails off, hoping he’ll catch your meaning, but he simply continues to watch you in question.

You bite your lip before adding, “to my body?”

“Unless you want to.” The devilish spark in his eyes dances.

Heat rushes to your face, an uncomfortable mix of embarrassment and something else—something darker.

Alright, think. What’s at stake? A few minor errands or ending up in the ditch? But can you trust him? The demon, the dark creature?

“You’re not going to trick me?” you ask, your voice shaking slightly as you realize the absurdity of the question.

“Me? Never,” he replies, raising his hands in mock innocence. “Seventeen minor errands per year doesn’t sound that much, does it?”

It’s hella much. But it certainly sounds better than a ditch.

Then he adds nonchalantly, “Oh, and of course, one night is still the key to all of it.”

A chilling horror passes through your body.

“Would you… hurt me?”

“No.” His gaze remains steady, unflinching.

“I will not be in pain?”

His lips tug upward. “I believe quite the contrary.”

Something within you burns—tugs at your core, like a siren song. Enticing, yet lethal.

“Come on, little dove. Just one night and a few errands a year—the key to your dream life.”

“Alright.” Your voice sounds distant, as if it belongs to someone else entirely. “I agree.”

You hardly blink as his tall figure looms over you.

“Stand up,” he commands, extending his hand toward you.

It feels warm and mighty, the way his veins curl upon his hand like intricate geometric patterns.

Your legs feel wobbly as you stand.

“I shall grant you never-ending passion in return for your service every three weeks for eight years. Deal?”

“Deal.” The word feels heavy on your tongue.

“You shall not resist completing any errand I ask of you. Understand?”

“Yes.” The answer is automatic now.

“As validation of the trust and service, you shall be all mine tonight.”

“Tonight?” you gasp, the reality of it sinking in.

“Any problem?” The way his eyes narrow sends a shiver down your spine.

“No,” you shake your head. “No problem.” 

“Good.” Then, out of nowhere, a paper appears, along with a pen.

The contract is written in capital maroon letters, bold and commanding.

“Everything I’ve just said and you’ve confirmed is written here. Sign, and we have a deal.” He stretches the pen toward you.

You scan the lines, seeing all the requirements he just named. Biting the inside of your cheek, you wince at the metallic taste on your tongue.

It’s now or never. 

With a shaky hand, you take the pen and scrawl your signature in burdungy colours just as your peignoir.

The paper disappears as quickly as it appeared.

The light flickers unsteadily a few times before settling into a steady glow.

Aemond is nowhere to be seen. Turning around, a silent question burns on your tongue.

What has just happened? Didn’t it work?

Then your body tenses as you feel the heat radiating from behind you, as if something unknown and thick is about to wrap around you. His voice is a gentle whisper in your ear.

“Well, well, little dove.” His voice strikes you like an electric shock. “What shall I do with you now?”

Your head turns slightly, and fear drips into your veins.

“So many ideas, and only one night.” His face dips toward your neck, inhaling deeply as though you’re not flesh and blood but a feast meant to be savoured. Your body tenses, betraying you as his hands land on your waist, his touch both featherlight and unyielding. His fingers drift down to your hips, gripping firmly through the hem of your nightgown.

“Did you put it on for me?” he murmurs.

“No,” you reply, squeezing your thighs together.

A puff of warm breath trails past your ear. “Liar.”

Without warning, he pushes you onto the bed. You land on your elbows, the soft rustle of his clothing close behind. You turn onto your back, propping yourself up to follow his movements. He tosses his jacket onto a nearby chair, his gaze never wavering from you.

“Rule number one,” he begins, loosening his tie, “I set the course, and you obey.” He drops the maroon tie beside you. “Rule number two: no kissing on the lips.”

Your brows knit, but words catch in your throat. He undoes his shirt slowly, button by button, his gaze holding you captive. That small voice inside insists, Just one night—endure, and you’ll have everything you desire.

Your gaze drifts to his torso as his shirt falls away, revealing lean muscle, sculpted and stark. A flicker of shame rises within, but your eyes won’t look away.

“Like what you see?” he asks with a smirk.

You swallow hard, unable to find words.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” His fingers undo his belt, slipping it free with an unhurried rhythm. “Tell me what your ex was like in bed.”

His request makes you blink in confusion.

“He was…” Gods, even in the silence, Cregan’s name feels like an anchor pulling you down. “He was gentle. Sweet.”

“Sounds tedious.” He tosses the belt onto the bed. The unknown chills you to the bone, and the room suddenly feels far too hot.

“No, it was… it was good.” You cling to the words, a shield he sees through with ease. A glimmer of something strange dances in his gaze, but you’re too nervous to understand it.

Barefoot now, he looms at the edge of the bed. His pants remain the last piece of clothing.

“Lie down properly, hands to the headboard,” he commands, picking up the belt once more.

“What… what are you going to do?” The question barely leaves your lips, and something about your wide-eyed, doe-like expression draws out his amusement.

“What your ‘lousy ex’ couldn’t dream of.” He leans in, the tip of his thumb grazing your lower lip. “I’m going to give you everything.”

Swallowing the tension in your throat, you move to the centre of the bed, your head resting against the pillows, arms raised to the headboard.

“Good girl," he praises, wrapping the belt around your wrists, and binding them firmly to the headboard.

“One more little thing, and we’re all set.” He steps away, and you tug at the bonds, a spark of dread trickling down your spine.

His maroon tie appears in his hand as he leans closer.

“What’s that for?”

“Sometimes, true passion requires a bit of darkness.” He slips the tie over your eyes, knotting it securely.

The fabric is soft, yet it plunges you into a cold, sightless world. You shift uneasily.

“Shh,” he soothes, his voice calm. “It’s all for what you want, remember?”

A stillness lingers as he waits for your answer.

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice barely your own.

“Good. Now, my little dove will get what she desires most.”

The bed dips under his weight as he moves over you, and with one deliberate tug, the flimsy fabric of your peignoir tears beneath his hands. A gasp escapes you, a reaction to both his brazenness and the cold that trails over your skin. The only thing left to cover your decency is your underwear. Despite your eyes being closed, you sense his gaze roving over your naked body, a brazen exploration that ignites a heat within you.

“Well, well. What a delicious little dove I have all to myself,” he murmurs, his voice a low purr.

Wasting no time, his mouth descends to your nipple, swirling his tongue around the bud before capturing it fully, enveloping it in his warmth and slickness. He devours you as if he’s starving for the act itself. His other hand finds your other breast, massaging it just after his thumb brushes over your sensitive skin.

Your fingers tighten around the belt, a soft rustling filling the room. Your breath catches in your chest as your mind fogs over. The blindness intensifies every sensation, each touch igniting a fire you hadn’t known existed within you.

“Getting excited?” he teases.

“No,” you reply, though "yes" simmers on the tip of your tongue, pride pushing it back.

“Hmm, we’ll see about that.” His tone holds a dangerous challenge as if you’ve ignited something within him. He trails his mouth to your other nipple, teeth grazing the peak just before tugging it into his mouth. A sigh slips past your lips, helpless. His hot tongue swirls around the sensitive peak, licking it like a lollipop.

Your hands twitch, and the belt feels tighter, holding you in place as much as binding you to him. You cling to it like a lifeline, feeling its roughness bite into your palms.

Aemond moves to your neck, leaving a trail of kisses before his lips latch onto your delicate skin, sucking with a possessive intensity that promises to leave marks. Each touch feels like a candle’s flame against your skin, each sensation you can’t see setting you ablaze.

“Is it...ah...necessary?” you ask, your voice cracking, as you wonder how you'll cover all the marks.

But his teeth sink harder into your shoulder, drawing a sharp gasp.

“Aemond!” you squeak, your voice torn between pleasure and pain.

“We’ll work on the way you say my name,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear as he nips your earlobe, sending shivers down your spine. His hands explore your hips, kneading the soft flesh, his thumbs pressing circles against your skin.

He pulls back just slightly, his gaze lingering over your face, a silent study of your expression. Then, he dips his head, his tongue making a slow, wet line from your collarbone to your ear. A moan falls from your lips as your body trembles beneath him, pliant.

“Did he ever tell you how gorgeous you look when that little mouth of yours falls open?”

His words drift over the sensitive skin near your ear, the teasing warmth in his voice melts away the last of your resistance.

“Answer,” he commands, his voice as a hiss, punctuated by the possessive squeeze of your hips.

“No,” you breathe out, a shaky sound that only widens the grin you sense playing across his lips.

Before you can catch your breath, his fingers slip past your lips, gliding against the warm, soft insides of your mouth. You nearly choke on the unexpected intrusion, a startled moan rising in your throat.

“Suck.” One word, and you obey, your lips wrapping around his long, slender fingers as your cheeks flush hot. It’s as if he’s cast a spell, making you cling to him, sucking eagerly as though your life depends on it.

Another moan escapes you as he presses his hardness against your thigh, letting you feel the thick, rigid length of him through his pants.

“Do you feel it?” he murmurs, pulling his fingers free and leaving a wet trail down your chin and breasts. “Do you feel what I’ve generously offered you?” He grinds against you, deepening the sensation, and your head swims.

“Yes,” you gasp, your voice barely above a whisper as you struggle for air.

“Say it properly. ‘Yes, Aemond,’” he breathes against your skin. “Say it like the obedient little dove you are.” His tongue sweeps along your chin, licking away the traces of saliva.

“Yes, Aemond.” His name falls from your lips like a surrendered plea.

“Good.”

He draws back, and the sudden absence of his warmth sends a shiver rushing through you, leaving your skin aching for the return of his touch.

“What do we have here?” he murmurs, pressing his fingers against your heated centre. A soft hum escapes him, content as he notes the wetness soaking through your underwear.

“Was that vanilla sex with Cregan so disappointing, or… are you just desperate for my cock?” His voice drips with amusement.

You bite your lip, shame and regret flaring at the mention of Cregan’s name. Gods, what were you doing? Clarity flickers in your mind, but only briefly.

With one swift motion, he removes your underwear, and his fingers slip into your slickness, coaxing deeper than you ever could on your own.

A moan breaks free as he brushes against your G-spot.

“Tell me, little dove,” he whispers, tapping lightly over the sensitive spot, “where does all that desperation come from? But think carefully.” Menace laces his words.

“I… I don’t know,” you manage to say, breathless.

“Wrong answer.” His fingers curl inside you, forcing your hips to buck forward, and then he swiftly withdraws them, leaving you aching. Your frustrated sigh draws a dark chuckle from him.

“You,” you say softly, biting your lip.

“Me? Full sentence, little dove,” he replies, tracing circles on your lower belly. “I haven’t even started fucking that mind of yours.”

His vulgar words stoke your desire further, and you feel a sting of tears in your eyes behind the fabric.

“I want you. Please.”

“Shall we believe her, Vhagar?” His question catches you off guard.

A hiss near your ear makes you flinch. The idea of a snake terrifies you, and you instinctively try to pull away, but neither the belt nor Aemond’s firm grip on your hips lets you move.

You gasp as the cold, slick creature glides from the top of your head, slithering slowly down your exposed body. Its cool scales trace a shiver down your spine, passing between your breasts, over your belly, and stopping just above the smouldering heat of your core.  The juxtaposition of temperatures drives you wild.

Aemond bends your knees, positioning your legs so the snake coils around your right thigh, its grip tightening as though it means to bind you further.

“Aemond,” you say, his name slipping from your lips in a desperate whisper. You know you're in no position to beg, but the creature’s presence sends panic racing through you.

“Shh, little dove. You’ll enjoy this,” he whispers softly, his tone laced with promise. Suddenly, the silence of the room feels deafening.

“Enjoy… what?” you ask, confusion mingling with dread as his hands remain still upon your hips.

In response, the creature inches toward your heated centre, its head pressing into your wetness with a soft slide, slowly easing itself inside. The cool, slender sensation twisting inside you makes you writhe, your body instinctively arching toward the pleasure. Aemond’s grip on your hips tightens, steadying you as the world blurs around you.

“Aemond, what—? Ahh,” you gasp, a raw moan slipping from your lips as the creature burrows deeper, filling you in a way that steals your breath. Your core spasms around it, overwhelmed by the relentless sensation, caught between fear and pleasure.

“Shh, let her have her fill. She just wants a taste of you,” he murmurs.

“It’s… too much,” you pant, tugging at the belt with all your strength, the leather biting into your wrists, amazed it hasn’t snapped beneath the strain.

Inside you, the creature twists and coils, its presence impossibly cool against the warmth of your depths, building a relentless tension that grows stronger with each passing second.

“Fuck, I guess we’ll have to share you,” Aemond says, the heat of his breath ghosting over your dripping, spasming cunt. The snake teases one side of your clit, coiling near your pubic bone, while Aemond’s hot tongue plunges into your clenching walls, the lewd licking sounds echoing in the charged air. Every time his tongue goes deeper into you, his nose presses harder against your sensitive bud, sending jolts of pleasure coursing through you.

Your mouth forms a silent 'O' as his hands squeeze your ass cheeks harshly, digging his fingerprints into your body with a possessive force, leaving deep imprints on your skin. You feel a sharp pang of ecstasy within, your body trembling in waves of convulsions that crash over you like relentless tides, flooding you with pleasure you've never experienced before.

“Don’t give her too many kisses unless you want to melt her brain.” His playful words meant for Vhagar fade into the background, lost in the intoxicating haze that envelops you. Your face bears a hedonic expression that any woman could be jealous of.

You don’t know where one orgasm ends and another begins, energy leaving you as you give yourself completely to the sensation. The snake eagerly swirls within you while his pouty lips latch onto your clit, as if they are rivals competing for the prize—you.

“Ae—Aemond,” you gasp, his name trembling on your lips. The fire pools low in your abdomen, making your legs tremble, before it snaps like a firework, exploding through every cell of your body.

You wince as the cool snake withdraws from your dripping centre, dragging your juices down your thighs. Suddenly, it feels achingly empty within you.

You become aware of Aemond only when your hands are finally unclasped, freed from the confines of the belt. Your fingers fumble to untie it, the fabric slipping away as you breathe in the dimly lit room. Your legs glisten with a mix of his saliva, your own wetness, and the snake's  presence.

Aemond sits beside you, and your eyes widen as he starts massaging your wrists. His gaze lingers on your dilated pupils, flushed cheeks, and bitten lips, absorbing every detail of your state.

“Sorry, I couldn’t deny Vhagar. She deserved to taste just as much as I do,” he says solemnly. “Besides,” he adds, his gaze sliding down to your breasts, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth, “she prepared you so nicely for me.”

The way he says it makes you tense. Both desire and fear clash within you. When no retort comes, Aemond stands up and pulls down his pants, along with his underwear. A dark chuckle rumbles from his chest as he catches sight of your wide eyes, drawn to the impressive girth of his cock, glistening with precum.

“I don’t think it’s gonna—” your voice falters.

“It will,” he assures you, positioning himself between your legs as you fall back, surrendering to the moment. His face inches closer, breath warm against your skin, his whispers brushing your lips like a caress. “I’ll bury myself so deep, so hard”—his cock nudges teasingly toward your entrance, making your mouth dry—“that it’ll wipe his name from your mind forever.”

His promise, or perhaps the threat, sends a shiver down your spine, making you swallow hard. Before you can fully grasp the moment, he plunges into you.

You burn as he thrusts, filling you completely, over and over. As you choke on your sobs, he devours every micro-expression on your face.

“Perfect,” he murmurs into your ear, propping himself on his elbow, his other hand steadying against the headboard, which squeaks in rhythm with your bodies. “I could stay buried inside this perfect cunt forever.”

You shudder at the thought of how it would feel if he started straight away—you’re certain he would slice you in two. As he jackhammers into you, your nails dig into the taut flesh of his back, leaving dark pink scratches.

“Shall I go deeper, mm?” A smirk curves his lips.

Amidst your whimpers and moans, you manage to gasp, “yes,” “yes.” Normally, you’d blush furiously, but today… your desire is insatiable.

His gaze darkens until the blue of his irises disappears, consumed by hunger. He pulls away slightly, slinging your legs over his shoulders. This time, he thrusts slowly, deliberately, but the sensation of his cock pressing against your cervix sends a strangled noise escaping your lips.

“Beg me to fuck you harder,” he teases.

“Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please, fuck me harder.”

His expression twists menacingly, a predatory glint in his eyes. “Who knew the little dove could beg like an elite slut?” he muses, his voice dripping with dark amusement. The angry look on your flushed face only seems to fuel his desire, and he chuckles softly. “Well, since you asked so nicely…”

With a swift, powerful movement, he rolls his hips, establishing a mind-blowing tempo that sends waves of pleasure coursing through you. Sweat glistens on your skin, the heat of your bodies mingling.

His eyes are fixated on your bouncing breasts, the way they sway and ripple with each thrust driving him wild. The sight urges him to deliver even harsher thrusts, as if he’s trying to claim every inch of you.

Incomprehensible words spill from your lips like a desperate prayer, each thrust hitting that sweet spot perfectly. God, you’ve never felt so alive, so consumed by pleasure.

“Your tight little pussy is fucking loving it, isn’t it?” he growls.

The way he phrases it makes your walls clench involuntarily around his thick cock, your body responding to his every word.

“It’s been waiting for a great fuck for a long time, mm?” he taunts, the smugness in his voice only intensifies your arousal.

“Yes, yes,” you whimper, feeling the pressure of an impending orgasm build like a tidal wave, ready to crash over you. “Aemond!”

“Good girl. That’s the right way to say my name,” he praises, his voice rich with satisfaction as he senses you starting to unravel beneath him. “There’s so much passion within you. You just needed to be fucked properly.”

He continues thrusting, each powerful stroke intensifying your overstimulation, pulling you further into a dizzying spiral of pleasure, making you see stars in the darkness. The world around you blurs as he becomes your sole focus.

The demon who gives you heaven.

You crave to clasp his hair, to feel its softness, but he grasps your fingers, intertwining them as he cums inside you with a low growl like an animal. His warmth spreads deep within you like molten gold, filling you with an exquisite heat.

Is it merely a sign of your fantasy, or does someone press a kiss against your forehead? You’d never know, lost in the haze of desire, quickly captured by a dream that lures you further into another world.

The following morning, you wake up to the gentle warmth of sunlight caressing your face. A thin gap between the curtains allows the sun to greet you. Sitting up in bed, you wince, forcing yourself to remember what day it is and what the hell has happened. Your mind feels like an empty canvas.

On wobbly feet, you make your way to the bathroom.

Since when do I sleep naked? you wonder.

But as you see your reflection in the mirror, your mouth falls open. The memories flood back with intensity as you witness numerous purple marks peppered around your neck, chest, and fingertips, marked deep into the flesh of your hips. Yet the most striking change is the intricate tattoo of a sapphire nestled between your breasts, glimmering in the light.

As your gaze darts to the corner of the mirror, you spot a note scrawled in an elegant hand: See you in 3 weeks. Unless you wish to see me earlier. Just call my name.

Your cheeks flush.

Fuck.

Likes, comments, and reblogs are deeply appreciated! Each word you share fuels my passion even more 💋

*Ad altiora tendo - I strive towards higher things.

[thekinslayed]

oh my god, the way my jaw was properly dropped for the smut!!! this is crazy good 😵‍💫😵‍💫 perfectly spooky and devilishly scrumptious!!!

[mmogurl]

You have been CHOSEN to get a big blathering wall of text in review of your wonderfully interesting fic! So, here goes! I LOVE Vhagar as a snake! The first couple of times it was a neat trick, but by the time Vhagar is hissing in your ear I decided it was brilliant.

AND THEN THERE WAS THE PART WITH THE... You know what I mean.. Ok, so like.. I’ve watched a lot of tentacle hentai in my day, so it’s certainly nothing new to me.. BUT it is definitely new to me in hotd fics! In Fanfics in general.. Maybe I just haven’t read enough.. Although I’ve read quite a lot. So I have to give you serious credit for creativity.. Not just making a dragon a snake which seems a better companion for a demon, but also in using said snake to become a part of the smut scene. I can’t say I have EVER considered doing such a thing, and perhaps now I have to up my game and start thinking of kinky ass ways to screw my readers. :)

Yet the most striking change is the intricate tattoo of a sapphire nestled between your breasts, glimmering in the light.

This is such a nice touch too and I really liked it! And the note about seeing you in 3 weeks unless you want to see him sooner? If it were me, I’d be tying his ass to the bed so he couldn’t leave!!! Hahhaah

So overall, this was great and had a lot of intriguing angles that got me really hooked. I don’t always like modernized characters, because it feels like you’re being taken out of the very stage that makes them who they are.. But in this case, I felt like his dialogue was so spot on - especially that initial talk they have. It really felt natural for Aemond to be a demon. So, I have no complaints!

Now, what I would be interested in knowing.. Is what those errands are going to be…. Cheers!

[mmogurl]

FML. Seriously. This pic is me to a T right now. You ever just feel bummed about everything? I mean, when nothing is going right and it's hard to point out a single positive thing in your life that doesn't feel forced? Where you make plans that are always broken and you have expectations that are never fulfilled. It just becomes depressing after awhile to watch things always crumble down around you. And how are you supposed to find a reason to do anything in that state of mind? Oh yes, keep pushing yourself to write even though any praise you receive is fleeting and inconsistent... and for the most part it just feels like you're invisible. Just keep dragging along in a world that really doesn't seem to give a fuck if you struggle and certainly doesn't care if you suffer. You know.. one of the things that helps me most in life.. when things are good and when things are bad if I can manage it.. is creativity. I'm also an artist, although I don't focus on it as much as I do writing... Because with writing I get to actually go into another world and be someone else.. And THE BEST thing about that is that I also get to turn around and share it with the world.. so they can also take that same journey and experience that fantasy.. whatever it might be. Taming Homelander, getting wrecked by Daemon in the kitchen, or giving Aegon the hug he really needs. That's the amazing thing about writing is that you can do anything you want to do. Even a stupid idea.. which believe me, I had one of the silliest ideas ever recently that I am seriously thinking about writing out (It has to do with how Aegon is really bad at High Valyrian but I won't spoil the rest). But, even a silly idea can become something really special and you just never know what is going to resonate with yourself as an author or even with the people who read your work. The thing I absolutely hate is how sometimes, no matter what you do, a piece might not get the attention it deserves. Now I always account for taste and preference, but it still sucks when you don't get any feedback. And I've been reading a lot from people on tumblr lately, speaking on this very same topic. I just got on tumblr barely a couple of months ago, so I have even been wondering if they've made some serious changes since. Because I went from steady growth to not much of anything! And it's been hard to adjust.. because at the end of the day, I really just like sharing in enjoying the characters and stories I love with others. Ah.. if that were the only problem, I might be upset, but able to cope. But instead, it keeps feeling like everything's going from bad to worse.. or at least insult added to injury. I don't know if any of you remember me talking about my Targaryen cosplay a month or so back? Well.. I basically went HAM on a Daemon x OC (but it's basically a Rhaenyra dress) cosplay for Halloween. I spent.. you don't wanna know how much I spent. I had one of those moments where I realized I had been frugal all year and decided.. I deserve this. And spent a lot of money on having costumes commissioned and also bought wigs and jewelry. The whole nine yards!

And wouldn't you know.. within a couple of weeks, my husband lost his job. He is the sole breadwinner in the household, so that leaves us with no income. Mind you, this has happened every year for 3 years now, but in this case, they actually canceled his contract before it was up (we had another 5 months to go!)! The job market has just been so incredibly unstable, and I'm getting so sick of feeling like I'm on a sinking ship in life. At my age, things should be settled, but I'm realizing nothing will ever be settled.. and that is hard to come to terms with. So, I spent all this money on costumes, then he loses his job.. and I'm thinking... Well - at least I still get to dress up as some Targaryens for Halloween and try my best to make it look good and have fun! There was a costume contest I was planning on attending and everything on the 26th. And I have literally everything else ready to go except for the costumes. Which were mailed out early October, but were from out of country. So wouldn't you know.. They got to the US more than a week ago.. and have just been sitting in customs, after being cleared, and I tried calling them, but it's the Usps and that's basically not helpful at all.. There's two days left for them to maybe come by some miracle.. but I am having to accept now that it's probably not going to come in time. It might not even come in time for a later party if I can find one, which I already looked long and hard for this one on the 26th xD So, FML, right?? I spent the money, lost the job, and now can't even dress up all fancy and get to show off how well I can accessorize my Targaryens. :( It sucks.. and I am feeling gutted. And I am honestly having trouble wanting to do anything. I should be writing, but I can't even put myself in the mindset of a fantasy, because I just keep thinking about how much life sucks. If I wrote something now.. It would probably be about one of my characters going to a costume party and having some asshole run a carriage past her and getting mud all over it. T_T or something along those lines. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention... how everyone was just sick in my house maybe two weeks ago.. and then my eldest son got sick again.. and my youngest had a fever last night.. Which means.. even if the costumes do come.. everyone (myself likely included) will probably be sick for Halloween! Like.. why?! Can nothing go right?? It's just gotta be suck all the time!? Sigh.. That's all I got for a closer. Just sigh.

[talynrae]

[mmogurl]

Daemon! I love this! Love the loose style and how it still 100% looks like Daemon and has his vibe. All of that fire <3

[mmogurl]

In The Shadow of Dragons Chapter 9: Coiled Up and Hissing

18+ | 5.1k | Daemon Targaryen X Female OC | possessive, protective, objectifying, simping, raunchy Daemon | Uncle / niece incest, Targcest, Courtship, alt canon universe

I don't want to spoil this chapter, so I'm not going to describe what happens given I get into it pretty quickly anyway! The one thing I will say - is that there is some drama - and you can probably tell with who from the gif above. ;) Also, I was running behind with editing on this chapter, so apologies if there are any flubs in it. Told from Daemon's POV.

CH 1 | CH 2 | CH 3 | CH 4 | CH 5 | CH 6 | CH 7 | CH 8 | CH 9 Also on AO3

Time seemed to stretch on far slower than it should have as Daemon waited patiently for his sweetling to join him in the Godswood.

Earlier, he had retired to his chambers for awhile, freshened up, and even busied himself reading an excerpt from a rather large tome on Valyrian history. He’d enjoyed the familiarity of reading the runes of his mother language, the daring acts of his ancestors captivating him until the night fell heavier upon the Red Keep.

By now he was certain the hour of the bat had come and gone, giving way to its successor, the eel. And as he paced back and forth in front of the great weirwood tree, a puzzled scowl darkened his face in wondering what was keeping his sweet betrothed from their planned meeting. It was not like her to keep him waiting, and yet as more time passed and she did not appear, Daemon’s mood became uneasy with worry that something might actually be wrong.

He was just about to go and seek her out, figuring he’d knock at the secret passageway to gain access to her room, when the sound of footsteps rustling through the grass rose to his attention. He faced the direction of the noise, and smiled as he saw the silhouette of one clad in a dress. Daemon’s mouth opened to call out to her, but stopped before speaking as he realized the form did not belong to his Ryna. No, this woman had a stouter frame than his slender riñitsos, a figure widened by childbirth that he knew well; it was Rhaenyra.

Daemon’s brow furrowed, his expression shifting from one of expectation to confusion, then finally to irritation. There was very little reason for his eldest niece to be out and about at night and given he was expecting Ryna, she was only making a nuisance of herself as far as he was concerned.

“Niece?” he called out with a frown. “What in the Seven Hells are you doing out here at this hour?”

“I thought I might find you here,” she said in a voice that might have sounded coy coming from any other woman. But Rhaenyra made it sound natural, proud even, as though there was nothing wrong with their meeting here.

As she stepped out of the shadows into the glowing moonlight that bathed the clearing, Daemon was able to see her more clearly. He was surprised to take in the state of her dress, looking as though it had been thrown on haphazardly, the laces barely tightened and the bust hanging lowly. She also donned a hooded robe over it, her hair a tangle of silver gold about her shoulders, reflecting brightly as though she were an ethereal being.

There was a look of heady desire in her eyes as she approached him, though he knew not if it was hunger for him or if she had other ulterior motives in mind as was typical with the heir to the throne. Rhaenyra stood beside him, almost too closely, peering up with a mixture of determination and a wanton desperation.

“I need to speak with you,” she said, her voice tinged with a sense of entitlement, as though she expected he should drop everything to listen to her.

“Shouldn’t you be abed,” Daemon replied, his voice slightly sardonic, but still betraying an air of concern. Rhaenyra was certainly a headstrong Targaryen woman, but she typically kept her more questionable antics private. That she would approach him now in this unkempt state, told him that there was something more to her visit.

Daemon stood stock still, almost shocked by her daring as she took another step closer, so near he could feel the heat radiating from her body.

“Perhaps I should,” she agreed, her voice taking on a huskier tone as she looked up at him almost challengingly. “But you see, I can’t sleep. I have too much on my mind.”

He raised an eyebrow, his expression betraying doubt at her answer. She seemed a little too emboldened, too confident for his liking, and the overabundance of flesh peering through her gown suggested she had come with plans for much than just talking.

“Rhaenyra,” he said coldly, his words a warning against any further encroachment of his patience. “Return to your chambers before you behave in a way we will both regret.”

“Like I would not regret allowing my simple little sister to take you away from me?” she snapped back defiantly, her voice full of fire and rebellion.

Who the blazes does she think she is?? Impertinent little pup.

Oh, she had surely gotten his attention now. This whole charade of hers going from mildly amusing to downright insulting. His gaze darkened, his fists clenching with anger. How could Rhaenyra have the nerve to spout such things about his beloved, directly to his face as though it might help her cause and not hinder it?

He loomed hither to her, his posture threatening as he towered over her frame purposefully. “You would do well to watch your tongue, Niece,” he said, his words a low hiss. “I am not swayed as easily as you might think. No matter how you might try to entice me.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes narrowed, her lips pursed in a stubborn pout, though her body was moving closer, pressing against him as though compelled by an invisible force. Her hand reached out to touch his chest, skimming over the heavy woolen surcoat he wore.

“You wouldn’t have to do anything,” she crooned in a voice tinged with need. “I will take care of everything, if you wish it.”

The feel of her warm touch on his body sent a small shiver down his spine. He carefully schooled his features to hide the reaction from her, but Daemon could not deny that Rhaenyra was a beautiful woman. Even so, the unflinching resolve in her eyes and the presumptive quality of her voice sent a spark of anger through him. As though she saw no other outcome to this scenario but for him to succumb to her wiles. How dare she think she might just sweep in and have him simply because she desired him so?

With a deliberate air of calmness, he placed his own hand over hers on his chest. “And what did you expect to offer me?” he answered her forwardness with a cold indifference.

The Realm’s Delight smiled, a smug, confident expression that said she already thought this battle of wills won between them. She looked up at him from beneath her lashes, her fingers kneading soflty against the fabric of his surcoat.

“Anything you want, Uncle,” she said in a seductive whisper. “Anything you’ve dreamt of I will give you. If only you’ll forsake Ryna for me. We can get rid of my useless husband and finally be wed as it should have been in the first place. It should be you standing by my side when I sit upon the Iron Throne.” She leaned in dangerously close, her breath ghosting against the base of his neck. “Do not pretend that it is not everything you’ve ever truly wanted.”

The Iron Throne though cold and jagged was a tempting lure, one she knew would give him pause to consider. No matter how alluring, Daemon abhorred the way she spoke to him, as though his resistance was nothing more than a formality. He knew her to be impulsive, but this was something else entirely. Did she not realize that she was belittling his sweetling? He was no longer simply angry, but furious with the insult that she thought the Rogue Prince, a fearless rebel with no cause but that of his own choosing, would ever cow to her.

“You think you have some power over me?” he growled, his voice dropping to a dangerous level. “That I would simply discard my riñitsos because you offered me something you think grander?”

“Do not call her that,” she seethed, jealousy transparent as a scowl formed on her face at hearing such a familiar term of endearment. “I won’t let you do this, Daemon,” she continued in a voice that was becoming unhinged. “I cannot allow you to give yourself to her. You are mine.”

“You cannot allow?” his tone was sharp, his expression suddenly menacing as his hands moved to grip down roughly on her arms, pulling her closely to him. His eyes flashed with fury, like a violet storm beneath darkened brows. “No one, Rhaenyra, least of all you, tells me what I will or will not do,” he stated firmly and succinctly. “I will give myself to whomever I choose, and you will not stop me. You will not dictate to me, and you will not make demands. Do you understand?”

The look on her face was obstinate, a spoiled child not used to being rebuffed in this manner. She had always gotten her way, never been denied anything in her entire life, and she did not seem pleased with the concept of rejection.

“You cannot do this,” she whimpered as she shook her head with bewilderment. “You cannot just leave me for her. You have always been mine. Our hearts were always meant to burn together!”

Rhaenyra lunged forward, pressing her lips against his violently. It took him by such surprise that he froze a moment before regaining his wits and pulling back while keeping her in place with his grip. An agonized lament echoed out against the sound of his thudding heart, startling him even more than the forceful kiss had. He had thought the shriek made by the spoiled child in his grasp, but when he looked down to see her head turned to the side, a wicked grin tearing through her cheeks, his heart sank as he followed her gaze.

His world seemed to freeze with cruel clarity as his vision zeroed in on the fleeting figure of his sweetling. Turned on her heels and running from the ghastly sight of her intended kissing her sister. He rememebered the fears she’d given voice to when they first discussed the possibility of wedding, how she would not be second best even to her husband. His heart nearly stopped beating, his ears ringing and his stomach twisting as the reality of the situation fully set in.

No… No… No…

“You vicious wench,” he let out a hiss, roughly pushing Rhaenyra away from him, his amethyst eyes narrowed and filled with a murderous intent. “What have you done?”

But, it was not a question he expected an answer to, and as his violence gave way to horror it seemed everything went silent besides that deafening trill in his head.

“Fuck!” he raged, running as fast as his legs would carry him to catch up with her. “Ryna! Wait!” he called after her, not knowing if she heard him or whether she would heed the call if she had. He knew he could not let that bitch, Rhaenyra, win though, that he could not let his precious girl escape thinking the worst of him.

He could not lose Ryna, not because of this foolhardy blunder. He could not allow this one incident to destroy the bond they had spent a lifetime forging, and the past month honing. Not when they had come so damn close to finally being together.

“Sweetling!” Daemon’s voice roared up to the heavens as he sprinted out from the empty corridor and into the open air of the training yard. His long legs propelled him faster than the wind and yet he couldn’t seem to close the gap between them. “Stop! Wait! I can explain.. Just wait, Gods damn it!”

She looked back for a brief moment in response to his call and that was when she stumbled forward, tripping over a shield that had been left against a haybale. Finally, he closed in on her from behind, his wide reach enveloping her fully in his arms.

“Let go of me!” she fussed, kicking and elbowing him in a frantic attempt to get away.

“No!” he barked firmly, his hands wrapped tightly around her, keeping her arms trapped down at her sides so she could not escape. “Stop struggling. You are not getting away from me,” he held onto her vehemently, his voice a low snarl.

“How could you do this to me, Daemon? Was it always your plan to betray me for her? To make me fall so deeply in love with you that it would hurt all the more when she took you from me?” her voice was choked with tears, and it pained him to hear her say such things. Even knowing those terrible words came from a place of pain didn’t make them bite any less.

“I did nothing!” he bellowed loudly at her with frustration. Soon he could hear the clinking of platemail nearing as one of the Kingsguard came to investigate the commotion. They would not have privacy for long if they did not move. “This is exactly what that bitch wanted. Do not let her win. Come with me willingly and I will explain.”

Daemon turned her in his arms and gave her a firm squeeze, hoping that she would see reason. “Please,” he found himself asking softly, looking upon her tear-stained cheeks, the sound of heavy metal footsteps were getting closer with every passing moment. He could not remember the last time he had pleaded with someone like this. For a time it seemed as though the word please had not been a part of his vocabulary at all. Long ago he’d decided that nobody would ever make him beg for anything and yet here he was.

“Please, my sweet girl,” he implored her once more.

Her lower lip was still trembling with upset, but she nodded ever so faintly at him in acceptance. He took her hand and ran up the steps, ducking into the corridor that led past the Hand’s Tower to avoid any unwanted questioning. The last thing he needed was for the king to find out that he had been chasing his crying betrothed around the Red Keep at all hours of the night. Without any context as to what had occurred, Daemon knew Viserys would think the worst of him. It would mean the end of everything.

They needed privacy, a place he could speak freely away from the prying ears of staff and guard alike. Daemon placed a hand of the stone wall, his breath ragged from the exertion of running through the keep like a madman.

“Listen to me, riñitsos,” he ducked down, patting her hair back against the crown of her head soothingly. “Go back to your chambers and let me in the back way. We have made enough of a spectacle tonight. I promise I will be entirely honest with you, but we need to use discretion. Can you do this for me?”

Ryna wiped tears away from her face, almost as if offended by the presence of such weakness. Those beautiful, big eyes of hers were puffy and red from crying and yet still so full of injury. He hated that her ire was directed at him when he had done nothing to welcome Rhaenyra’s advances.

“Do not look upon me with such hateful eyes,” he said somberly, a hint of pain cracking into his voice. “You know your sister is capable of treachery. You know what a spiteful creature she is,” he tried to speak reason so that she might understand. “And what record of betrayal have you known of me? When have I ever hurt you so?”

She looked blankly at him, a weariness now settling into her features. Daemon could not stand to see her like this.

“Please, sweetling,” he murmured, bringing a hand up to the side of her face and wiping a few more of those salty tears away from her cheek. “Just do as I bid you.”

His head was still swarming with anger as he thought about the conniving little wretch. The way Rhaenyra had tricked him so effortlessly into believing she was in distress and the cruel laugh of malice that he’d heard as he ran off after Ryna. He felt like such a fool to be had in such a way, but he would never underestimate Rhaenyra again, would never allow her close again.

He leaned forward, his lips finding the peak of her head and giving her a gentle kiss. Her hair smelled so good, still fresh from her bath but mixed with the faint smell of sweat from their tussle. Daemon found himself just wanting to wrap himself up in this scent that was wholy hers, remembering every moment of passion they’d shared together vividly.

Gods, she is too precious to lose like this. Not like this…

“Fine, but only to explain yourself,” she finally eked out. “Nothing else.”

“Of course,” he agreed readily, his voice too eager for his own liking. “Then straight to your chambers, dear one. I will come to the back passage shortly.”

Ryna nodded and turned, dragging her feet slowly as she took the hallway that led back towards her room. Daemon hoped he could make her see the truth of what had transpired, but he feared she might not listen. That his sweetling would dwell on only her deepest fears come true, that Rhaenyra would always take everything that was hers and she would be left with nothing that was her own.

He could not accept that as an outcome, would not accept it. He rushed down the stairs, through the Great Hall until he reached the tunnels. Taking a torch from the wall, he found the path he knew well to Ryna’s room and was delighted to find the door already ajar for him. Despite everything that had already occurred, Daemon thought it a good sign that she had allowed him entry, though he would not mistake it for forgiveness.

There was still a heaviness about him as he quietly entered her chambers through the secret passage. He found her already seated on the edge of the bed, her elbows on her knees and her head hanging low in her hands as she waited for him. Daemon took a seat next to her, leaving some distance betweem them to show her that he would respect her space, at least for now.

“Ryna…” he spoke, letting out a long sigh. Daemon could hardly imagine how to put into words all the things he needed to say right now. How did one even begin to defend what appeared so obviously to be betrayal? “Where do I even start?” he said aloud, his mind going back to how the entire mess had unfolded. “I can tell you this much, that I did not desire that kiss,” he stated firmly. “It was wholly unbidden and unwelcome. The act of a desperate woman.”

“So what happened then? How did she come to be held in your arms?” Ryna asked with incredulity. “How did she even know you would be there?”

“I know not,” he replied with the same level of disbelief. “She said she thought she might find me there. I had been waiting for you obviously. I arrived there perhaps a touch earlier than I should have in my eagerness to see you alone. Your sister looked a mess, as though she’d risen from bed and carelessly thrown a dress and cloak on. In all truth, I thought something was wrong with her at first glance.”

Ryna looked at him intently, the apathy draining slowly from her eyes as she listened to his story. “Go on,” she encouraged him to continue.

“I told her she should be back in bed sleeping, but she insisted that she could not sleep. That was when she became quite bold, and I warned her to leave before she did something she would regret.”

He sighed with exasperation, hating that he must repeat such a horrible thing to this sweet girl who already felt a severe amount of insecurity at her place in life. He would protect her from any uncessary pain if at all possible, but not too much lest she think him lying to her.

“I do not know what to make of what followed after. I might actually wonder if Rhaenyra is far crueler than any of us might have imagined or that she has gone mad,” his tone was resigned, hoping that she would actually believe him.

“Why? What did she do next?” there was a hint of curiosity in Ryna’s eyes. Was it too naive of him to hope that her inquisitiveness meant she might trust him more now?

“I hate to tell you this, sweetling, for you will not be glad to hear it,” Daemon looked at her with a sadness in his expression. “I do not wish to be the one who tears you and your sister apart.”

“It is a little too late for that, is it not?” Ryna said raising her eyebrows expectantly.

Daemon’s jaw tightened with the regret that she was correct in her assertion. He knew she would never look at Rhaenyra the same again after what happened that night and his side of the events would most definitely make it worse.

“Do not hate me for telling you this, riñitsos,” he spoke with a softer tone now, trying to lessen the blow. “She came on to me, obviously. She said she would give me whatever I wished if I would forsake you, and I refused. I was furious with her for insulting you so.”

“Then why were you so close to her? Why was she kissing you when I came upon you both?” Ryna looked hurt still, but it was different now. Her features brightening as she tried to put the pieces together, attempting to clear Daemon of any wrong-doing.

He shook his head, trying to remember the flash of insanity that had happened in such a brief span of time. “She was all over me and it was all I could do but to hold her back from me. When she would not accept my answer. She demanded that I was hers. That she would not allow you and I to wed.”

Daemon could not help but to scoff at the thought of it. A part of him still couldn’t believe how deranged Rhaenyra had sounded.

“Of course then I got even more incensed and meant to intimidate her when I grabbed her by the arms, to get her to give up the foolish notion that I would somehow leave you in favor of her. And that is when she reached up and kissed me.”

“I see,” Ryna let out a long winded sigh as she looked forward once more, resting her hands on her thighs as she sat more upright.

There was a long silence before Daemon finally broke it. “Sweetling,” he reached out and touched the back of her hand, dwarfing it with his much larger palm. “I know this is not easy, but I really do need you to believe me when I say this.” He leaned in carefully grasping her chin so she would look at him. “You are the one I want, dear girl.”

Her pale eyes shimmered as emotion began to overtake her and he took the opportunity to move close to her side, to wrap his arms around her and offer some comfort. “It saddens me that you don’t see how beautiful you are. How you’re so sweet and caring, yet still you possess a fiery tempest within. It’s you I’ve wanted all these years, even when it felt like a crime to acknowledge such feelings. It felt wrong to want someone so pure, but now that I’ve come to know what an incredible woman you are, I can not bear the idea of being without you. That anyone else might have you. I have never felt this way about anyone before, riñitsos.”

He took a deep breath, letting it out as he collected himself, honing his words with a sincerity that he was not accustomed to.

“I have married in the past for convenience, even married for what I thought might be affection.. But with you, my sweet girl,” he pulled back enough to force those gorgeous, weeping eyes to look at him once more. Daemon needed her to know the depth of his emotion so that she might never doubt him again. “With you I will be marrying for love for the first time.”

Ryna buried her face in the crook of his neck, sniffling as she turned into his embrace. Daemon exhaled with a slight shudder as her wet cheeks pressed against his skin, the warmth she exuded soothing him in a way he had never known before. Her acceptance of his touch felt healing, like a balm for his soul. It was the closest anyone had ever come to pacifying the rage that lied just below the surface at any given moment.

The need to protect her was overwhelming in ways he never could have anticipated. He knew she was not a delicate flower who needed saving by any means, but he wanted to guard her from the harsh realities of life. To shelter her from the despicable relatives that saw her as a pawn in a game, or those like Rhaenyra who saw no need for her to be on the board at all. Where he had felt nothing but loyalty towards his family prior, Ryna had now become the centerpiece of his allegiance.

Daemon gently stroked her silken locks as she wept, trying to find the right way to settle her. “It is alright, sweetling,” his voice was soft and tender. “Come here,” he said pulling her small frame up onto his lap. “I’ve got you.”

He wrapped one arm around her, hugging her against his broad chest and held her tight as though she was the most precious thing to him in existence. While his free hand combed through her hair, carding through the platinum curls over and over. Daemon held her like that for what felt like ages, whispering sweet nothings in her ear and hoping it provided her some level of relief.

It was then, during those moments that a thought occurred to him. He didn’t want to wait any longer to make her his wife. Another week was simply too long a time to delay when he felt the overwhelming urge to declare his devotion to her before the old gods.

“Little dragon?” he asked suddenly, leaning back to make eye contact. “I wish to marry you.”

“What?” she asked almost confused by his words, wiping her eyes on the backs of her hands. “We will be wed soon though.”

“No,” he replied with a shake of his head, his hand coming up to caress her cheek. Daemon’s expression was serious as he held her gaze. “I mean as soon as possible. Today. Now. I can not wait a sennight to call you my wife.”

“But, how?” she looked upon him with such unsure, yet hopeful eyes. “There will be a big wedding held before the Seven, I’m sure, as is always done.”

“Yes, yes,” he said with a dismissive wave of the hand. “There can be a grand ceremony before the High Septon with all the pomp and spectacle that is customary. But I wish to give you more than that. A marriage before the old gods would solidify the bond with the most important people in attendance. Not all the lords who wish to curry favor, nor the ladies who simply wish to seen in the presence of greatness and gossip.” He paused with a smile before completing the thought. “I wish to bond with you first, rinitsos. Before anyone else.”

“Daemon,” she replied quietly, her voice almost too choked up to speak, yet she managed. “You mean a Valyrian ceremony?”

He leaned in close enough for his nose to brush her own, his eyes gazing fondly upon her. “Yes, my love. A Valyrian wedding forged with fire and blood.” The thought of it was almost too perfect, to eschew the new gods in favor of the old.

In any other case, he would have asked Viserys to do the honors, but he doubted his brother would approve before the official wedding. That didn’t leave many options, but he might be able to find one among the Dragonkeepers that could officiate. After all, he already knew the rites practically by heart from his studies and the dragon tenders were the only others well versed in Valyrian besides the some of the more studied maesters.

“Doesn’t it require frozen fire?” she asked, a look of concern in her features as though they might not be able to procure such a thing on short notice.

“Yes, sweetling, it does. And as you also might know, there are many such deposits on Dragonstone. I’ve already a dagger we might use for the ritual, so don’t concern yourself with that,” Daemon said quietly, brushing a soft kiss against her nose before withdrawing to look upon her once more.

“The only question that remains, is if you want this as well?” his words were gentle, a slight smirk teasing the edges of his lips as he peered at her.

Ryna appeared bewildered, yet touched by the idea of engaging in a private wedding reception. Her eyes were wide and thoughtful as she stared at him with a look that felt as though it were piercing through his very being. He worried for a moment that she might still harbor doubts about his loyalties, but then her face softened considerably, a warm smile forming in acceptance.

“Yes, I do want this,” she whispered, leaning in closely and pressing a tender, albeit brief kiss against his lips. “I want you to be mine and mine alone.” Her words breathed against his cheek as she nestled in tightly against him.

Daemon pulled her into his body with a deep exhale, hugging her against his chest with both arms wrapped around her slender frame. He buried his nose in her silvery locks, inhaling the sweet scent of roses from her hair. Despite everything that had happened, even through her worries, Ryna still wanted to be his.

“I am yours,” he sighed into her hair. His hand reached up to tangle in her silky ringlets as he withdrew, knowing he must make the preparations in haste lest he be forced to wait another day to be bonded to her. “I will arrange the ceremony immediately, even if I must wake some poor fools. Tomorrow night,” he said with a hungry ache to have her, “You will finally be mine.”

I wanted to make a quick note about how I chose to write Daemon in this ending scene. I'm sure some may think he is far too direct, sincere, and honest with Ryna, but after going through it in my head countless times.. I decided I feel it is in character. You have to figure, he has endured a lot by now just to have the chance to wed her and there is no way in the seven hells that he is going to let her go. I think by now, his feelings are maturing a bit too, into love and less infatuation and lust. I wouldn't say he's all the way there yet, but he can definitely realize that he doesn't want to lose her. And I'd even go as far as to say the thought would be troubling to him, almost cause a panic as it does when he's first caught. So yes, while I realize I don't have to make excuses for how I choose to write characters in my own fanfics, I still felt I wanted to make note of it. I do realize he comes off as far more emotional than normal, but I think he would be in this case.

[ashblooddragons]

A moonboard for @mmogurl for her Aegon oneshot.

[mmogurl]

For my recent fic with Aegon.. Last to Fall, thank you, @coffeebooksrain18!

[mmogurl]

Last to Fall Chapter 1 - My Demons

18+ | 10k | Aegon II Targaryen X Female Maid / Dragonseed Reader | miserable, alcoholic, often dissociative, needs comfort Aegon | virgin reader, maiden, emotional abuse, first time sex, P in V, smut, wholesome, fluff, this whole thing is actually kind of sweet compared to what I usually write.

This fic is heavily inspired by the infamous 'Nothing' scene with Aegon and Alicent. Her cold words and the way she lashes out really bothered me and I felt a strong need to stand up for him, protect, and console him. So that's really what this whole fic is about. Enjoy! Also went with a lot of musical vibing for this story. I started off listening to Collective Soul's Heavy, because I imagine it as Aegon's state of mind in the opening scene towards everyone and everything happening. And by the end we transition into Starset's Last to Fall - and the title of the fic. I know, I'm a sappy mf.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 On AO3

Retroactive update 10/29/24: I've also decided that I'm going to try my best to fit every chapter to a Starset song because the whole Series is based off the title of one (Last to Fall) which was originally going to be a oneshot and got extended. I'm enjoying the challenge of finding one that suits each theme/ story! They're not all going to be perfectly aligned, but I'll try my best. This one is Starset - My Demons adding onto the two songs I already referenced here - but this one just felt so perfect!

Complicate this world you wrapped for me I'm acquainted with your suffering

All your weight it falls on me It brings me down All your weight it falls on me It falls on me

~Collective Soul - Heavy

—You

You have worked in the castle for as long as you can remember, always hearing the whisperings of the chamberlain, the laundress, and any other keep staff prone to gossip, that you were the late king’s bastard. There were always underhanded comments of jealousy uttered in your direction, like ‘It must be nice to have a king’s blood runnin’ through yer veins... To have yer needs met for life.’ In truth, you were worried that the Queen Dowager might see fit to dispose of you now that her husband had passed.

So far, it seems your fair looks, expertise, and agreeable demeanor has secured your position, at least for the time being, but you are not so naive as to think that will last forever.

You tended to King Viserys for six summers, and with his death you’ve been reassigned to serve the new Protector of the Realm, Aegon II Targaryen. You are mildly concerned about this development considering the rumors you’ve heard about the young prince over the years. Drinking and philandering to excess, he was rumored to be a true hedonist, only taking satisfaction when drowning himself in pleasure. It is for this very reason, that you’re surprised by your observations of your new lord within the first weeks of your employ as his chambermaid and general attendant.

You find he spends a lot of time sitting in near darkness with barely a couple candles lit in his room at night, kept company only by a carafe of wine and wearing a disassociated look on his face that could be taken for misery if it didn’t appear so apathetic in nature. It was as though he were actively trying to force himself into a mold that he would never fit into. This became even more apparent as you witnessed more of his interactions with his family, especially his mother and grand-sire. It seemed they were constantly trying to orchestrate the ruling of the Seven Kingdoms, nitpicking at every little decision Aegon made, pulling his strings just like a puppet.

You had listened from the sidelines of the Great Hall as the Hand second-guessed the king’s rulings. Even when the Aegon tried to embrace his seat upon the Iron Throne, he was made impotent by those not fit to govern. You could do nothing but stand by helplessly in saddened silence when he suffered the loss of his eldest son to assassins, while Otto Hightower forced him to parade young Jaehaerys’ corpse to the public along with his grief-stricken sister-wife, Helaena.

Day by day, your heart was beginning to ache for the emptiness you saw growing behind his amethyst eyes. And yet still he tried on most days to put a positive foot forward, even if by nightfall he usually turned back to engulfing his sorrows in drink. You couldn’t even blame him really given the complete lack of moral and emotional support the king had to endure.

This feeling of compassion built within you, until one day it peaked to a head as you made your way to Aegon’s chambers with fresh linens in hand, ready to fulfill your afternoon chores. You passed several Kingsguard as you made your way down the hall and paused outside the king’s rooms as you heard voices coming from within. The two white cloaks standing watch at the open threshold glanced at you in warning, so you simply waited with folded bedsheets in hand for the opportunity to complete your duties.

You knew you should not listen, but it was hard to ignore the distressed voice of the king from within, met by the indifferent attitude of the Queen Dowager. Oh no, you think to yourself sympathetically, she is at it again. It really did seem that tearing Aegon down piece by piece was not only a habit for his mother, but something she relished in.

“Do you think simply wearing the crown imbues you with wisdom,” Alicent’s voice echoed out against the vaulted ceiling of the room, her voice patronizing and condescending. “Those men at your council table earned their seats. It was my hope that once enthroned you would honor the burden of your new duties, be silent, and strive to learn from the more studied minds around you. In the hope that you might be half the king your father was…”

You tried to swallow the lump forming in your throat at hearing such baleful words. The king was not responding, and you could just imagine the pained look of agony that Aegon was sure to be wearing under the constant criticisms he faced as of late.

“Tread carefully,” you heard him say, barely carrying enough volume to hear from where you stood. You found yourself holding back a smile at that, happy that he was standing up to her for once. But, that only incensed the Queen Dowager more, her thirst to harm not yet quenched.

“Or what?” she says with venom coating her tongue. “You’ll hang me, as you did your rat catchers? Or have me banished as you did your Hand? I ruled in your father’s absence throughout his long illness, and Otto Hightower was as cunning a statesman as ever lived. You should humbly be seeking our opinions and counsel. You have no idea the sacrifices that were made to put you on that throne.”

You shook your head, unsure how any mother could ever speak to her child in such a manner, let alone to the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. Perhaps it bothered you so because you had never known the tenderness of a mother’s love, but had spent many a daydream imagining what it might be like. With your idealistic and sometimes naive mind, you wanted to think that there was more love out there in the world than this, especially within the royal family. You wanted better for the young king you had grown to feel so protective of in such a short amount of time.

Aegon’s next words break your train of thought, “Wha-“ he started with an exasperated tone, “What would you have me do, Mother?”

“Do simply what is needed of you,” she replied and the frosty chill of her cold voice was evident even from the corridor. “Nothing.”

You feel tears well up in the corners of your eyes and try your best to ignore them. It was important as part of the castle staff to never appear to be listening, to always remain professional, but it wasn’t always possible when one was witness to such cruelty.

Quickly, you wipe the errant tears away as the Queen Dowager exits her son’s apartment, walking swiftly with a scowl on her face. With the king now alone in his chambers, you nod to the guards and head inside, pausing to close the doors behind you lest Aegon had wont of some privacy.

As you turned to face the room, the king sat off to the side of his table, leaning against the back of a chair, his head resting upon his hands in defeat. He did not stir as you entered and so you cleared your throat to let yourself be known. Aegon still made no move and so this time you spoke up.

“Your Grace, might I change the linens? Or should I come back later?” you ask, your voice hesitant, but filled with understanding.

He finally lifts his head, glancing at you for a moment before returning his attention to the nearly empty decanter of wine on the table.

“Fetch me some more wine instead,” he demands sullenly, and to this you nod and hurry off to fulfill his request. After what you’d heard him endure, you’d do just about anything to cheer him up now.

With a speed you did not think yourself capable, you retrieved, not just one, but two pitchers of strongwine for the king and prepared a small platter of snacks for him as well, consisting of cheese, crackers, figs, and grapes. You hoped he’d be pleased with your thoughtfulness, and sure enough, he did perk up a little at the sight of the tray you presented on the table before him.

Aegon got to his feet, walking around the chair he’d been leaning against and sitting in it instead. You filled his chalice and placed it before him, wearing an exaggerated smile upon your face, anything to lighten the onerous mood. The king surprises you when he actually notices, his composure faltering as he looks upon your benevolent countenance.

“Did you hear all of that then?” he asks, his jaw clenching slightly as he peers down at the crimson fluid within the cup before him.

“It is not my business, Your Grace,” you answer softly, not wanting to sound cold, but knowing it is not your place to comment on such things. “But, if I can do anything, or get anything more for you. Please just ask.”

“I never wanted to be be king, you know,” Aegon says abruptly, picking up the chalice and swirling the wine around inside it. “They hunted me down, forced me to be crowned… And yet, Mother tells me I do not deserve it, even though she has placed me upon the throne herself.”

You flounder with your words, uncertain of how to reply. Should you even say anything at all? Perhaps he just wants someone to listen who won’t respond with a scathing rebuke.

“She spoke of the rat catchers, bringing up the death of my eldest son as though it were nothing to me,” he continues without your input, staring into the contents of his chalice as though it might hold some insight. “She treats me as though I am nothing.”

He finally takes a long swig of the cup, emptying most of it in one gulp. Aegon sets it down on the table with a clatter of metal and wood, an almost despondent look on his face as he adds, “Perhaps I am nothing.”

“Your Grace, no! That is not true!” the words slip out, unable to hold back your feelings at his self-denigration. You immediately cover your mouth with startled surprise, knowing that you’ve overstepped.

Aegon halts, his shoulders tensing as his eyes drift up to you and his brow furls downwards in confusion. He regards you in earnest for what feels like the first time ever, his discerning gaze sweeping from your face, down to your skirts and back up again, sizing you up. “What would you know of it?”

You bite your lip anxiously, unsure of how to proceed, even though it seems by now that you’ve already gone past the point of returning to obscurity. Ultimately, you decide that if you’re going to lose your position within the Red Keep, that you’d prefer to let the king know how you feel first.

“I have seen how determined you are,” you say quietly, a lack of confidence in your voice as you address the king. “Even though it is obvious how much hardship you must abide.”

“I am the king. I do not abide anything,” he replies gruffly, but there’s no tooth in the words.

“Of course, Your Grace,” you reply as you cast your eyes downward, your posture stiffening as you stand more upright, waiting for the hammer of discipline to fall.

There is a pervasive silence that hangs heavy in the expansive chamber as you wait for the king to cast his verdict. Does he intend to overlook your impertinence or will he punish you severely?

You hear the trickle of liquid pouring and then the glass carafe clattering against the wood of the table. The sound of swallowing is audible, followed by Aegon’s lips smacking softly as he puts the chalice back down.

“Come here, girl,” he says suddenly in a low monotone.

You look up once more, hesitating; your eyes questioning as you try to understand his intentions, his expression inscrutable.

“Do I have to repeat myself?” he reiterates, his tone a little more firm, yet without the sound of malicious intent. “Come here.”

You gulp and step gingerly towards Aegon, standing before him as he sits in the high-back chair. “Yes, Your Grace?” you ask with an uncertain look on your face.

The king startles you when he turns his chair to face you, his hands wrapping around your waist as he pulls you towards him in one fluid motion. Before you even realize what is happening, Aegon has his face buried against your stomach while his fingers dig into the fabric of your dress at the small of your back.

For a moment you stand there frozen in shock, your arms out as if in surrender, unsure of how to respond or interpret this intimate gesture. But then, you feel his shoulders shake quietly, and it's that movement that clues you in to the nature of the king's actions. He is crying, albeit in his own restrained way.

Slowly, you lower your hands down, one resting on his back as the other smooths his white locks back against his scalp. You can feel him melt into your affectionate touch, his entire body slumping forward even as he continues to whimper quietly into your apron.

“Shh,” you say softly, trying to comfort him in a way that feels somehow natural to you despite the gap in caste. “It will be alright.” You are not fully convinced that it will be, but the young king needs some reassurance and you know you are the only one likely to give it to him.

You have secretly longed for a moment such as this to occur for awhile now, wishing you had the opportunity to provide the king with some semblance of reprieve. When you served Viserys, he never seemed very troubled, and was almost willfully ignorant to the problems that plagued his family. Aegon on the other hand, was tormented not only by his mother, but by the pressure he put on himself to please everyone, which was an impossible feat.

To soothe Aegon now and hold him in your arms, felt like putting one of the many wrongs he’d endured right, even if it was only a small fraction of what the man was owed.

Your fingers rake through his wavy tresses and you feel a surge of raw emotion as you tend to the king’s needs in a way you never imagined you would. Soon, his shaky breaths and silent tears begin to cease, replaced by sniffles as you continue to soothe him in the way his mother should have been for all of these years. You can sense his reluctance to leave your embrace, but there’s also a shame weighing heavy in the air for confiding such weakness in a simple chambermaid.

He nuzzles his eyes against the fabric of your dress, wiping his tears on the brown cloth before he abruptly pulls away and clears his throat. Aegon avoids looking directly at you, embarrassment evident in his now red and puffy eyes. He lets out a heavy sigh and you’re left feeling quite dumbfounded as he turns back to his wine.

For a long moment there is a tense and overwhelming silence, the only sounds present in the room are the soft pouring of wine into Aegon’s chalice and the glass clinking as he sets the carafe down.

You stare at the side of his face, feeling a knot form in your stomach at the growing distance. It’s as if he’s punishing you for witnessing his vulnerability, desperate to maintain the barrier between king and servant. Despite his aversion, you can’t help but feel the significance of what you shared, the way he pulled you in and how good it felt to hold him close.

The quiet stretches on, Aegon now occupied with emptying his cup as if trying to fill the void with drink. He speaks up once more, his tone now devoid of any traces of the exposed emotion you just viewed.

"That will be all," his words are devoid of any warmth or familiarity. "I don't need anything more from you tonight." Aegon’s fingers tremble subtly as he brings his glass to his lips, betraying his cold facade.

“Your Grace,” you say in acceptance of his decision, bowing your head to show deference. You turn and glance at the linens still stacked on top of the king’s bed and fret for a moment that you will get in trouble for not fulfilling your duties and changing the sheets. “Should I change the bedsheets before I leave?”

Aegon doesn’t even turn to face you, his eyes fixed on his chalice. His expression is closed off, distant, as he responds with a simple grunt of confirmation.

“Yes, yes. Do whatever it is you usually do,” he mutters dismissively, his voice lacking any real feeling. He lifts his cup to his mouth once more, drowning himself in the bitter taste of the wine.

You nod with the typical words of respectful assent and begin making the bed as you always do, except this time it feels different. Today you flew so very close to the sun and felt your skin bask in its heat. The absence of that warmth now leaves you feeling chilly, an overwhelming nothing replacing the typical humdrum of your chores. You can feel his presence in the room like a beacon calling you to shore, but you dare not approach him again.

When you finish your task, you leave the king’s chambers without saying a word, closing the door behind you as silently as you can.

For the next few days, the typical royal indifference that Aegon shows you is substituted for complete and utter disregard. He at least showed you a degree of quiet appreciation before, but now it seems he’s going out of his way to make it known that you do not exist to him. Aegon always keeps his eyes turned from you and makes no acknowledgment of your proximity, giving the impression that you are little more than a ghost.

Gone is the care-free spirit that the king usually possesses, always trying to pretend that he is happier than he actually is, at least when you are around him. It seems that Aegon erects a wall of guarded apathy the moment he becomes aware of you, sometimes so severe that you can actually see him transition into a frown at your approach.

You find yourself slinking around quietly whenever you must occupy his room at the same time that he is present. The mornings are especially tense, when you must bring breakfast and fresh wash water for his basin. Sometimes, you feel his eyes on you when you’re preoccupied with adding wood to and stoking the fire, but you try your best to ignore it since you can’t make heads or tails of his behavior.

For the most part, you attempt to finish the majority of your duties once the king has left for the day and not before that point. You hope that in time, the king will forget about what transpired between the two of you, and that everything will revert back to how it was.

—Aegon

Aegon has made a concerted effort to maintain his frosty disposition towards you. It’s a constant battle between his heart, which secretly admires and yearns for you, and his head, which refuses to acknowledge the vulnerability he allowed you to witness. Even still, he can’t help but feel a slight pang of sadness whenever you try to slip in and out of his chambers undetected, nor can he control the surge of resentment when he feels that he might need you in any way.

The king simply doesn’t know what to make of the tangle of emotions that twist inside of him whenever he sees your face. It’s as if the memory of his shortcomings and your comforting embrace is a fresh wound that refuses to heal. He wants to shove you from his mind, but your image is permanently branded on the backs of his eyelids.

Even his nights have become restless, with no amount of drink or pleasure helping to ease his troubled heart. In fact, he’d already tried visiting one of his favorite brothels, dragging along his drunken friends for the chance to brag at how loud he could make the women scream. He was so distracted by thoughts of you that he couldn’t even stay hard and had to call it a night without release, defeated even by the the carefree abandon of a whore’s cunt.

The only thing that helps him drift off to sleep lately is recalling the moment he shared with you, and imagining how it might have gone differently if he had not pulled away from you. His hand enveloping his rigid cock, stroking it eagerly as he envisions what it would be like to reach under your skirts and feel the heat at the apex of your thighs. The resulting climax is strong, but it always leaves him feeling ashamed and guilty afterwards, as though he’s given into an urge worse than the crudest of debaucheries.

It’s becoming more and more obvious, that no matter how much he denies himself, he wants you in an unbearable way. He wants to reach out to you, wants to apologize and thank you for your soothing care. He wants those arms wrapped around him once again, that gentle hand running through his hair. He wants to confess all of his troubles to you. How he is tired of being treated like a child, of being scolded and slapped around by his mother, and never being taken seriously by his own small council. Aegon wants to hear the solutions you might propose to his growing list of problems, instead of relying on the wine that he drinks to excess more often as the days pass, an answer that he knows is mere avoidance.

And so, the king finds himself at a crossroad, facing a decision that can’t simply remain unsettled. He can either choose to embrace his feelings for you and allow himself the chance of experiencing the compassion he so badly craves, or he can continue to repress those feelings and bury them under the weight of his own self loathing and fear.

At the end of another long and monotonous day, he finds himself sitting at the end of his table in the very same chair where he had shared a moment of weakness with you. He sighs as he pours himself another cup of wine, the burgundy liquid not doing much to take the edge off tonight.

He shivers slightly as gooseflesh erupts over his pale skin. Glancing out the window, he can see that the skies are grayer than usual and that autumn is settling in over King’s Landing. Aegon begins to worry as he considers the already dwindling food supply and the civil war that is ravaging what little they have left. His grand-sire and mother both seem to be ignoring the constant plight of the commonfolk, but he’s spent enough time amongst them to know that revolt might loom on the horizon.

The large wooden doors to his chamber suddenly open and his attention is drawn from the window, snapped to the form now entering the room. It is you, his chambermaid, carrying a bundle of blankets. You stop dead in your tracks as you notice him sitting in the dwindling light of the gloaming hour.

“Sorry to disturb, Your Grace,” you offer sheepishly. “I didn’t know you had already retired for the day.”

Aegon turns his chair outwards, sitting sideways as he leans an elbow against the table and lifts his cup to his lips, taking a sip of his favorite sweet Arbor red. He doesn’t acknowledge your apology, and instead regards you with a steadfast gaze as he tries to hide his conflicting feelings.

“What is it?” he asks, his tone tinged with disinterest.

“It’s supposed to be chilly tonight,” you answer with a soft voice. “I wanted to bring you some extra blankets and build the fire up so that you are comfortable.”

“Hm,” he grunts, taking another swig of his wine. He doesn’t respond more than that and simply watches as you begin to lay two massive quilts upon his bed, then approach the fireplace to add more wood and stoke the flames. Even now you were doing your best to take good care of him, doting on him as though he were your very own husband.

He can’t help but discreetly study the shape of your body as you kneel before the mantle, appreciating the way the firelight projects shadows over your kneeling figure. The flickering orange light bounces off your face and he can’t help but notice the softness of your features, the curve of your cheek and lips. As you rise back to your feet and turn to face him, he’s finally made his decision.

Perhaps it is time to lay these fears to rest.

He sighs softly, his shoulders slumping somewhat with the release of breath, as he gestures to the chair across from him.

“Sit,” his word is quiet, almost a whisper.

You look at him perplexed as though you did not hear him properly, an apprehension soon settling in as you hesitate to respond.

There is an air of determination in his eyes as he nods once more, encouraging you to sit. His voice now holds a trace of insistence as he shifts in his seat, sitting upright as he repeats himself. “I said sit.” Aegon points at the empty chair once more, his gesture sharper this time.

You oblige him swiftly at that, taking a seat in the ornately carved high-back chair, your legs are pressed together and your hands fidget awkwardly on your lap. Aegon reaches forward and grabs an empty chalice from the silver tray before him, pouring you a glass of wine.

“Here,” he says, his voice strangely calm in your presence now that he has finally given in to his wishes. He hands you the cup across the table, his fingers brushing against yours for just the briefest of moments. He relishes in the heat of your touch, no matter how fleeting, and offers a clumsy smile. “Have a drink with me.”

You take the chalice reluctantly, the anxiety of such taboo evident in your expression. Aegon knew it was unheard of for the staff to share a drink with members of the royal family, but it was also not typical for the king to be denied anything he desired either.

“T-thank you, Your Grace,” you offer appreciatively.

Aegon settles back into his chair, his posture becoming more relaxed as he spreads his legs. He takes comfort in the fact that no matter how much he has tried to avoid you, that you still humbly show him gratitude. That small act of polite civility has him convinced that what he is attempting will not end in rejection.

He raises his cup and toasts to you, a courtesy which seems so simple and yet holds so much significance when coming from a king. “To your service.” His eyes gleam in the fading light of day, bright with unspoken promise.

“I don’t even know what to say, Your Grace,” you squeak out in embarrassment, your face impossibly red as you direct your gaze away from him.

He can feel his confidence returning as he sees the flush of color bloom on your cheeks. It’s a sign that his attention is not entirely unwelcome, and that thought alone is enough to make his heart beat steadily in his chest.

Aegon leans forward, trying to capture your attention once more, his eyes pleading for you to look at him again. After so much time evading this very situation, he now feels hungry for it.

“You don’t have to say anything at all,” he reassures you, his tone softened but with a hint of authority as he motions for you to drink your wine.

Without wavering, you grasp the heavy brass chalice in your hands and with courage etched in your features, take a long draught of the Arbor red.

As you drink, Aegon raises an eyebrow in mild surprse, watching as you take a rather ambitious swig of strongwine. He finds he’s actually impressed with your ability, and his expression soon transforms into a smirk of amusement.

He takes a sip from his own chalice before setting it back down on the table. “You drink deeper than many of my knights, I can tell you that,” he jests with a good-humored ease, testing the boundaries of this fledgling dynamic.

Your cheeks blush once more although this time it is likely due to the wine as well as your timidity. “This is much better than the swill the staff typically has access to,” you offer almost apologetically, as though it were not proper for you to imbibe in your spare time.

The admission has the corners of his mouth curling into a grin once more, and a breathy laugh escapes his lips. It’s clear now that the two of you are finally making progress, the barrier of propriety quickly falling away as it typically did with drink.

“So you mean to say you enjoy good wine, yes?” he teases lightly, tapping his fingertips against the edge of his cup, his gaze focused on you, eager to see your reaction.

“I am enjoying it, yes,” you say with bright eyes, your guilt beginning to fade away with each sip of sweet wine you take.

Aegon can sense the increased ease in your demeanor, and is delighted by the sight of it. He knows that the alcohol has broken through the tension that’s been building between the two of you for days now and he plans to take full advantage of it, feeling even bolder in his pursuit of you.

“Good,” he replies gladly, feeling content with the newfound freedom he’s allowed himself. “Then have some more,” Aegon adds, his tone light and playful as he pushes the decanter of wine closer to you, encouraging you to fill your own cup. He can feel a pleasant buzzing in his head from the strongwine, and can tell that you aren’t far behind him.

“Is Your Grace trying to get me drunk?” you ask, a surprising riposte that he didn’t expect from you.

The question has Aegon laughing aloud, the sound hearty and full of mirth. He leans closer, sliding his elbow further along the table as he offers you a grin. That little spark of humor you show only heightens his own sense of urgency to be in your arms once more.

The king rests his chin on his fist, and raises a brow at you with a mischievous grin. “And what if I was?” he replies playfully.

“Then I’d have to ask to what aim?” you say holding onto your cup, your finger tracing the circular rim of it.

Aegon’s gaze is drawn to your fingers, following the movement as his pulse quickens. He can hear your question, but it fails to register fully as he’s momentarily lost in a daydream of those same fingers running across his skin. His mouth goes dry and his skin feels hot. He finds he must take another large draught of wine to calm the sudden surge of longing that courses through him.

“Well,” he says, his tone feigning seriousness. “Perhaps I intend to get you drunk so I might take advantage of you.”

Aegon is surprised when you chuckle in response to his daring assertion, having expected more of a demure reaction instead. “You would not have to ply me with wine for that,” you admit, lowering your head slightly as though realizing how direct your words had been a little too late.

His eyes go temporarily wide as he registers your brazen honesty, wondering if he’d even heard you correctly. “Do you jest with your king, girl?” he asks incredulously.

“No,” she offers adamantly, with all the defiance of a loyal hound. “I’m afraid I’d be quite willing.”

“Is that so?” Aegon says more for his own confirmation than to communicate it, his eyebrow raising with dubious intent.

His stiffening cock was becoming uncomfortable in his taut breeches and he couldn’t help but consider the irony that such an innocent encounter had taken on an incredibly sexual nature. The comfort you had offered him becoming like an intoxicating fuel to his loins, making you far more attractive than any other woman could ever possibly be in his eyes.

“And what would you be willing to do in order to satisfy your king?” he prods further, feeling confident that he has the upper hand now. His desire to claim everything you have to offer now undeniable.

“I-I,” you begin to stutter nervously, clearly not expecting such a blunt response from him. “What is it you wish of me?”

Aegon let’s out a sharp huff of delight at the question you pose. To his great joy it seems you truly don’t realize the effect you have over him right now. He stands from his chair, sending it backwards with the backs of his thighs. His legs then carry him around the corner of the table until he’s towering above you, looking down upon your trembling form with a burning hunger.

“The real question is.. What don’t I desire of you?” he poses the question with a lurid tone as he thumbs the neckline of your bodice. “I believe you’ll find me quite insatiable in my needs.”

You’re frozen in his sights, appraising him with frightened doe-eyes, but there is no mistaking the undercurrent of lust also hidden right below the surface. Likely, the only true trepidation you have is the thought of performing such acts out of wedlock, but it seems obvious to Aegon at least, that you should have no concerns when offering your virtue up to a king. And given the poorly state of mind he’s been in as of late and desperate weakness he has for you, it’s possible you might even be assisting in the betterment of the realms.

“You’re speechless,” he hums softly, running the back of his knuckles over your bare collarbone. “Don’t worry, I will do the talking,” he says with a smirk, delighted to hear that he sounds every bit the authoritative ruler he should. “Take my hands,” he commands softly, reaching down as he grasps you and encourages you to rise from your chair.

When you obligingly follow his orders and rise before him, Aegon then guides you, leading you towards the bed. He stops once the backs of your knees hit the wooden frame, which is now padded by many layers of newly laid quilts, and turns you away from him. His hands carefully unfasten your apron, tossing it over the footboard before he starts to work at untying the laces of your dress. He loosens them swiftly until your bodice hangs slack.

He’s very well practiced in the art of removing a woman’s clothing, whether they be a whore, a noblewoman, or even a servant as is your case. Still, he holds a certain fondness for you, a consideration that he does not offer readily to most of his conquests. You have given him something so valuable, a treasure that no other has even thought to bestow upon him, and he means to reward you well for it.

Aegon finally removes your dress, pulling it over your head and placing it on top of the apron. All that remains now is a long sleeved undershirt, a slightly more drab version of the sort all women wore under their dresses. He’d like to rip it from your body, but you’ve stirred up such tenderness within his empty heart that he is loathe to treat you in such a way.

Instead, he turns you to face him once more and takes a step back to regard you. “You truly are beautiful,” he states with a sort of quiet awe. He had never really noticed you before and he most definitely should have. What with your cornsilk blond hair and bright blue eyes. Was he really so oblivious to the people and the world around him that he couldn’t even notice such a stunning, caring maiden working directly under his nose? Had he always been avoiding any state of mental clarity and missed so much in the process of hiding from himself?

You look at him nervously, your body antsy as you shift uneasily, precariously balanced on the edge of the mattress.

“Sit,” he tells you in a hushed tone, not quite wanting to sound as bossy as he does, but trying to relieve you of your discomfort. He takes another step back once you have complied, his gaze now roaming your body, taking in the sight of you, or at least what he can see in that loose potato sack of a frock you’re wearing. Aegon can definitely make out some of your feminine curves though, the slope of your shoulder incredibly pleasing as is the way your breasts protrude noticeably through the fabric, and so too do your wide hips.

He smiles warmly at you, his eyes taking their time to appreciate the woman before him. He can’t help but ponder in this moment, how he’s never felt this way before, a lust that isn’t just physical in nature, but somehow more genuine. Aegon is no stranger to carnal pleasures and strongly desires to claim you in every way possible. But there is something more present in his heart as well, the wish to hold you close and protect you from the entire world, and to in turn be sheltered by you from the chaos of the Iron Throne.

Aegon decides then that he wants your first time together to be gentle, just as it was when you first came together. He closes the distance between the two of you and reaches out with both hands, grabbing softly on either side of your shoulders. Your soft, supple flesh gives pleasingly beneath his fingers as he guides you to lay down on top of the blankets. As you scoot backwards across the width of the bed, he can’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction that you were finally in his bed and no longer a fantasy inside his mind.

Once you’ve nestled into the plushness beneath you, he steps back again, his fingers making quick work of removing his woolen doublet. A flush of excitement blooms across his alabaster skin as he makes a show of the action, enjoying the way you watch him with such focused anticipation. He casts the garment to the floor, now removing his boots as swiftly as he can.

With his breeches already half undone and his chest exposed beneath a simple linen shirt, he is gifted with the sight of you lying in his bed in wait. The image is far more pleasant, far more intimate, than any other woman he has ever taken to bed. Your warmth radiates outward like a blazing fire and by now he is desperate to feel your heat directly. He practically rips his undershirt off, flinging it sideways across the covers.

Aegon makes his way back to you, lifting one knee up onto the mattress and crawling over the entire length of your body until he is face to face with you. His hand cradles your jaw tenderly, caressing up and down until his fingers slip up into your long, flowing tresses.

His intense, violet eyes fix upon yours, looking for any hesitation, but he sees none. It was as though you had been given to him as a gift from the gods, you who always gave and never took from him. There is a vulnerability in his expression that is rarely visible, replacing his usual display of smugness.

He maneuvers his breeches down without much effort, kicking them off once they’re low enough. Now fully settled into the valley of your spread legs, Aegon then grips the hem of your shift, lifting it up your thighs until he feels your body tense. He glances up at you and sees a pang of worry present that is perfectly normal, especially for a maiden.

The king asks the question he’s sure he already knows the answer to. “Have you done this before?”

You shake your head no as a blush of pink covers your cheeks and you bite your lip with pent up longing. Even with your inexperience and worry, he can tell how eager you are regardless. Much like he had been warring with his own thoughts about pursuing more with his chambermaid, you seem torn between your fears and your desires as well.

Aegon smiles sincerely, brushing his thumb gently along your lower lip, before leaning down to give you a chaste kiss. It was a bit of a selfish wish of his that you were untainted by any other man, and a part of him was happy to hear that you were indeed a virgin. It made him revel in delight; knowing you were his alone, that he’d be your first and your last if he had any say in it.

“Relax,” he whispered parting from your lips. “I’ll go slowly.” Aegon gazes at you again, wondering if this is perhaps too much for you, too soon. “That is if you still wish to.”

A look of panic crosses your face, as though you’re worried he might stop. “N-No! I still want to!” you affirm urgently. Your hands wrap around his back, pulling him closer to you, seemingly unwilling to let him go.

The king can barely contain his elation as he presses his forehead to yours, chuckling slightly at your eagerness. His hand slips beneath your undershirt and he slowly strokes the soft skin of your stomach, his fingers grazing over the warm plains of your flesh. Aegon’s breath hitches as he travels higher up your abdomen, finding the pliant curve of your breast.

You moan softly beneath his greedy touch, your body writhing with fervor, and your hips rising impatiently to meet him. Any question he had that you might not be fully keen about this joining was now all but diffused by your enthusiasm.

“You make such pretty sounds,” he teases playfully, feeling a sense of satisfaction at how responsive you are to his touch. He gives your breast a firm squeeze, then teases over the sensitive areola before cupping the whole mound again. His cock throbs painfully against the mattress, still bound by his smallclothes and yearning to sink into your heat.

His pulse pounds with expectation, finally feeling a sense of relief from the pent up desire he’s held for you all of this time. Aegon removes his hand from under your shift, propping himself up on the bed as he reaches down to unlace his braie. His hand brushes against your core in the process and he shivers at the feel of how wet you already are for him.

With his stiff length finally freed, he ventures a finger along your folds, growling at the silky slickness of your center. “Gods,” he utters with a groan. His cock twitches with need as he tests the tightness of your cunny, eyes rolling back in ecstasy as he imagines thrusting into you with his thick member instead of his digit.

“Are you ready for me, girl?” he asks eagerly, the question a soft inquiry as well as a warning of the impending pain his intrusion is likely to cause. At this point, he feels more like a lovesick boy than the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, his suspense heavy as he drapes your leg around his his hip, opening you more to him. He positions his head at your entrance and presses himself closer to you.

You nod, never taking your eyes off of him as you wrap your hands around his back. Aegon rests his weight on his elbows, covering you completely as he kisses you with tenderness. He tries to express everything he feels for you with actions instead of words, his lips hungrily devouring yours with passion. Without breaking the kiss, he begins to ease into you slowly, immediately feeling the resistance of your still in tact virtue.

His arms slide down, gripping your hips on each side tightly as his chest presses into yours. You let out a whimper into his mouth as he breaches your depths, your thighs clenching against his body at the sharp pain of his invasion. It doesn’t take long for you to relax again, your walls suddenly more welcoming as the sting subsides.

Aegon parts from your lips, pulling back slightly so he can look down at you. A smirk forms on his face as he sees your lurid expression and he begins to move, his hips rolling against yours in a slow, sensual rhythm. His hands slide down to your thighs, spreading them further apart as he thrusts himself deeper inside you. He groans with overwhelming pleasure at the feel of you, his head falling forward as he picks up the pace.

He kisses you again, forcing his tongue into your mouth as he continues to move inside of you. His tongue dances with yours as he begins to lose control, his hips snapping against you with intensity. Aegon can feel his release approaching quickly, unable to hold back for much longer, he tries to hasten you along to satisfaction. His hand slides up your shift once more, squeezing your breast and tweaking your delicate nipple until it pebbles between his fingers.

You squirm under him, incapable of holding still as he drives into you with increased enthusiasm. The king grinds his hips into you relentlessly, grimacing at the way your walls tighten around his cock like a vice. Aegon’s grip on your tit becomes harder, flipping between gripping and tweaking your sensitive nipple. His lips withdraw abruptly, his mouth searching out your other breast and nipping it through your undershirt.

He grins against the cloth as you cry out loudly, your body rigid as your climax rolls over you and soon he can feel it wash over his length as well. But, he can’t take it anymore, not how tight you are or how creamy your release feels on his tender cockhead. It’s all too much and within a moment he is gripping hard to your flesh and burying himself deep within you, his spend erupting in spurts from his pulsing member.

“Fuuuccck,” he growls out, his hands finding their way beneath your back and pulling you towards him securely, trying to get even closer if that was at all possible.

You pant below him, trying to catch your breath as little spasms continue to twitch throughout your back and your thighs tremble against his hips. A warm, blissful calm settles over him as he nestles his face into the crook of your neck and inhales deeply of your scent. He feels pleasantly dizzy, his heartbeat finally slowing as the haze of lust subsides.

Aegon sighs into your ear, the tone content and relaxed. “That was incredible,” he murmured softly, his voice low as he gently runs his hand along the side of your cheek.

“It was,” is all you can manage to say, your breath still a bit ragged as you try to come down from the high.

Your hand finds its way into his white hair again, brushing up against the nape of his neck and causing him to shiver. He’s once again reminded of the shared encounter that started all of this and he’s overcome with a fondness that makes his chest ache.

Aegon feels closer to you in every possible way now and isn’t keen on the idea of parting from you, but he can feel his cock softening and the mess beginning to pool on the sheets. So he slowly pulls out of you, collapsing onto the bed at your side. He grabs one of his stray garments without looking, probably his smallclothes or maybe his shirt, and cleans up his seed from you first and then himself.

He adjusts towards the head of the bed, resting on his side against the pillows and reaching out for you to join him as he scuttles under the covers. “Come here,” he says softly, pained by the loss of her warmth.

As you get up and crawl towards him, he scoops you up into his arms. Aegon holds you close, his chin resting against the top of your head as he wraps the quilts around your form and presses himself tighter against your back. The king can no longer deny the depth and the power of his feelings for you as you cuddle in his arms. There’s a sense of deep security and comfort welling up within him, but any words seem inadequate in this moment.

Aegon kisses your temple, the doting gesture unlike anything he’s bestowed upon a lover before. “I think I’m going to sleep quite well tonight,” he muses into your hair, still cradling you in his arms.

“Are you sure it’s alright for me to stay with you? In your chambers?” you ask quietly with seemingly no clue how ridiculous he thinks you sound for asking such a thing.

His mouth twitches into a small smile and he lifts his chin to press another kiss into your hair.

“Of course. I’m the king. I can do whatever I want,” he quips playfully, his voice sounding drowsy and relaxed as he settles into the plushness of the bed. “Now, come. Get your rest. You’re going to need it.” There is a gentle warning present in his tone that you do not seem to catch, that he intends to have more of you in the morning.

You nod, twisting your back towards the mattress until you’re facing him. The expression you give him is enough to make his heart melt, those big, blue eyes like deep pools filled with bottomless love and devotion. You wrap your hand behind his neck and pull him close for a kiss, a request he’s more than happy to oblige.

Your mouth is sweet and hot against his and he can’t help but to lick the line of your lower lip before parting from you. Aegon settles you back into place, his chest enveloping your smaller frame as he holds you possessively. He feels such solace in the close proximity of your body, his limbs toasty warm as he falls into a deep state of relaxation. He’s not even aware of when the moment he falls asleep, it happens so quickly.

—Aegon

When the first light of day streams through the window, Aegon finds his eyes drifting open and then closing again, not sure of what time it is, but too comfortable to want to move. His back feels incredibly warm with the slight dampness of sweat and he opens his lids once more to see your arm wrapped over his chest. He can feel your hot breath at his neck now that he’s paying attention fully and your leg slotted between his.

Aegon’s lips curl into a satisfied smile, basking in the near domestic feel of waking up like this with someone he actually cares for. He takes your hand and intertwines his fingers with yours as he rests his own arm on top of yours.

He tries to settle into his pillow once more, nuzzling his backside into you further and bending his knees more deeply. The peace is short lived though as the doors to his chamber fling open and he hears the startled gasp of a woman. It couldn’t be just any woman, like perhaps another maid come to clean his room in place of the one that never showed up for work. No, it had to be his mother, of all the people he did not wish to see this morning.

The king whips his head over his shoulder and squints in the direction of the door. His mother stands there with a hand over her mouth, frozen in horrified disbelief as though she’d just seen a ghost. Aegon grits his teeth, sitting up with a jolt, forced to realize just how compromising this situation must look with the way he was tangled in bed naked with you.

“No, no, no, no, no, Aegon!!” she practically screams at him and the sound jars you from your slumber. He wishes you could have stayed asleep, to have escaped the madness of his family for just a little longer.

Alicent picks up her skirts so she can walk swiftly around the bed and to his side, standing there with a judgmental sneer. “This is just like Diana, isn’t it!?” she cries hysterically. “Isn’t it!?” his mother prods him further.

Aegon looks back, catching your shifting uneasiness from his peripheral vision, then turns to his mother again, suddenly feeling very protective of you. You are innocent in all of this and should be afforded the ability to wake up from your first time making love in some semblance of calm, not to one of his mother’s outbursts. And of course the first thought she would have of him was that he had raped yet another servant girl. His mother was blissfully ignorant of everything he had done as a young man, except for the acts she felt the need to berate him for, even though she had never been around to offer any kind of proper guidance.

He lets out a groan of exasperation, running his fingers through his mussed hair and tries to think of an answer that might satisfy his fuming mother, but he knows this is a lost cause.

“No,” he denies, shaking his head as he avoids eye contact with her. There is no conviction in his tone, but it’s not like she would ever believe a thing he said on the matter.

“So it was consensual then?” the Dowager Queen asks glaring past Aegon and looking straight at you.

He glances to his side and sees you nod, but interrupts before you can say anything more. “You do not have to explain yourself to her,” he says in a much softer voice, trying to shield you from his mother.

“So, she’s just another one of your tramps then!” Alicent hisses with disgust. “Is it so hard for you to keep your hands off the staff? Can’t be bothered to go into the city anymore, you need to make sure you find your pleasure within the walls of the Red Keep?” Her words are vitriolic and hateful without any attempt to understand the situation.

“I should have gotten rid of your father’s little bastard when I had the chance. I should have known better that she would be too pretty for you to resist, but I was assured that the girl’s skills were tantamount to any risk,” she continued on her tirade, barking out every spiteful dagger she could think of.

“What of your wife!? How can you carry on like this!? Oblivious to the people you hurt!?” the Queen Dowager prattled on, not waiting for an answer, but seemingly wanting to preach her conclusions endlessly.

“You know Helaena’s fallen deep into sadness ever since Jaehaerys died. Ever since you forced her to endure that disgusting funeral procession through the streets of the city.. And it’s not like we ever had a deep connection even before that, Mother.” Aegon’s voice was bitter, resentful. He was sick and tired of this farce of familial love when she barely ever showed him any hint of it.

He’s incredibly shocked when he hears you speak up, your voice quiet, but accusing, even defensive, “You’re one to talk, Queen Dowager. You hurt Aegon more than any other.”

“How dare you! You insolent wretch!” his mother didn’t hesitate to bite back, her acrimony potent in the air. “You can consider your employ here ended. Gather your belongings and leave!” she looked at you impatiently, as though expecting you to stand immediately and go. “Now!” she snarled, her nose crinkled with anger.

“No,” the king interceded on your behalf, stilling you with his hand on your hip. “You will not go anywhere.”

“She absolutely will go! This is not acceptable behavior for any chambermaid in the employ of the royal family!” Alicent was insistent, with no sign of backing down, but Aegon had enough of this contest of wills.

“Mother!” he bellowed at her furiously, finally snapping back at her with conviction. “I am the king and you will obey me!”

That finally got her attention, for the first time in his entire life he saw a flash of fear in his mother’s eyes and it only emboldened him to continue.

“You will not do a thing to this girl. She is under my protection,” he added, his ruling absolute. “And if I find that you have touched her, hurt her in any way, then I will have you hung. Just like the rat catchers.”

Aegon’s lips curl upwards in smug satisfaction, finally realizing a fraction of the true power he held as sovereign of the realms. His mother did not respond, regarding him with silent malice, her glare ever testing the limits to see if he truly meant it. When she saw that he did, his mother backed down, her shoulder slumping slightly as she relented, but not before getting one last dig in.

“Very well, My King,” she mocked with false sincerity, giving him a sarcastic curtsy. “I will leave you to your dalliances. I should know better than to interrupt a man having his fun.” She left in a flurry of resentment, slamming the door behind her with a loud thud.

No matter how furious he was with his mother, she still remained his parent, the woman who gave him life, whom he loved and had once revered above all else. Even this victory he had over her felt hollow, and he realized that even when he won, he still lost in one way or another.

He turned to you, his expression a mix of concern and tenderness. Aegon stroked gently at the side of your cheek, wanting to make you feel safe again after you’d been forced to tolerate the full brunt of his mother’s wrath. He found you to be more resilient than he’d ever expected, already sitting up and staring at him with a knowing look upon your face.

“I’m so sorry,” you say softly and almost instantly he feels something within his chest fracture.

It might have been the facade he always wore cracking, how he always projected an image of indifferent merriment so none would know how truly miserable he was. It might even have been the very fact that you had suffered insults by associating with him and yet you were still concerned about his well being.

Aegon can feel tears welling in his eyes and when you spread your arms out towards him, he doesn’t hesitate to crash into you. He buries his face in your comforting bosom and finally allows himself to fall apart in your embrace without shame. It’s probably the safest and most accepted he’s ever felt in his entire life and he knows now that he won’t ever be able to exist without you.

As you rake your fingers through his silvery locks, his tears dwindle until he is left relaxed, sated by your validation that his life is not as easy as everyone might think it is. He listens to your heartbeat as his fingers dig firmly into your back, making sure you can never leave his side. It’s a mercy, that you don’t seem to mind how clingy and needy he is. If anything, you seem born to mend his wounds, a soothing balm to his troubled soul.

You lean back against the pillows and soon Aegon finds himself drifting asleep against you. As his aching eyes begin to close, he can’t help but hope that he never disappoints you. He’s so convinced that he is a failure from the constant disparagements he’s endured throughout his life, that he can’t even fully enjoy you without worrying that he isn’t worthy of you - that you might leave him.

As if reading his mind, your hand massages gently along his scalp, cradling his head closer to your breast. “Don’t worry,” you say reassuringly. “It’s going to be alright. I promise.”

Aegon didn’t know how you could possibly promise him such a thing, but somehow hearing you say it aloud makes him actually want to believe it.

Read Chapter 2

And will you be bold Will you lose control? I could never desert you I could never let go If you fall in line And the zenith calls I'm standing waiting The last to fall

~Starset - Last to Fall

[debustee]

I did some practice and, well, just wanted the Targaryen siblings to be cute in their nightgowns💙

[emmaziadarcy]

He was a fool… who sought greatness but shrank from spilling blood to achieve it. And I see you will suffer the same fate.

[joy-yet-again-deactivated202410]

[mmogurl]

I have been coming up with ideas for Aegon fics left and right! And here I was trying to give myself a day or two of downtime since I spent like 4 days in a row writing the last one.. Stop getting good ideas, brain! Especially when I already have 2 other Daemon fics I'm working on!

[mmogurl]

THIS IS A PSA for all Aegon II fans! I just happened to look up today if Tom was going to be at any conventions where he might do autograph signings and I found he is actually on Streamily and is doing a signing on 10/17! I about freaked out at my good fortune to stumble upon this and quickly secured a spot! So, if you're wanting a signed print.. and to support this wonderful, gorgeous, and talented man.. then have at it! :) https://streamily.com/tomglynn-carney

[blindmagdalena]

Center Stage in a Gilded Cage (chapter six)

18+ 4.6k. homelander x f!reader. stalking, kidnapping, imprisonment, abuse, forced relationship, slow burn, eventual smut. chapter 6/8. gif credit | fic directory | AO3.

“You must never run from anything immortal. It attracts their attention. Walk slowly, and pretend to be thinking of something else. Sing a song, say a poem, do your tricks, but walk slowly.” ― The Last Unicorn

When he first moved into it, Homelander loved everything about his penthouse. He’d given extensive feedback to the interior design team, even going so far as to offer crude sketches of what he wanted.

He’d always had a specific vision for his home: spacious and open, but not vacant. Rich colors that wouldn’t strain his eyes. Windows and mirrors that gave and reflected as much light and space as possible. 

No white walls. 

Not a single blank space. 

He wanted art on the walls, but not just any art. He wanted historic portraits and moments of history. A face on every wall, the same way that the people on TV had pictures of people on their walls.

Pictures of their family.

He doesn’t have a family, so familiar figures from his studies would have to do instead.

His favorite place was his bedroom. The mirrors give not only the illusion of space, but company.

To this day the bed is as plush as it was then. It’s stacked with fluffy pillows, and the sheets are made of soft cotton. They’re always vibrant, always colorful. The staff washes them in gentle detergent instead of bleach.

He spent his first night in that bed with his face buried in the pillow just smelling it.

It smelled like home.

However, the longer he’s lived in his penthouse, the more the spaciousness of it began to feel like absence. The distinct lack of something that he couldn’t quite put his finger on right away.

It eased on the odd occasion that he had company, but as soon as they were gone, it was as though their presence had carved out holes in his home that he couldn’t fill.

He added statues. More portraits. He left the television running because the silence of his own isolation had become deafening. He started spending more time away. His home had gradually morphed from a place of freedom into a finely decorated version of the same horrible fluorescent box he spent his childhood in.

At least in the box he’d known there were people watching him. With him.

How he’d hated it back then. He hated how he could always hear the camera lenses adjusting as they monitored him from somewhere else.

It makes him sick to have missed it even a bit.

Thanks to you, he no longer has to.

There’s an inherent thrill to coming home that had been lost before you. Excitement starts to prickle up his spine as soon as he steps into the elevator and hits his floor. He can’t remember the last time he’s been so excited to go home.

Every day this week you’ve cooked for him, sat with him, laid in his arms, lived with him. In the last three days you’ve come a long way from the timid thing you started as, no longer jumping at his every move. You still tense at his touch, but he’s willing to bet a few more of those massages will remedy that.

Your presence can be felt even when he’s at work. He recently connected the hidden security camera on his balcony to his phone, ensuring he gets pinged any time you open that door. He isn’t worried about you going off unattended that way, given that it’s a hundred story drop.

It makes him smile to see you getting braver, occasionally stepping out onto the concrete to stare out across the cityscape. Soon he’s going to have to take you for that flight he promised. 

While he’s spent these evenings with you blessedly free of obligations, tonight will be different. He has to leave, and he won’t be able to bring you with him. At least not yet. You aren’t ready for that kind of exposure, nor what being revealed as his beloved would entail.

The media would eat you alive. He won’t subject you to them without proper preparation.

He isn’t cruel.

Vought’s hosting a gala that will serve as the early foundation of their campaign to move supes into the military, and as such, the U.S. Secretary of Defense will be in attendance, and it’s Homelander’s job to convince the man of the innumerable benefits of the operation. 

Ridiculous. He might as well try and argue the benefits of a smartphone to a fish.

If these people can’t understand why having honest to god superheroes in their military is a good idea, he doubts anything shy of a hand delivered miracle from God would sway the morons.

It’s just common sense, for fuck’s sake. War has only ever been a matter of who could bring the biggest gun. They will never find a greater weapon than him, much less a weapon that chooses to protect them.

However undeserving of it they may be.

He lets out a rough breath and shakes his head to knock loose the talking points that have been bashed into his skull over the course of the week, determined to leave work at the door. 

“I’m hoooome,” he sings as he steps in through the doorway, the mechanism locking behind him with a soft beep.

It feels good to know you’re safe here. While he doesn’t have enemies, per se, there’s no telling what some lunatic could be driven to do if they knew about you.

“Living room,” you call.

The familiarity of it makes him smile.

This is what coming home was always supposed to feel like.

He hums a little tune to himself as he walks, a slight bounce to his steps.

“Something smells good,” he says as he rounds the corner, finding you curled up on the couch under a blanket.

Cute.

On the table across from you is a neat little stack of glass containers full of food. He cocks his head, pausing to pick one up for inspection. “You meal planning out here or something?”

You slip out from under the throw and stand. Something is… off. He hears you picking your nails before he even looks at you, and when he does meet your gaze, there’s a subtle apprehension you’re clearly trying to mask with a cordial smile.

“It’s just leftovers from lunch,” you say, eyes flickering from the container of food back to him. “How was work?”

“The usual,” he says a little curtly. Due to your unusual demeanor, he’s forgotten the laundry list of complaints he’d saved up at work with the intention of sharing with you. 

In his experience, it’s rarely a good thing when people suddenly start behaving differently.

Especially when they try to hide it.

“Something wrong?” He asks, giving the penthouse a cursory sweep. Everything looks to be in order.

Your eyes widen a fraction, but you catch yourself from looking overly surprised at being caught.

Got’cha, he thinks. He’s spent his entire life reading the subtleties in people’s body language, seeking out ways to understand the things they say when they’re not speaking. The things they won’t say. Particularly to him.

“No, no, nothing’s wrong. I just wanted to… I want to ask you for something,” you say, hands falling to your sides, your spine straightening.

His brows lift, his curiosity piqued. “Sure. Fire away.”

You’ve been here for days, but you haven’t made any requests of him despite his numerous offers. There isn’t a thing in this world he couldn’t obtain for you. Hell, he doesn’t even care if it’s legal. It’s about time you took him up on a little self-indulgence.

“Do you remember my friend John?”

His head gives a sharp little tic of a turn, his brows furrowing.

John.

He hates the effect hearing you say that name continues to have on him. It isn’t as though he has a meltdown every time he hears the name John. That would be pathetic. It’s the most common name in America, for fucks sake. 

However, there’s something particularly vile about hearing you say it with such gentleness.

“What about him?” He asks flatly, hackles rising. He was hoping you’d ask for something fun.

“I’m worried about him,” you say, clearly fighting to keep your tone even. Your fingers curl into the fabric of your pants. 

He doesn’t understand why you’re so nervous. It makes him suspicious.  “And I don’t want him to worry about me. We’ve had a routine for months. So I thought–”

“Oh,” Homelander interrupts, setting the container of food back down as understanding dawns. 

They’re scraps for your stray pet. 

“No problem, I’ll have someone take this to him,” he says, gesturing encompassingly towards the food. 

“No,” you say, the firmness in your voice catching him off guard. “I want you to take me, and I want to give it to him myself.”

He bristles, needles of suspicion creeping further up his spine. “Why?”

Though you’re quick to swallow it back, he doesn’t miss the flash of frustration in your eyes.

“You said you’d take me anywhere I wanted to go. Were you lying?”

He lifts his hand sharply enough to make you flinch, his index finger pointing only inches from your face.

“Don’t you ever call me a liar,” he says slowly, fist curled so tightly that the leather of his gloves groans in protest. “I didn’t say no, I asked you why.”

Your eyes are wide, your heart drumming loudly in his ears. He hates that look of fear, the look that tells him you’re waiting for him to hurt you when he’s never done anything of the sort.

You have no right to look at him like that.

“Because I want to. I want to see him, and make sure he’s okay, and because… because I want–” You stop mid sentence and break eye contact, pressing the back of your hand to your opposite cheek. You take in a slow breath to compose yourself. 

With a start, he realizes your eyes are welling with tears.

“I want to say goodbye.”

At a loss, Homelander stares for a long moment. For the life of him, he cannot fathom how this little charity schtick could possibly be so important to you. Isn’t he enough for you?

You’ve been spending your days carefree in domestic bliss, yet here you are crying because you aren’t taking a box of food to some bum. It’s baffling enough to give him a migraine.

On the other hand, it was that persistent nurturing that drew his eye to you. If not for your diligent care, he may not have seen the same potential in you. He likes that you care. He just wants you to care for him.

He lets out a long-suffering sigh.

“Don’t cry,” he says, voice full of his exasperated bewilderment. He lifts both hands in a placating show of surrender. “Fine, fine, I’ll take you, and you can do whatever it is you need to do.”

“Thank you,” you practically sigh. Your hand drops from your face and you look at him with palpable relief, your lips spreading into a faint smile. He likes your smiles. He likes being the reason for your smiles. That, at least, comes as a slight boon.

He clicks his tongue, observing you for a moment before he blows out a raspberry. He cups either side of your face, stepping in close to you.

“I hate it when you make me take a tone with you, you know,” he says, brushing the tip of your nose with his. Your breath catches. “You should know by now that I can’t say no to you.”

His thumb strokes your cheek. He’s been gentlemanly in your time here, accepting of your hand in his, your lips on his cheek. When he wakes up hard as a rock with your body pressed to his, he’s taken care of himself in the bathroom. Frankly he’s been more than a gentleman; he’s been a fucking saint.

“I’m downright pussy whipped, and I haven’t even gotten any yet,” he huffs through a little laugh, almost close enough to taste your lips. 

He hasn’t felt your lips on his since that night in your apartment. He wants them exactly as they had been. Pliant and without tension or fear, yet still you tense as he holds you close. You place your hands on his chest and though you don’t push him away, they’re braced to prevent him moving closer.

There’s a faint tremble running through you.

“Don’t tell me you’re still scared of me,” he says, offering you the sharp edge of a smile. He means for the words to sound playful, but even he can’t deny that there’s an underlying ache. Insecurity and impatience in equal measure.

Can’t you see how good he’s been for you? He’s had enough of having to beg for and pry every scrap of affection in his life from reluctant hands. All he wants is–for once in his life–to be freely offered tenderness.

“Your strength scares me,” you eventually admit, palms flat against his chest, stare focused on the backs of your hands.

He tips your head back, coaxing your downcast gaze up to meet his. The closeness of you makes your eyes look large and deer-like: a prey animal that recognizes its hunter. 

“It’s unreal, I feel like I’m not…I feel like I’m made of glass when you touch me.”

As a boy he snapped bones as easily as other children snapped twigs. He cradles your skull knowing exactly how much force it would take to crack it. 

You’re right to feel the extent of your own fragility in his hands.

“I won’t break you,” he says, the words little more than a breath.

“Do you promise?” you ask, your own voice barely a whisper.

“I promise.”  

All those that have come before you have taught him his limitations. And yours.

With that, the tension in your arms softens a fraction. He takes a mile from the inch you give, moving to encircle you in his arms. You slide your hands up his chest in turn, moving over his shoulders, around his neck. The way your fingertips settle on the nape of his neck feels like heaven.

Pressing his forehead to yours, he closes his eyes. He listens to the tempo of your heart gradually slow, settling like the wings of a bird finally accepting the safety and kindness of its cage.

Just then, ever so slightly, you tilt your head and lightly press your petal-soft lips to his. The shock of it knocks the wind from his lungs. Joy hits swiftly afterwards, sweeping through his body from his head to his toes. He kisses you in kind, his lips spread in a smile against yours. 

This–more than any kill or record breaking profit for Vought–feels like a victory.

He cups the back of your head as he savors you, branding the memory of your yielding lips against his into his mind. You move to pull back, but his yearning is a beast he cannot tame, and it’s the beast in him that holds you still, intent to relish the kiss just a second more, which becomes just a moment more.

Trapped, you slide your fingers up into his hairline, combing through his sheared undercut into the longer blonde locks. You send a jolt through him when your fingers tighten suddenly, pulling his hair taut between them. 

The sensation shoots through him like a bolt of lightning. His stomach flips, suddenly aflutter with butterflies. He makes a noise against your mouth, which regrettably makes you stop, your fingers going slack in his hair.

It doesn’t hurt–you don’t have the strength necessary to hurt him–but he can still feel it, and it feeds a gnawing hunger in him to be made to feel anything at all. 

“Do that again,” he says between fervent presses of his lips. “Feels good.”

To his delight you slip both hands into his hair and grip it, eliciting a low moan.

Fuck.

He could get lost in this. In you.

Your pulse has kicked back up, but so has his. Your heartbeats dance with one another as you kiss, drowning out the rest of the world. He moves from your lips to your jaw, your throat, peppering hungry kisses down your neck, ignoring the tension he can feel building back up in you.

He could make your whole body sing if you’d just let him.

Your hands move from his hair, pressing once more to his chest. With how weak you are, it takes him a beat to realize you’re actually pushing against him.

An impatient little growl escapes him. He holds you in place, too deep into it to let you go now.

You suck in a shuddering breath, pushing harder. “Homelander–”

His teeth graze your pulse point, and his tongue presses in to taste the rapid flutter of it. The taste of you is intoxicating, your skin salty-sweet.

Do you know his taste yet? Do you crave it the way he craves yours?

There’s fear in you but there’s desire there, too. He can feel it in the way your skin warms under his touch, hear it in the quiver of your breath, and smell it in the heat between your legs. 

“Wait, wait, just–would you just wait–” 

He exhales roughly and pulls sharply back, leveling you with a harsh stare.

“What? What! You kissed me, remember? So which is it; do you want me, or do you just want to be a fucking tease?”

He feels his desire like a longstanding hunger he’s only just become aware of. A painful, gnawing thing that demands he sink in his claws and rip, devour, relish. He’s been so good in all of this that one little taste was all it took for the feel of it to come crashing down on him.

For as badly as he wants you, he wants so fucking badly for you to want him, too.

The look of you is one for the history books. Flushed and wide-eyed, you’ve taken his words with a shock like you’ve been slapped. Your hair is mussed from his hand pushing against it, into it. Your lips are kiss bitten and shiny, plump with all that blood rushing to the surface.

It makes him want to bite them, bruise them, claim them. 

Those same lips open and close as you struggle to form a response before eventually settling on one.

“I’m sorry.”

He recoils from that, features twisting up in displeasure. 

No, no, no.

“I’m sorry, I just–”

“Shut up,” he snaps, letting go of you. He screws his eyes shut, not understanding how he got from where he was a moment ago to where he is now. 

All that sweet delicious heat is fading away, leaving him feeling emptier by the second, his skin prickling uncomfortably under his suit. 

He would be clawing at it if he could.

“I don’t want you to be sorry,” he says, hitting the word like a hiss. “I want you to–I want you–”

I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you.I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you.

He pushes his hands into his hair, gripping the short strands tight enough to ache, digging for pain so that it might bring him clarity and stop the terrible repetition his mind has latched onto. He can imagine so clearly how things should be, what you should be saying, feeling, and I’m sorry is nowhere in that vision.

He hates that word. It echoes in his psyche like a curse, dragging him back by the throat to the only stretch of time in his life he ever felt weak enough to say it.

Back then, in his days in the lab, Vought was always testing the boundaries of how human he really was. At one point, when he was still a boy–maybe eleven or twelve–they began to reduce his sleep by an hour every few nights.

Each day they would repeat the same grueling tests to see at what point the lack began to affect not only his cognitive abilities, but his powers. Given the sheer amount of Compound V in his system, there were some who wondered if he really needed to sleep at all.

It would have been miraculous if he didn’t. It would be one more aspect of his perfect design that they could pat themselves on the back for. 

Unfortunately for both him and them, it was not so.

When they realized the deprivation did affect him, they wanted to understand how badly. They continued to deprive him until they had reduced his sleep to nothing at all, keeping him awake by any means necessary for days. He begged for sleep. 

It’s a marathon, John, Vogelbaum told him. Eleven days. That’s the record for a human. You can beat that, can’t’cha, tiger?

Tiger. It always made him feel stronger when Jonah called him that.

Ultimately it was less about his perseverance and more about his endurance. He didn’t have much choice in the matter of whether or not he would fall asleep. 

Every time he started to doze off, an alarm would blare in his room, startling him back awake. 

I’m sorry, he would sob, riddled with guilt for the failure.

There was never any answer.

When it was over and neither he nor the scientists had anything to show for it–nothing but misery and a newfound insomnia–he decided he would never be sorry for anything ever again.

His temples are throbbing, his skull aching from the pressure of his own strength. 

Though his eyes are tightly shut, he can feel the searing heat of his laser vision pressing against his eyelids. 

It makes him want to scream, to run, to fly, to break apart everything around him, but he can’t. He’s too powerful to ever allow himself a physical outlet.

When the average man throws a punch to blow off steam, at worst they’ll put a hole in the wall.

Homelander could punch through to the core of the planet. 

Maybe he could split the whole damn thing in half. He’s never been allowed to find out.

Instead, he focuses it all inward. He swallows the feelings like bile and fights not to choke on it, on the tension of his own impossible power straining his muscles. He can’t hear your heartbeat anymore, it’s drowned out by his own blood rushing in his ears.

Or it’s not there at all.

You’ve fled, he realizes. His stomach churns, and still his mind is on a punishing loop of all the things he has ever wanted that he cannot accept he’ll never have. 

I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want.

Anger surges through him and the heat of it is painful, twisting all his already tautly wrung innards and flushing them with fiery rage.

She’s not sorry. She has no idea the fucking meaning of it. If she wants to know what it’s like to be sorry, then we’ll–

Arms slip around his neck, and suddenly his mind hits a deafening quiet.

What?

The feeling is so alien to him that it takes several seconds to understand that it’s you. That you’re here. That you’re… holding him.

Faintly he feels the tug of your meager strength, and he leans into it, his cheek coming to rest on your chest, head tucked under your chin.

He opens his eyes, the world still awash in the crimson glow of his lasers, and he feels you flinch at the sheer heat of them. He works to blink the light away, his hands resting on your hips, gripping at the fabric of your pants.

“You’re still here,” he says, voice frayed with confusion and steadily ebbing tension. 

“Yes.”

“I thought I was alone.”

“You’re not.”

Gently, you comb your fingers through his hair. He doesn’t need his super senses to know your heart is pounding. He can feel the hammering pulse of it against his cheek.

Your fear is so tangible he can practically taste it, but he wouldn’t know it existed at all if he went only on the way you’re holding him.

How is it you can be so afraid and yet feel so firm against him?

“It’s okay,” you whisper, a faint tremble in your otherwise firm voice. “You’re not alone.”

Tears sting his eyes. He moves his grip from your hip to the fabric at your back, your shoulder, his hands climbing your clothes with a clawing desperation to ensure every bit of you is real and within his reach. He envelops you in his arms and nuzzles you, exhaling another breath of the terrible miasma that had built up like sulfur in his lungs.

You move your other hand in soothing patterns between his shoulder blades–just as you had before–and with every repetition of the pattern he feels the rage, the pain, the fear, the misery of it all drip away, like a wet cloth being wrung dry.

The two of you stand like that for a long while, focused only on the sound and feel of the other. The burn in the back of his throat and in his eyes fades. By the end of it, he feels heavy with the exhaustion of holding back the weight of his own might.

Slowly, he lifts his head to meet your gaze. You’re somehow even more beautiful than you had been. Your edges are frayed, and though there is lingering fear, it doesn’t repulse him to see it.

Because you stayed.

Your fingers slip from his hair, moving to his face. It isn’t until your thumb moves through the wetness on his cheek that he realizes a tear had escaped the burn of his lasers and streaked down his face.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” you tell him, and to his own pleasure, he believes you.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright. I know you didn’t,” he says, cupping your face in turn. He brings you forward and presses a firm lingering kiss to your forehead. 

He’s in control again, and he speaks as if that were always true.

“Just like I know you’ll make it up to me.”

He draws away with a crooked smile, the episode fading to a distant corner of his mind as he puts the fractured pieces of himself back into something cohesive. He strokes your cheek, admiring your features. Your eyes.

In hindsight, it’s strange to think that he’s always thought of you as the sweet, doting little rabbit to his wolf. 

Staring at you now, he’s sure he’s looking into the eyes of a fox. 

“C’mon,” he says, siding his hands down your shoulders so that he can take hold of your wrists, guiding you towards the balcony. “It’s about time I take you for that flight I promised.”

Wouldn’t want to keep John waiting for his meal any longer.

[mmogurl]

I really liked a lot of your work in this chapter, so you’re going to get a nice, long bit of feedback with quotes - because for some reason I just started doing this while reading and kind of kept going with it. So yay!

His favorite place was his bedroom. The mirrors give not only the illusion of space, but company.

This is so fucking sad… And I had never once thought about those mirrors being anything more than just narcissism.

He listens to the tempo of your heart gradually slow, settling like the wings of a bird finally accepting the safety and kindness of its cage.

So eloquent in a stalkery, creepy kind of way xD

“What? What! You kissed me, remember? So which is it; do you want me, or do you just want to be a fucking tease?”

Such typical Homelander here. Actually made me laugh as I read it.

I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you.I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you.

Perfect representation of that deep, bottomless pit of Homelander's need and obsession…

Tiger. It always made him feel stronger when Jonah called him that.

Holy crap.. I literally never put it together that there could be a link between Jonah and the inner voice calling him Tiger in his head. It makes such perfect sense now that I’m connecting the dots though!

He opens his eyes, the world still awash in the crimson glow of his lasers, and he feels you flinch at the sheer heat of them.

This is just cool… like I love the visual I’m getting in my head of what it might look like to see the world through laser eyes.

It’s funny you made such an emphasis on the reader playing with his hair in this chapter too as both an erotic, but also a soothing notion. I literally just wrote a fic for Aegon II from HOTD that heavily focused on this aspect of nurturing.. Why am I always drawn to characters like this?! Over all, EXCELLENT job on this chapter!! I thoroughly enjoyed reading it!! :)