As the rumor spreads that you are King Aemond's mistress, the other ladies of the court do not take kindly to the news.
Aemond Masterlist
It was said that the queen enjoyed a household of ladies of all trades–accomplished singers, embroiderers, dancers, and Aemond was gracious enough to allow her these pleasures. There was no love in the royal marriage, solely an agreement that was made at Storm’s End that was finally seen through.
Floris Baratheon performed her queenly duties, currently pregnant with a third babe; her instincts assured Aemond that it was to be another son, so the king considered his duty done.
It allowed the queen to focus on a yearly ball that had been a tradition upheld since Jaehaerys and Alysanne; all the ladies who recently come of age, and still unmarried, were presented to the the king and the queen and to the court with the hopes of finding a prosperous match.
Queen Floris flourished with the preparations, as she enjoyed these festivities. It brought joy to the Red Keep and was the perfect entertainment for the courts, allowing her weeks of planning to distract herself. But it also allowed her the first glance into the fresh skirts that would be sent to King’s Landing.
This was how she came to meet you. “Who might this charming dove be?” the queen had asked when she first laid eyes upon you.
Your father weaved you through the crowds, eager to introduce you, as the queen’s peculiar appetite was well-known; you had just come of age before the war of succession, but remained sheltered and knew nought of the intricacies of the court.
Queen Floris admired your freshness and fair complexion, but it was your higher education and quick mind that had her utterly enamored. Thus you were quickly appointed to her household, another gem to her collection, to dawdle around the Keep until she called upon you.
“The queen will treat you well, but your opportunity is with the king,” your father conspired, and it took you a moment to understand his insinuation. “But he stays away from her ladies.”
You were your father’s last hope, as your brother passed away during the civil war and the only heir was a distant nephew who was barely one year of age–your father stressed the advancement of your family, a weight on your shoulders with his plan. When it dawned on you his meaning, you recoiled. “You wish for me to be the king’s whore? Who would want me as a wife in this condition?” you cried out.
“I mean for you to entertain the king, to keep him company. He will come to admire your spirit and your talents, just as the queen has,” your lord father assured.
You loathed the idea, but you also lived to serve your family and soon you were making yourself more noticeable for the eye of King Aemond.
The aftermath of the war had left Aemond overly preoccupied by countless matters, that of the political and economical state of the realm, along with games of alliances and the precarious fact that many houses were now led by their ladies with the male heirs still suckled at their breasts.
He had rarely tended to his own needs, and his marriage bed was merely an instrument of duty—he could only be grateful he and his wife shared this opinion. She had given him a son and heir within a year of their marriage, and had gladly made herself available to produce a spare quickly after.
She was now carrying their third babe, and seemed all the more happy for it. She thrived in raising her brood and kept herself entertained with fair ladies—Aemond did not begrudge her, and she had assured that any favorite of his would be equally welcome.
Aemond had rarely had the opportunity to enjoy women’s company, and despised the common act of taking a mistress simply to use her as a whore, as his brother had been inclined to. However upon meeting you, he had found himself captivated by your spirit more than anything else, and soon you were keeping him company as he poured over books of histories.
He was seduced by the qualities the queen had admired in you—your wit, resourcefulness and your keen eye for details. Although you were wary of him at first, hesitant to allow him to approach you, you eventually mellowed when you came to the conclusion that your mind interested him more than your body.
“So… this is where the king of Westeros sleeps,” you said the first night he invited you to his quarters, looking around the shelves and dressers where countless books could be found, along with maps and scrolls. The chambers looked more like those of a scholar than a monarch and it instantly made you feel more at ease.
“And finds a moment for himself, every day,” Aemond replied carefully.
His polite countenance, slightly shy in private company, utterly enchanted you. He was not what you had expected of a king, and the words of your father quickly faded in favor of the sincere emotional and intellectual bond you forged with the young monarch.
As your friendship with the king crossed the line into passion and you spent more nights in his arms than in your own bedchambers, it became obvious to everyone at court that you were the favorite.
Upon learning of the rumor that the king had taken an official mistress, Queen Floris, in her grace, only acknowledged you with an amused smile, her attention soon turning to her own beloved friend.
You rode the wave of your success with pride, ever delighted in each moment you spent in Aemond’s company, however your high met a drastic end as you walked the gardens one afternoon, happening upon a tea shared by the Lannister and Redwyne ladies.
“She is merely an outlet for the king’s frustrations, no more than a high-born… lady of pleasure,” came the hissed whisper, which you recognized as the voice of Lord Tyland’s wife. You stopped in your tracks, hidden from view by a tall wall of bushes.
“How is anyone tolerating it is beyond me,” another lady added, her disgust barely concealed. “She flaunts her affair as though it is a noble prospect, but we all know the shame of it!”
“The queen has not said a word, therefore no one will dare to,” a third voice replied. “I’m afraid her pregnancy has made her soft.”
“Soon the babe will be born, and you shall see, the king will bestow his favor upon her again,” an older voice placated, that of Lady Redwyne. “She is his queen, and it is plain to see how devoted to her he truly is. Any way, beauty fades and a mistress is only ever a temporary amusement.”
The sharp words stayed with you all throughout the day and evening, and you did not meet Aemond for supper as he had requested.
Instead you remained in your chambers, desperately clinging to the last shreds of dignity that you had—you could not imagine being able to step into the queen’s solar again, facing your fellow ladies-in-waiting now that you knew of the contempt some of them held for you.
You were certain that if such was their opinion, then the great vine of gossip that ran across the Keep must not be much kinder.
However, Aemond soon came to inquire after you, pushing into your rooms after a polite knock, but still entering as though your private chambers were his own. It reminded you of his position, that of the all-powerful monarch, between these walls and beyond.
“I was afraid you had taken ill, but I can see your trouble is of the mind. What is upsetting you so?” he asked as he took in your shimmering eyes and flushed cheeks.
“Do not trouble yourself with the likes of me. Go to your pregnant wife,” you instead replied, burying your shame in your knees, drawing them up to your face where you sat in the plush settee in front of your window.
“My wife is well cared for. Now it pleases me to take care of you,” Aemond said, gently but firmly. “Tell me what is the matter.”
You did not dare disobey a command from your king, and were quick to tell him what your troubles were, how you feared for your prospects, your reputation and that of your family. You knew how quick you could be dismissed, and held no hope that the king cared more about you than his wife.
“I did not choose my wife, but I chose you as my companion,” Aemond replied, and you melted under his kiss. “You are not here through a treaty, but because of my caring for you,” he assured. “And you are more to me than a simple lady of pleasure.”
“Still they mock me, and my father must endure their husbands’ glances at Council,” you lamented.
In truth you bore more shame on behalf of your father than for yourself. You knew he had pushed for your advancement, but neither of you had ever imagined the king would take such a liking to you. He was discreet with his affections, but he also found no pleasure in keeping you hidden like a sinful secret, especially since the Queen welcomed the presence of his paramour.
“What would it take to make it easier for you?” Aemond asked. He knew the burden of mockery, of being made an outcast in one’s own home—the court was an intricate system, much like a family, especially in the houses that served on the Council.
“Are you asking my price?” you frowned.
“No, I am asking what gesture from your king you think it will take for the court to accept you,” he answered. "No one would dare say a word, even in private."
Your chest seized for a moment, your breath turned to stone beneath your ribs. It was true that King Aemond inspired respect through an edge of fear, and seemingly knew all that was said throughout the castle, somehow. You suspected a network of trustworthy, paid ears, but you had never seen evidence of it.
You could hardly find your voice when you wished to speak.
“Are you—”
“I would install you as my favorite. Give you an official title, perhaps even a ceremony. Valyrians were known for their plural marriages…” he hinted.
“My king…” you could only reply, tears clouding your eyes. “It would be my honor.”
That night when he made love to you, his hips fitting perfectly in the cradle of your body, his gaze never strayed from yours. His sapphire shining in the low light, he took his time taking you apart with his words and the slow rocking of his length into you.
He grinned, triumphant, as you arched your back and called his name—not because of pride, or the simple satisfaction of bringing a woman to ecstasy, but because of the beauty of knowing you, and being trusted by you and welcomed into your intimate circle.
The next morning, the ladies of the court could only watch with wide eyes and bitterness as the Queen requested that you accompany her for a stroll in the gardens, her arm linked with yours.
Dividers and beta reading by @arcielee ♡
Requested by a lovely anonymous reader.
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Summary: after his match, you find him in the locker room and decide to tend to him yourself. Rest assured, the rush of adrenaline in his blood leads to you rewarding him for winning the game.
Warnings: 18+ mdni! Smut, porn without plot, breeding, no prep, boxer aemond, bruise & wounds & blood, dirty talk, tell me if I’ve missed something. English isn’t my first language<3
Word count: 1.9k
A/n: based on this thot I got yesterday! Anon, if you see this, you made my day with this very very insane ask and I hope this does your thot justice🤭 beta-read by beloved @namelesslosers <3 Reblogs & comments are most appreciated!
You used to hate it at first when you started dating. All the bruises and wounds made your heart clench so hard that you cried for him every day while tending to him.
But now? You have toughened up, and Aemond has gotten better, much better in fact, that he’s now fighting for the semi-final of the season against Cregan Stark.
You remember how he’s always hard on himself when he focuses on a goal he sets, and the past few months have been pretty rough on both of you. However hard to maintain and deal with, you can’t deny how hot it was to have your boyfriend all sweaty and topless throwing punches at his coach, groaning and yelling with each movement.
You watch his platinum hair swing with each punch and dodge in his ponytail, his long limbs harshly knocking his opponent down on the ground. You stand beside Criston, fingers fiddling with the necklace Aemond had given you as a promise of his undying love while he risks his life in the ring.
Cregan, the bulky man he is, launches at Aemond, punching him right in his nose. You can hear the groan of pain that leaves your boyfriend’s lips, but soon, he has cornered Cregan, his fists coming down on his opponent’s face at a fast pace that knocks the poor guy out in less than a minute.
The fight has ended, and your Aemond stands with the judge holding his arm up as the winner, winking at you as the blood drips from his nose and lips, his remaining good eye shining with pride.
He truly makes a sight for sore eyes; silver hair unruly from all the jumping, abs covered in a thin layer of sweat, a very smug smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. The thought of this man being yours makes you desire him even more.
You clap for him, screaming and rooting with Criston and his family from the audience until they lead him to his locker room to tend to him. You follow them closely, finding Aemond sitting on one of the benches with a fresh towel thrown over his shoulders as he takes a swig from the bottle with an open mouth, water dripping on his chin and chest, creating an even more lewd sight for you to devour.
“Leave us please, thank you,” Aemond says, beckoning for you to get closer as soon as his team empties the room for the two of you.
“Congratulations on your victory, Mr. Targaryen,” you say, stepping towards him slowly, sultry, reaching to caress his angular jawline as he spreads his thighs for you, making room to stand before him.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” he replies, dropping his bottle on the floor before his gloves and hands make a home on your thighs, slowly caressing the flesh, nodding when you show him the kit his doctor has laid next to him to tend to his wounds.
He visibly relaxes under your touch, wincing and exhaling sharply as you slowly clean the blood off of him, one hand holding his face straight gently while the other dabs a wet clean cloth with betadine around the open wounds. He is gazing up at you through his long light lashes, his thin lips curled into a smirk as he basks in your warm and welcoming touch.
You press a kiss to his forehead, grimacing when your eyes fall on the bruises on his nose and close to his good eye, shaking your head in disapproval. You know there won’t be a change, but you will tell him silently that you don’t wish to see him hurt, that he should care more about his health rather than these games that put his life in dear danger.
You help him pull his hands out of the boxing gloves, the fabric of the gloves torn and your boyfriend’s knuckles are bloody and bruised as well. Sighing softly, you grab his hand, bringing it to your mouth before pressing gentle kisses over the wounds.
He hums softly, his free hand coming back to rest on your thigh, observing you closely as you lean down again to clean his face, wiping the remaining sweat and blood off his skin. His fingers trace shapes on the curve of your ass, long digits praising you wordlessly on your choice of wearing a dress, making it much easier for him to ogle at you.
You can feel the path his eye takes when he lifts the hem of your dress a little, humming with every inch of your skin that comes into his view. You grip his jaw tighter, forcing him to look up at you.
“I have a pretty face, you should keep your eyes on that and your hands to yourself,” you whisper, leaning down to press a warm kiss on the bruise on his nose, “maybe I’ll take pity on you later when we get home.”
“You do have a pretty face, sweetheart,” he says, staring at you with his hooded eye, hands creeping up to your buttocks, “but I need more than just that. Maybe you can offer me your pretty cunt as a reward? I won the game, I deserve it.”
“You need to stay still and stop talking,” you giggle when he pinches your flesh playfully, pulling you even closer to have a better view of your teats in front of his face, “I won’t give you a reward for not getting yourself killed.”
“Oh, come on—” With a tight grip on your waist, he pulls you down on his lap, forcing you to straddle him with your legs on each side of his thighs. You squeal, arms coming down to wrap themselves around his broad shoulders, “stop playing coy with me. I saw you rubbing these pretty thighs together when I had Stark on the mat, punching him in the guy. I’m more observant than you think.”
“Are you now?” You hum when you feel the subtle bulge in his shorts, “so observant, so strong,” you mumble against his cheek, starting kissing his jaw down to his ear, letting him grind your hips down against his growing desire.
“Hmm, baby, I need you,” he tilts his head, giving you more space to prep his neck with kisses, licking a drop of sweat from his throat to the side of his jaw, sinking your teeth into his skin slightly before he grows impatient and cups your cheek and guides your lips to his, his mouth claiming yours in a deep passionate kiss.
Your tongue moves along his, fighting for dominance which you lose pretty quickly. You reach around his head to pull the hair tie off, letting his silver locks fall freely on his shoulders while he kisses you for a long hot minute, stealing the breath from your lungs.
“Let me take care of you, my victorious man,” you mutter against his lips as the two of you breathe the little air between your faces, your clothed pussy rubbing against the rough fabric of his shorts with each move.
He groans against you, his restrain running thin with each second that you spend on marking his already marked neck, hips snapping up into you desperately. But he is not known for his patience, nor his temperament, so when he grabs your face, his bruised fingers digging into your cheeks, you know what is about to come.
“Be a good girl and take out my cock, I can’t wait any longer for you to be gentle with me,” he growls against your lips, his fingers pushing your panties to the side, “I won’t consider myself a winner if I don’t make you come on my cock at least two times.”
You whimper pathetically, reaching inside his boxer shorts to pull out his already leaking shaft, stroking him to full hardness. He is twitching in your palm, his heat and girth make your mouth water, and the way his fingers caress your inner thighs only urge you to guide him closer to you.
Holding yourself up a bit with your knees on the bench he’s sitting on, your lips meet his in a messy kiss as you sit on his cock slowly, feeling the beat of his heart against yours with how hard adrenaline is pumping through his veins.
His cockhead breaches your wet entrance, making the two of you gasp and whine as your warm walls envelop him slowly with every inch of him you take inside you.
“Good girl, taking me so well,” he says with a raspy chuckle, his large hands covering your ass completely as he helps you sheath his cock deep inside you fully, “prettiest girl with the prettiest cunt, now ride me, baby. Make a winner out of me.”
Your brain is already mush, you nod at him, hands bracing themselves against his shoulders as you roll your hips to his liking, skin melting against the skin with each move and grind.
He reaches to pull down the neckline of your dress, leaning down to litter butterfly kisses all over the top of your breasts while he helps you move up and down his cock quicker.
You know what he wants, what he needs, so with one tug, your teats are free from the confine of your bra, and Aemond latches onto your nipple like a starved baby needing to be fed — although he is anything but a baby with how roughly he bites and sucks on your bud, blowing air on the wet flesh that has you shivering and moaning out his name in pleasure.
Matching your enthusiasm, Aemond plants his feet on the ground, snapping his hips up into yours at a wild pace, fucking your heavenly cunt at a brutal pace that has you biting his shoulders to muffle your cries of euphoria.
His nails dig into your flesh while his bruised and bloodied face searches yours for his tongue to lick its way into your mouth. Aemond keeps up his fast pace, pistoning his cock into you with abandon as he bites your bottom lip and sucks on your tongue.
Your release is swift and smooth and world-shattering — your vision goes white for a second when the tip of his dick jackhammers your sweet spot for a good minute. Gushing around his girth, you moan into his mouth as your wetness drips out of you with each rough thrust.
Aemond somehow fastens his movements, driving his cock up into your soaked pussy quicker, deeper, and rougher if possible, chasing his sweet release. His breaking point is when you whisper in his ear about how sexy he looked when he was beating Cregan to the pulp, how you wish he would manhandle you on his bed and fucking you like you mean nothing to him.
He comes harder than ever with a loud groan of your name, hands clamping hard on your waist that you are sure there’ll be bruises that match his in a few hours. He fills you with his hot cum to the brim, his cock twitching deep within your core as he gives you all he has.
Breathless but not done, he kisses the corner of your mouth and whispers, “What a good fucking girl for me. Now, you need to give me the other half of my prize.”
summary: aemond comes to winterfell to vie for favor and while cregan has his mind set on backing rhaenyra, you remain unswayed. will your indecision be his saving grace?
pairing: aemond targaryen x stark!reader
warnings: mature/explicit, 18+ (minors dni!), no use of y/n, afab reader, brat taming, aemond is a little shit, choking, mild degradation, oral sex (f receiving), very lyanna mormont coded reader, aemond whimpers, he's down bad tbh he loves it, angst, allusions to violence but no actual violence, please no one kill me for the end lmao, let me know if i missed anything!
word count: 6.1k
a/n: happy 3k laura!! i'm so happy to be a part of this collab with you and so many of my other fantastically talented writer friends! check out the full milestone celebration here and the masterlist will be here!
likes, comments, & reblogs are very appreciated but never required!
gif creds to @aemondtargaryensource
divider creds to @targaryen-dynasty
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Icy air whips around you as you stand atop one of the many high stone battlements of Winterfell, eyes scanning the horizon; the grey earth and sky seem to meld together as one as the sun sets lower and lower.
“It is our duty to hear them out, sister,” Cregan rumbles beside you, brow furrowed. Ice glimmers in your periphery when you glance over at him, the great sword strapped over your brother’s shoulder contrasts sharply against the deep black of the furs draped over his body, “If they come to us for aid, we must negotiate.”
The air around your lips turns to mist as you scoff, jaw clenched. Today, of all days, you could do without your brother’s condescending tone.
“Negotiate,” you echo, pulling the thick white fur of your cloak more snugly over your shoulders as the wind seems to pick up, “They come with hardly any notice, with two dragons, and you still believe this is a negotiation?”
“Sister –”
“To call it anything but extortion is a fool’s game, Cregan,” you keep your eyes straight ahead, focused only on the horizon, when he turns to glare at you, nostrils flared.
“Need I remind you that we are sworn to House Targaryen? That we have been for –”
“Which House Targaryen?” You swiftly counter, cutting your gaze to his with a biting scowl of your own. The wind gusts again yet you pay it no mind, hardly noticing when a shadow passes overhead.
An all encompassing roar seems to vibrate the very air around you and you whip your head up just in time to see a behemoth of a beast duck down below the clouds, followed swiftly by a smaller, though no less monstrous, one that lets out a resounding cry of its own.
“Gods be good,” you sigh, already feeling weary of this whole endeavor; you roll your eyes when you look to Cregan, only to find him positively beaming, entranced. You, however, would not be so easily wooed – of that, you were determined.
Glowering, you turn your face to the sky once more and watch as the creatures circle one another, huffing when it dawns on you that their movements strikingly resemble two riders racing on horseback, goading and taunting one another.
Shaking your head, your chest heaves with a tired groan, Seven Hells.
“I shall see you in the Great Hall when you have finished fawning,” you sigh once more before turning, leaving your brother to stand like some open-mouthed whore, gawping at the sky.
“My Prince and… my Prince,” Cregan’s voice echoes throughout the great stone hall, accompanied by the steady crackle of the enormous fireplace at its back wall, “We bid you welcome to the North, I trust your journey’s were pleasant ones.”
The tension in the air is nearly palpable as you stand beside your brother, carefully watching the two dragonriders.The one on the left, Prince Jacaerys, stares straight ahead at Cregan, as if he doesn’t trust himself to look anywhere else. His dark brows are set in a slight scowl and his gloved hand hasn’t once risen from the pommel of his sword since he dismounted his dragon, who you’ve been informed bears the name Vermax.
Your gaze, however, seems continually pulled to the right, determined to see through the cool mask of indifference Prince Aemond wears. Unlike Jacaerys, his singular lilac eye had been busy flicking all about the space, though he stood stock still with a haughty manner about him, hands clasped behind his back.
“‘Twas a fine journey, yes,” Aemond hums, looking first at Cregan and then to you; his gaze is piercing and you can’t help but wonder if the rumors among the smallfolk are true – that he’d replaced his lost eye with some sort of gemstone, “Vhagar and I were fortunate to not encounter… anything of note.”
Your eyes move quickly to Jacaerys, breaking from Aemond’s stare once you catch the pointed tone of his words, slicing through the air like daggers. His jaw clenches, though only for a second, as you silently pray that this does not end in the two men coming to blows, or worse.
“My journey was quite pleasant, my Lord Stark, thank you,” a small part of you is impressed that he seems determined not to let his emotions run amuck. He steps forward and pulls a rolled piece of parchment from the inner pocket of the thick, fur-lined cloak he wears, “I come with a message from my mother, the Queen.”
Beside him, Aemond quickly steps forward as well, producing a similar scroll, close enough to you that you’re able to just make out an image of House Targaryen’s three-headed dragon embossed on the golden wax seal. “And I come bearing a message from King Aegon, Second of His Name,” he pauses, looking between you and Cregan, glancing almost imperceptibly toward Prince Jacaerys, “Who currently sits the Iron Throne.”
“Usurper,” Jacaerys mutters under his breath, nose twitching in annoyance.
“Say that again,” Aemond’s voice is low as he whips around to face Jacaerys, all but shoving the scroll he brought into your hands.
“That is my mother’s throne,” the brunette replies, simmering with a barely contained rage as he hands over Rhaenyra’s terms to Cregan in a similar manner, “Your drunken fool of a brother has no right to it.”
Your heart thrums in your chest as they stare one another down, the hostility between them seems to suck all the air from the room and bathe it in a silence you’ve only ever felt in the crypts.
“And who would bend the knee for a whore with bastard heirs, nephew?” Aemond’s footfalls echo about the hall as he stalks around the other prince, circling him with a goading smirk, “She could not honor the oaths made to her husband, I shudder to think what would become of her promises to the realm.”
Your eyes widen and a gasp is wrenched from your throat when Jacaerys whirls around with a snarl and the sound of metal-on-metal grates through the air as both men unsheath decorated daggers from their belts; they stumble a few steps back, chests heaving as they each wait for the other to make the first move.
“Do it,” Aemond taunts, lips twisted into a wicked smile while he and Jacaerys circle one another. Raising a hand, he pulls the black leather eyepatch from his face and tosses it to the floor, clearly relishing the way the other prince falters at the sight of his uncovered face. The deep blue sapphire he reveals gleams in the light from the fire, the sight of it makes your breath hitch, “Finish what your bastard brother started, go on.”
“Cease this!” Cregan shouts, voice firm, though he may as well not have spoken at all for all the good it does – each man only sparing him a glance.
“I did not come to fight you,” the brunette huffs, scowling at his uncle while keeping a firm grip on the hilt of his dagger.
“No?” Aemond questions sardonically, “You’ve no wish to prove your might, hm? To show the realm how strong you are?”
The remark sounds like any other taunt to you, yet something about it seems to make the fire simmering within Jacaerys blaze closer to the surface – too close. You can see it coming before it happens from the way he tenses, from the miniscule twitch of his hand.
Acting quickly, you lunge for the great longsword strapped to your brother’s back and unsheath it without a second thought. Cregan reacts just as swiftly and clambers for you when you turn on your heel and rush over to where the two men glower at one another. From the corner of your eye, you see Jacaerys lunge forward but you cut off his movement as you swing Ice over your head.
Metal crashes against metal, filling the hall with a shrill clang, before the great sword slams against the stone floor with a cacophonous din. Everything comes to a sudden halt as the loud noise sends a shock through the hall.
“Enough!” The word leaves your lips as a snarl while you stare between the two men, nose twitching in annoyance, “How dare you sully our home with such feckless, asinine bickering!”
Each of the princes sheaths his dagger in silence, though you hold the sword between them still, the tip of it digging into the stone as you keep hold of the pommel. “I’ve no doubt that were those creatures outside to engage like this that they could easily rip Winterfell to pieces, stone by stone, and yet they remain peaceful! Tell me, do you have baser morals than that of a beast?” Your voice is low as you speak, every ounce of patience you had for this idiotic farce wrung from you, “Is this the kind of man House Targaryen sets upon the realm?”
“Apologies, my lady… my lord,” Jacaerys murmurs, glancing between you and Cregan before quickly staring down at the floor, his jaw set.
You give him a curt nod before training your eyes on the silver-haired prince and narrowing them expectantly; he holds your gaze for only a second before looking off into the fire with a sigh, “Apologies.”
Cregan reaches for the sword again and this time you relinquish it without a fight, turning your attention back to the two scrolls abandoned on the longtable – one carrying a gold seal, the other a black one, both bearing the three-headed dragon emblem.
Your brother sighs behind you and you can practically feel him throwing an icy glance at the two men before he joins you at the table, leaning back against the edge of it and crossing his arms over his broad chest.
“We will hear your terms,” he starts, ignoring the way your head whips around to face him, “As is our sworn duty, but there will be no violence in these halls.”
“No.”
“Sister –”
“Not tonight,” you shake your head firmly, glancing over your shoulder at the princes before leaning closer to Cregan, voice low enough that it doesn’t carry in through the hall, “‘Tis late and they are on edge as is. Any negotiations will not go peacefully tonight.”
He turns his head toward you with a soft sigh; you tilt your head just slightly when your eyes meet, communicating silently, with only a look, as you have since the two of you were small.
“Please,” you think, your gaze flicking between his blue eyes, lips set in a firm line, “Listen to me, just this once.”
Finally, after a long moment, he simply nods and looks back at the two men still standing in the hall, looking pointedly away from each other now.
“We will hear your terms in the morning,” you announce, turning to face them, your expression set and neutral, “The hour is late and I imagine the two of you are tired from your travels, the –”
“We will hear your terms in the morning and that is final, my prince,” you repeat, enunciating each word firmly, leaving no room for whatever argument he was intending to make. You glance between the two men again, watching as he gives a polite, stiff nod.
Sighing tiredly, you give Cregan one last withering look before turning on your heel. “The servants will show you to your quarters,” you call over your shoulder, grabbing the gold sealed scroll from the longtable on your way to the doors without sparing the men another look.
By the grace of the Gods, you manage to have a few peaceful hours to yourself. The castle remains quiet, save for the usual bustling of various servants and guards. The crackling of the small hearth in your chambers is the only sound that accompanies you while you read over the terms Prince Aemond brought with him, which were fairly generous, all things considered.
Only one point gave you pause, perhaps King Aegon’s greatest gift – the offer of his brother’s hand. You wrinkle your nose in disgust when you read over that bit, although you had expected it. It’s no secret that you, Winterfell’s greatest prize as you’d been told time and time again since you were old enough to even somewhat comprehend the idea of marriage, are unclaimed. Of course the Greens would exploit that, the Blacks probably did as well.
Of course any other weaker Lady would take the offer.
Unconsciously, you clench your jaw as you gaze into the fire, watching the flames dance while you think over the terms set before you, etched cleanly on the parchment. You get up from your place at the desk to go see if Cregan has finished reading over Rhaenyra’s terms, quite curious to see what it is she’s offering up.
“Gods!” You exclaim when a sudden knock at your chamber door cuts through the peaceful silence of the night, startles you enough that you grab at the edge of your desk to keep the bottle of ink there from spilling. Corking it, you let out an annoyed little grumble as you stand.
“Enter!” You call out, smoothing out the silken, fur lined fabric of your evening robes, the soft blue color sparkling like seafoam in the light from the fire. Your brows pinch together in equal parts annoyance and intrigue as a certain white-haired prince saunters through the door, his lips set together in a firm line, as if deep in thought.
“Prince Aemond,” you huff, bristling when he closes the door behind him, “The hour is quite late, surely whatever you’ve come for can wait until the morning.”
He pauses at that, not moving from his place in the entryway. Confusion wells up within you when he doesn’t meet your gaze, his lilac eye blinking as his lips open just slightly – something clearly weighs quite heavily on his mind.
“I apologize for the late hour, my Lady,” he murmurs, finally looking up as he takes a few steps into your chambers, arms clasped behind his back, “But I do not think the matter can wait until morning, no. I don’t believe that would be wise.”
“Speak, then,” you nod with a sigh, resting against the arm of a small sofa by the fire. You try your best to hide your annoyance, feeling certain that whatever the Prince had come to you with is not nearly as serious as he seems to believe.
Aemond remains quiet for a few seconds more and you can practically see the wheels turning in his brain, something brewing just below the surface. “I… Did you intend to make a fool of me, Lady Stark?”
“What?”
“I’m aware that my coming, and that of my nephew, were… sudden,” he continues, leaving you utterly perplexed, which only makes you clench your jaw, already exasperated at this entire exchange, “But, had you and Lord Cregan made it clear that you had already come to an agreement, I could’ve left — been on my way to the Stormlands and saved us all the trouble.”
“Seven Hells, why must he speak in riddles,” you think, squeezing your eyes shut and pinching your brow tiredly.
“Prince Aemond, perhaps I could be of some help if you spoke your concerns more plainly,” you sigh, crossing your arms over your chest and peering at him once more, “However, I can assure you that Cregan and I have decided nothing. He and I have planned to take the evening to read over yours and Prince Jacaerys’s terms, which we will discuss in the morning.”
“Mm, then am I to believe that your lord brother plots without your knowledge, my Lady? I find that hard to believe.”
“Excuse me?”
Aemond paces, smirking as he traipses back and forth before you, acting like he can see clearly through some false plot you’ve set… if only you’d set one at all.
“I overheard them, Cregan and Jace, in the library — I cannot seem to find sleep and thus was wandering the halls,” he murmurs, quickly explaining his actions before you have time to ask, “Surely you’re aware that your brother intends to support my traitorous sister.”
His words should come as a shock, that Cregan would do something like this behind your back, and yet you can’t find it within yourself to be truly surprised. Ever since he’d become Warden of the North, he’d become… hardened, even to you. Before, he would’ve never dared do this, would’ve considered your thoughts as carefully as his own, but not anymore.
“My brother may be decided,” you start, voice clipped, “But I have yet to come to a decision.”
The prince hums yet again, something he seems to do often much to your great displeasure. He studies you for a moment, lilac eye never wavering from yours, before looking away with a tsk. “And yet, from what I overheard, he seems quite convinced that you have.”
You scoff at that and push yourself off the arm of the sofa, placing your hands on your hips as you blink at him for a moment while the corners of your lips twitch with the threat of a smirk, “I must confess, my Prince, but I do not know how to proceed. We seem to be at an impasse – I assure you of one thing and yet you cling to your belief in another.”
“So it would seem.”
His calm reply does nothing to lessen your irritation and your chest heaves with a sigh, jaw clenching. “Well, then,” you huff, no longer patient enough to keep the frustration out of your tone, “What would you have me do, hm?”
“Perhaps,” your eyes narrow at the indifference with which he speaks – an act, you’re sure of it, “It would bring me some comfort if we could come to some… agreement of our own. As your brother and my nephew seem so eager to do.”
“As I’ve said, I do not wish to discuss the matter further. ‘Tis late, my Prince, and I see no point in staying up half the night to do something that can be accomplished just as well tomorrow.”
“Mm,” he hums, pacing around you and further into your chambers, to your great annoyance. You turn, watching him as he saunters through the space, acting as if it’s his own, only to come to a stop beside your desk.
An exasperated sigh leaves your lips just as he feigns surprise at seeing the scroll he’d brought with him unfurled over the wooden surface, “But, you have read the king’s terms, no? Surely discussing them would not take long.”
“Discussing them, no,” you acquiesce, gritting your teeth, “My thoughts of accepting them, on the other hand…”
You can tell he’s only half-listening as you speak, focused on reading over the notes you’d scrawled in the margins of the document – questions of various assurances and the like… aside from one particular line which you’d hastily crossed through. A shiver goes down your spine when his eye trails up from the parchment to once again meet yours, darkened with some new sense of resolve.
“You are aware that the crown has the ability to strip you and Lord Cregan of your titles, yes? Especially if I were to inform my council of your plot against me…”
Your heart quickens at his warning, thumping meanly in your chest while you try to process his words. “All this over a simple marriage offer?” You think as your brows pinch together in a scowl; you do not take kindly to such threats.
“Over my brother’s right to the throne…,” Aemond murmurs and it’s only then you realize you must’ve spoken aloud, not hearing your own words due to the turmoil in your head, the rush of blood in your ears, “Over my family’s safety, yes. I would be willing to dole out harsher reminders as well, if need be.”
“You must understand, this is not a slight against you, nor your council,” fire rages within you as the winds outside pick up, howling throughout the castle, “I have no want to be bound to anyone –”
“Think of the station you’d have,” he cuts you off, determination seeming to well up within him the same way it does you; each of you is ready for a fight, “The power you could wield in King’s Landing, everything you could do to benefit –”
“You could not drag me from the North kicking and screaming, I have no desire to go –”
“My Lady, you are intelligent, ‘tis plain to see,” he murmurs lowly, indignation finally managing to bleed through his placid exterior while he paces about, circling you just as he did Prince Jacaerys, “Surely you realize that your talents will be wasted here, squandered to the cold, frozen waste –”
“Do you think insulting my home is the way to win me over, my Prince?”
“Mm,” his dismissive hum alights a spark within you and your hands curl to fists at your side, “No, though I suspect flattery would do no good either.”
His words are sharp, spoken with the sole purpose of cutting into you, yet all they draw is an angry huff. You can see his eye narrow in your periphery, can feel him studying you, no doubt trying to find a way to make you crack.
A part of you hopes he’ll succeed.
“So, you see, I’ve no other choice than to resort to threats,” he hums, long silken hair swaying over his shoulders as he finally comes to a stop before you, close enough that you’re forced to raise your chin to maintain eye contact.
“Should you be fool enough to try, you will not succeed in taking the North, my Prince,” you say softly, a quiet calm blanketing your fury just as snow blankets the fields outside, “Even Aegon the Conqueror could not, surely you know that.”
Something dangerous flashes in his eye at that and your eyes narrow with the knowledge that you’ve crossed some invisible boundary, gone a step too far.
He stays quiet for a moment, just long enough for the eye of the storm within you to pass, for the maelstrom to be ignited once more.
“Surely you’ve heard tale of the wrath the Conqueror brought upon Harrenhal, Lady Stark,” his voice is low when he finally speaks, though there is no softness to it; only a harshness, a finality, that would surely make anyone else grovel for forgiveness at his feet, “Reduced to a pile of ash and molten stone… even now, more than a century later, it stands as a ruin – a cursed place…”
Your jaw clenches tightly at his words, eyes narrowing as you stare into his own as if challenging him to say it, to finish his threat.
“It would be quite a shame if that same doom was brought to Winterf–”
Aemond lets out a grunt when his back thuds against the stone wall behind him, gasping and caught off guard by your sudden advance.
“Have you no shame?” Your words are biting as you snap at him; fury pours off of you in waves, your entire being concentrated down into rows of gnashing teeth, “You come into my home, unbidden. You threaten to spill blood in my hall, you feel entitled to my time and my space and my thoughts and my hand, all unbidden.”
For the first time all evening, the prince seems to have no response, not even a condescending hum. He stands frozen on the spot, held against the wall by your forearm pinned across his chest. The air feels like it evaporates from the room, leaving the two of you in some sort of bubble where the only sound is Aemond’s harsh pants. You see his angular nose twitch and his lips press firmly together as a sneer forms on his pale face.
There’s a cruel, almost savage, gleam in his eye that should scare you, that maybe actually would, were it not for the soft pink flush spilling across his cheeks and an undercurrent of something resembling shame in his gaze – the expression of a child being scolded by a parent, caught doing something they shouldn’t.
The strangeness of it brings you to heel for a second, only for the anger within you to flare up once more when he starts to open his mouth, starts to push himself off of the cool stone at his back.
“Don’t,” you huff, narrowing your eyes and pressing back against his chest. A bitter laugh bubbles up from your throat as you stare at him, surprised once more when he quickly gives in and lets you push him back, “I bet you’re quite used to getting your way, hm? You’re a prince of the realm, of course you are.”
With each passing second, your ire for him seems to be slowly replaced by a growing curiosity — Why isn’t he fighting back? What kind of game is he playing at?
“Entitled prince,” your heart quickens when his breaths start coming more harshly and his chest heaves against beneath your arm, “You hold no power here.”
Aemond’s nostrils flare and his lilac eye narrows, just as fiery and intimidating as before. Your lips part when his hands come to rest on your waist, far too delicately for the situation.
“Might I remind you,” he mutters, a rumble to his voice that hadn’t been there before, “That the crown—“
“The crown, the crown, the crown,” you lean in, nearly on your tiptoes, just a hair’s breadth away from touching your nose to his. Without considering the movement, your free hand wraps itself around his pale neck, not squeezing but merely resting there, pressing against his Adam’s apple — a reminder for him to remain silent, “Why is it that you lean so heavily on something you do not even have, my Prince?”
You can feel him swallow against the palm of your hand, once again not fighting back. Though, it’s only when you meet his half-lidded eye and see that heady, shameful spark hiding there does the truth finally hit you.
“Gods, he likes this,” your eyes widen ever so slightly at the realization, such a mighty, fearsome prince and yet he’s all but melting under your touch. The feeling is rather intoxicating and you feel a rush of power flow through you, making the hair at the nape of your neck stand on end.
“I don’t see a crown on your pretty head,” you continue leaning into the feeling, intending on leveraging his submission to whatever extent you can, “Doesn’t that bother you, Aemond? Hm? Being reduced to the second son when you could’ve been so much more…”
“V-Vhagar could—“
“Vhagar could do nothing,” your fist tightens around the column of his throat as you press yourself more tightly against him, the thin fabric of your evening robe the only thing separating you from the warm black leather of his tunic, “Not if I take my brother’s sword and go slit her great belly myself.”
He balks at that, brows furrowing as he stares at you — half in fury, half in wonder. He opens his mouth to say something but you cut him off again, not interested in hearing another half-baked threat.
“Does it bother you that I don’t find you the least bit intimidating?” You question, narrowing your eyes at him.
A grin blooms on your lips when he just barely shakes his head, the movement so subtle and so quick that you hardly catch it — though it sends lightning down your spine all the same.
“No? It doesn’t bother you, does it?” Again, he shakes his head, more firmly this time; his throat bobs beneath your grip, “Do you like it? That you can’t scare me?”
He nods — not good enough.
“Say it,” you command, tightening your grip on his neck once more.
“I… I like it…,” he answers after a long moment, his voice hardly a whisper.
“Good boy.”
He whimpers, the small sound vibrates against your hand. A shock goes through you and before you can fully register what you’re doing, you release his chest and neck and haul him toward your bed — that barely there whine enough to ignite a fire in your belly.
You can see the confusion written plainly on his face when you sit on the edge of your mattress and gaze up at him expectantly, you try not to focus on the little flip your heart does at the fact that he’d followed you so willingly, like a little puppy.
“Kneel,” you command, nearly giddy when he actually does, actually sinks to his knees before you. You lean forward and quickly tug off his eyepatch, eager to see the sapphire once more, and again, you’re shocked when he doesn’t put up a fight.
Tossing the small scrap of leather to the side, you stop for a moment and admire the glimmering gemstone, even admiring the long, thin scar that adorns his otherwise flawless face.
“You’ve been a thorn in my side all evening,” your fingers card through his hair while you speak, your voice low, hardly louder than the crackle of the logs in the fire, “Starting fights, coming to my chambers in the middle of the night for matters I said I would not be discussing, talking back… and I can think of much better uses for this mouth.”
Aemond’s breath hitches when you cup his jaw and skim a thumb over his bottom lip, grinning when he just barely follows your touch. With your free hand, you tug your robe open at the slit going up your leg, just enough to show him you’re bare beneath it.
“If… if I do this, you’ll back Aegon?” He rasps, staring up at you from his place on the floor as his hands come to rest gingerly on your thighs, “You’ll agree to his terms?”
“Of course…”
“… All of his terms?”
“All of them,” you echo breathily, sighing softly when he leans in and kisses the top of one knee, a smug grin on his lips despite the situation.
If only he didn’t make this so easy.
“Enough talking,” you grab at his pale hair and shamelessly pull him to where you need him, smirking at the little gasp that leaves his lips once he’s face to face with your center, “Show me what it is I’ve agreed to.”
For all his faults, Aemond doesn’t make you wait and quickly dives in — licking a solid line up the middle of your folds, groaning as he goes. His hands tighten around your thighs and he eagerly spreads them wider, shifting on the floor until he’s pressed closer to you.
“Oh, f-fuck!” You gasp, leaning back on an elbow, though you keep a grip on his hair and use it to drag him directly to your aching pearl, arching your back when he hungrily suckles at it. His eagerness makes the fire in your belly burn bright right away and you swallow thickly, battling against the dryness at the back of your throat.
Aemond growls against you and dutifully licks over your bud, flicks his tongue against it again and again until your head spins. Your thighs tighten around his head but he’s quick to press against them once more and hold you open, fingers digging into your supple flesh.
“Good boy,” you pant, relishing the way his eye rolls back. Biting at your bottom lip, you yank his hair once more — guiding him to your entrance. He catches on quickly and another almighty gasp is wrenched from your throat when he pushes his tongue inside you, making you shiver.
“Seven Hells!” Your hips buck against his face of their own accord when his angular nose brushes against your pearl, sending a jolt of pleasure down your spine. Your walls clench down around his tongue, pulling twin whines from the both of you.
Knowing you won’t be able to hang on for much longer, you press his face against your core and rock your hips more earnestly against his face; your eyes nearly go cross when he groans deeply against you, squeezing at your thighs hard enough to surely leave behind bruises.
“T-That’s it, that’s it,” you chant, chest heaving. It feels as if lava flows through your veins each time he presses his tongue against you, the fire inside you burning brighter by the moment.
Suddenly, he moves on his own accord and nips softly at your pearl before suckling at it once more. The sudden turn of events causes you to snap and finally slip over the edge, making fireworks explode behind your eyelids.
“A-Aemond, Gods!” You cry, harshly tugging at his hair, nearly ripping it from its roots as pleasure beats against you in waves. You’re so lost within yourself that you hardly hear him growl against you, low and heady.
You shove him away after a moment when his touches begin to border on overstimulation and lie panting on the bed, dropping to your back against the warm blankets and staring, half-lidded, at the ceiling.
You can hear the shuffle of his clothes as he pushes himself up off the floor but you don’t bother sitting up, limp still from your peak. It’s not until he speaks that you finally look up.
“I take it I’ve fully persuaded you, then?” He hums, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. Leaning up on your elbows once more, you look him over — taking in the flush on his cheeks, the way his chest thrums under the dark leather of his tunic, the evidence of his arousal pressing tightly against the ties of his trousers.
Gods, what a desperate thing — wanting so badly for validation.
“Well, I’ll still need to read over Rhaenyra’s terms…”
“But —“
“But nothing,” you snap, sitting up once more on the edge of the bed, “I must at least operate under the pretense of being fair, no? Cregan will know if I don’t come to collect the papers your nephew brought.”
Aemond nods stiffly, lips set in a thin line as he looks you over. Your heart speeds up just slightly when his lilac eye pauses at your chest, darkening at the way your robe has loosened, showcasing your cleavage.
“True,” he acquiesces, brushing a lock of hair from your shoulder, “It would be smartest for us to be careful now…”
He leans down, intending to kiss your cheek, perhaps even your lips or neck, but you put a hand up to stop him — shaking your head with a small smirk and a raised brow.
“That’ll be all.”
His brows furrow at your words, eye searching your face, “I thought —“
“I need to rest,” you cut him off, nodding to the door, “Goodnight, my Prince. I hope sleep finally finds you.”
“I…” he starts, staring at you for a second, absolutely crestfallen, before simply nodding. “Lady Stark,” he mumbles, finally turning and seeing himself out, hands clasped behind his back.
“Poor thing,” you think with a sigh as soon as your door shuts behind him, “He has no business here.”
You’re hit with a wave of deja vu as you take your place next to Cregan, each of you standing before the long table at the head of the Great Hall. Once again, the place is as silent as a crypt, the only sound being the steady crackle of the fireplace.
You stare straight ahead, focusing intently on the opposite wall while your brother addresses the two princes — exchanging morning pleasantries and worried smiles. Throughout his small speech, you can practically feel Aemond’s gaze on you, like he’s determined to sear a hole straight through you.
“I have read your terms carefully, both of them,” Cregan states, each of the scrolls laid out on the table behind you, “And I propose that House Stark honor will keep faith with its alliance to Lady Rhaenys, in memory of the oath we once swore to King Viserys.”
“Very well,” Prince Jacaerys nods, giving your brother a small, polite smile and grateful nod.
“And what say you, my Lady?” Aemond cuts in, determined to force your hand, for you to make good on your assurances from last night.
The desperation in his eye almost makes you feel bad.
With a sigh, you finally look up at him for the first time all morning, immediately noting the dark circles beneath his eye. Breaking from his intense, nearly pleading gaze, you look toward Prince Jacaerys with a small smile.
“I’m afraid I must agree with my dear brother,” your voice is cold, emotionless as it rings throughout the stony room, “House Stark will not be breaking its oath today.”
Aemond lets out a sharp, stuttering breath, as if he’d been punched in the gut and his shoulders sag in defeat.
And you almost feel bad, only for a moment.
Almost.
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