tags | 18+ MDNI, Jealously, Aemond yearning, explicit sexual content, mentions of bastards, loss of virginity, unprotected sex, size kink (?), oral f!receiving, Angst if you squint. "Technical" infidelity but is it really if Jace started it? (yes). ooc!Aemond (probably). NOT PROOF READ (its one am, leave me alone).
w.c | 3.8k
note(s) | My first smut fic!! Ah I'm scared...I also think I have a problem with making Aemond want fem!reader when he rightfully can't have her. Also I swear I'm not a Jace hater!! I love Jace, but in this fic specifically I made him long and wish for Baela.
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“Why don’t you marry her then?”
Aegon’s voice was taunting, as if pushing Aemond to say something. Aemond stared down at the cup in front of him; even with a stoic expression, his mannerisms betrayed him. He tapped his finger against the edge of the cup, he picked at the skin around his nails on the opposite hand-all the tell tale signs of thinking, a mind that cannot be stopped.
“Because she is betrothed to Rhaenyra’s bastard.” His voice dripped with malice as he spoke. Aemond hated that Jacerys would inherit the throne enough; What his bastard nephew didn’t need was the girl Aemond had wished for his entire life. Ever since the two of them were children Aemond had a…weird infatuation with her. When he was a boy, he would pick flowers from the garden and he would purposely do good deeds for her, just to have her hug him or smile graciously at him.
But now, everything was different. She was a woman grown, and him a man grown. She was to be engaged to his bastard nephew, and he would have to sit and watch as they shared a kiss, held hands, smiled and danced as newlyweds. He’d have to hold a straight face as the two of them left to Jacerys’ bed chamber, only knowing the connotations that came with what would happen on their wedding night.
Ignoring his brother's tedious rants about hells knows what, Aemond stood from his chair, opting for a walk in the gardens.
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Aemond walked, hands clasped behind his back, and his gaze drifted into nothingness as he walked with just his thoughts, and the cool breeze that accompanied the summer evenings. He tried to distract himself from the thoughts of her, for they were all almost too painful to ever truly think about.
But he couldn’t help himself. He thought of her as a sickness, one that lingered and grew stronger by the day until it fully consumed your every waking moment. He thought of her laugh just as contagious as the plague, her eyes as intoxicating as the finest of wines. He thought her to be a type of sickness, and he so desperately wanted to be affected.
Aemond was never one to smile-one to truly-smile, his half smirks or half smiles were only ever in a sarcastic sense, but for some reason his smiles were real with her. With her he laughed a little more, with her he walked a little faster. He knew it was stupid, perhaps perpetually idiotic-to ever think, let alone long for such a pure and innocent creature.
As Aemond walked, he noticed her sitting by one of the fountains in the garden. She looked breathtaking, he thought to himself. Her hair was down and cascaded down her shoulders, her face was just the perfect amount of shaded with the moon's light. And above all, she held that intoxicating smile that she always held. He never knew why she was always smiling, nor did he wish to find out.
She turned her head, her smile widening at the sight of Aemond.
“Aemond!” Her voice was cheerful, slowly standing as he walked towards her.
“Princess,” Aemond smiled-a half smile-at her as he looked around, then slowly back at her. “It’s quite late. Should you not be in your chambers?”
She always thought the way he cared for her, even if he didn’t show it outright, was extremely enticing. She knew how he was with others, but she knew the differences he had with almost everyone in court-so what made her so different? Why her, the object of the second son's affection.
“Perhaps I do not wish to sleep. Perhaps…I quite like the quietness of the garden.” She smiled innocently, looking back towards the fountain as she started to walk. Aemond knew her well enough to see that this was a quiet plea for him to join her; Because no matter how much she enjoyed the quietness of the garden, she enjoyed it much more when he was with her.
Aemond stared at her, as he often did, but this time, it was different. The stare he held was nothing short of primal. He watched the light in her eyes as she smiled up at him and for some reason, now, he wished to watch as the innocent light in her eyes slowly dwindled as he claimed her.
“Aemond? Is something wrong?” Her voice snapped his thoughts back, if only for a moment. She stopped walking to look up at him and she crossed her arms underneath her chest. His eye trailed down slowly, fixating on the way that her cleavage just slightly out of her dress. He was like a man starved; Clinging to the littlest of details that would make his imagination run wild.
She seemed to notice the way that his eye raked over her chest like a starving man, and her face flushed with embarrassment. She-though subconsciously-reached up to place her arm over her chest, but to her surprise, Aemond gently took her hand, and when she looked up, his one sapphire eye was locked with hers.
“You needn’t cover up. Not around me.” He spoke calmly, though his heart was racing and his head spinning. He let out a shaky breath as he lowered her hand and looked into her eyes.
She watched him carefully, searching his gaze for anything that would betray him. In truth she didn’t know what she was searching for, but she felt as if she should be searching for something.
Aemond lifted a hand, placing the back of his knuckles against her hot cheek. The gesture was gentle, and slow, something he was not known for. His eye slowly trailed down her face, and his eye caught on her lips, his breath heavy as he reached his hand up and gently placed his thumb over her plush bottom lip.
Her eyes followed his, big, and full of longing. She stared at him as his thumb pushed against her lip. She didn’t know exactly what to do; She knew that this moment was intimate, far too intimate to be happening between a betrothed woman and a bachelor. But, the way he gazed at her made her feel hot, and the way he trailed his hand over her face and body made her want to see where this could lead.
His free hand shakily went up to her waist, cupping it firmly as he brought her closer. He leaned forward, just slightly, till his nose was pressed against hers. Her breath hitched, and her eyes instinctively closed. She waited for him to press his lips against hers, to feel his mouth on hers like she had (shamefully) always wished for. But, it never came.
When she opened her eyes again, she saw Aemond breathing heavily, desperately trying to restrain himself. He pulled away slightly, and he shook his head,
“I shouldn’t take advantage of you…not like this.” Though his words held conviction, it seemed his body betrayed him. His hand stayed on her waist, slowly trailing up and cupping her breast in his hand. She gasped softly at the feeling, and his thumb went to her lip again before he connected his lips to hers. She responded immediately, putting her hands on his arms.
He kissed her like he was dying, his body subconsciously reacting more to the kiss then he’d wish it to. He pulled her flush against him, his strong hands coming to cup her face, his shoulders shrugging in a futile attempt to have her closer. He opened his mouth, causing her to gasp at the feeling of his tongue against hers. Her mouth moved with his as if it was known to her; As if this was a dance she had practiced for years to perfect, as if the dance of her lips was a song that Aemond had mastered just for her.
She practically melted in his arms. She had been kissed before; Jace was a good kisser but he was soft, and the kisses were never not chaste. But, kissing Aemond was like walking through fire. Her entire body reacted to the way he clung to her body, how he pulled her impossibly closer. It was like a fire had escaped through his lips and was now coursing through her veins and settling in her abdomen.
Even though she didn’t know exactly what to do, it seemed her body did. Her hands slid down his arms and slowly made their way to his chest as she moaned softly.
The moan grounded him, like he had been falling from the heavens and down to earth. He suddenly pulled away, breathless as he stared down at her. Her eyes opened steadily, and she looked up at him with confusion while a frown graced her kiss swollen lips.
“We shouldn’t have done that.” He spoke breathlessly, his hand still gently stroking her side.
“Maybe not..but it felt good.” Gods, the way she spoke held him in a chokehold. He wished desperately to dive back into her; To drown in her lips and never come up for air, but..
“Not again. You are to be married.” He suddenly pulled away and at the feeling of his hands leaving her body, she frowned deeper.
“Aemond-”
“Goodnight, Princess.”
And with that, the prince turned and rushed back into the keep.
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Aemond couldn’t sleep. He tossed and turned in bed, picking at his nails, biting his lip-genuinely anything to help stop the incessant thoughts of her lips.
The thoughts started off sweet and innocent. The way she looked up at him as he trailed his thumb over her lip, the way her lips pursed just slightly when he leaned forward.
But then the thoughts got venereal fast. He thought about how he felt to finally kiss her. The way his lips practically burned when they pulled away. He knew that as he gazed at her kiss swollen lips his night would be harbored with thoughts of what they’d look like doing gods knows what else.
His hand slid down underneath the sheets, firmly grasping at his length as he let out a shuddering breath. He hated doing this; Feeling so pent up and so desperate that he had to resort to using himself. But as of right now he couldn’t care less.
He imagined her lips around his cock, her innocent eyes gazing up into his. He’d imagine the way she’d gag around him, how her lips would look kissing the head of his cock.
He groaned at the thought, his head tipping back as he closed his eye and let his thoughts wander more. He’d think about how she’d look with his seed covering her lips and her chin, how she’d moan his name as he devoured her between her legs-
He peaked with a gasp, and a low moan of her name. The minute his orgasm washed over him, and he started to slowly come down, he felt an intense feeling of guilt, shame, but most of all pain.
Guilt and shame because he hated himself for touching himself to someone who couldn’t be his.
Pain because she’d never be his. Pain because he knew that no matter what he did, she’d still be betrothed to Jacerys.
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The next morning, she sat alone at breakfast, supposedly liking it more that way. With her fiance practically ignoring her, and her father too entranced with kissing the king's ass, she learned to enjoy the solitude of just…nothing.
Plus, she always had her thoughts. Even if they were only occupied with Aemond.
She played around with the food on her plate as her mind trailed. She remembered the way he kissed her, how he held her. She felt happy, something she so rarely felt with Jacerys.
She knew how he felt, how he longed for and wished for Baela. She did not blame him, she was beautiful, but she also didn’t feel sad, which, at a point did bother her but, not so much.
At least, not after last night.
She smiled to herself as she thought about the kiss, wishing that he would do it again, longing for the way the heat escalated through her body.
She didn’t register the voice next to her until it spoke her name.
She looked up, surprised. But, when her eyes met with Aemond’s, her heartbeat quickened, and she smiled.
“Aemond.”
“You’re not hungry?”
“What?”
“You’re not eating.”
“Oh,” Her cheeks flushed red for a reason unbeknownst to her, and with a soft huff, she pushed the plate away, “It seems as though I have lost my appetite.”
Aemond looked concerned at that, and he looked down at her. Despite himself, he found himself worrying yet again for her comfort, her needs.
“Is something the matter?” She shakes her head, but for some reason, Aemond was persistent. “If this is about what happened last night, then I should apologize-”
“Apologize?” She interrupted, sitting up straighter at the mention of the word. “Why?”
“Yes…apologize. Because we should not have done that-”
“But I wanted it to happen.”
Aemomd stopped and he slowly looked towards her. His eye pierced into hers as if to read every thought and emotion that crossed her brain. He just simply couldn’t believe her.
“You shouldn’t say things you do not mean, Princess.”
“You don’t know that I don’t mean it.”
“Princess-”
“Aemond.” She said his name as if to challenge him, and he knew that he truly could never challenge her. He saw it in her eyes, he saw by the way she looked at him and smiled that she wished for him just as he wished for her. But these feelings-these blockages-would only cause unnecessary trouble.
“Please, do not give me a hope that cannot be upheld.” Her heart broke a little at that, and, as he stood to leave, she instinctively stood with him, taking his wrist in her hand as she pulled on his arm. As if the small gesture would stop him from walking, (it did).
“Aemond please..You do not know what I wish for.”
His lip curled down into a small frown as he looked at her. He knew what she felt-at least he thought he did-but even if his suspicions were right, even if she did wish for him like how he longed for her, he couldn’t. He may dislike, perhaps even hate his nephew, but he was better than stealing his fiance.
Right?
“We cannot. To be with you would disgrace your family and the alliance-”
“Fuck the alliance!” She swore, her eyes boring into his as she studied his face. “Fuck the alliances Aemond, I wish for you. Desperately, I wish for you. Jace does not see me like how you do. Jace does not make me feel the way that you do-”
“It does not matter if Jace makes you happy or if he makes you feel desired-”
“He does not wish for me as you do!”
“Princess-”
“You do not understand! We are speaking of breaking it off. Neither of us wish for this.” Aemond went quiet at this and he sighed heavily, turning his full body towards her. He pried his arm away from her, staring at her incredulously, his body language giving no open window to how he was truly feeling. With no words coming from him, she continued.
“I love you.” At those words Aemond showed his shock. He took a step back from her and he raised an eyebrow.
“You do not mean-”
“Oh for the love of-Yes! I mean it! I love you, Aemond! I love you as if it is breathing! Instinctively, not thinking about it….I love you.”
Aemond couldn’t hold it anymore, he walked to her and gripped her face tightly, her cheeks squishing slightly in his grasp as he smashed his lips against hers. She initially was shocked at the sudden kiss, but she kissed him back fiercely, holding his wrists as she leaned up to kiss him deeper.
He led her back until he pressed her back against the table, holding her thighs as he pushed her onto the table. His body fit perfectly in between her thighs, just like he imagined it would. His hands gripped her thighs, one of his hands traveling up, feeling and savoring the soft skin as he groaned.
She pulled away from the kiss to leave small kisses along his jaw. He bit his lip at the feeling, the action presumably so innocent and so sweet it almost made him chuckle.
He pulled back slightly, his gaze intense and lust filled as his hand trailed underneath her breasts.
“Tell me to stop.” He demanded. His head was spinning with the lust that clouded it. He waited for her to push him away, or to whimper a soft “I do not think myself ready”- But she shook her head, bringing his head back to hers swiftly to connect their lips in another passionate kiss.
He pulled away from the kiss, groaning to himself as he left hot, open mouthed kisses against her jaw and neck. He looked down, his breath heavy as he stared down into her cleavage. He wished for nothing more than to rip her dress open and kiss every inch of her body, but being in the dining room came with its disadvantages. So, he settled for kissing her cleavage, before trailing his lips down the fabric of her dress till he came to her thighs.
Aemond pushed her dress up as far as he could, staring at her the whole time. He slowly pushed her thighs about, giving her time to stop him but she never did. Gently kissing the inner side of her thigh, he tried to reassure her. He could see the uncertainty in her eyes; The way she looked at him with both anxiety and lust. He stared up at her searching for any sign or signal that would make him stop.
“Is this okay?” Once he saw the light nod of her head, he disappeared underneath her dress.
She had never been intimate with a man-courtesy of her father, enforcing the “Women should be pure” melodramatic speech into her head ever since she could stand. She always thought it to be a chore, only having heard stories from unhappy married women who hated their husbands, and much less disliked their children a little less, but this? This was exciting, this felt good.
She placed a hand on his head, moaning his name under her breath as he ate her like a beast. His hands gripped her thighs as if to ground himself-He had tasted women before but for some reason she was so much sweeter, so much more divine. His eyes practically rolled back just from pushing his tongue into her heat, sucking gently on her flit before he pulled away slightly, focusing his attention on her clit as he dipped a finger inside of her.
The sudden stretch made her jump, and gasp loudly. She may have pleasured herself before but it really never felt like what Aemond was doing to her. He eased his finger in slowly, dragging it back out, and then slowly pushing it back in. Hearing the moans that graced her lips, he continued the slow thrust of his finger for a moment before he added another one.
She let out a loud moan, a hand on the back of his head as she pushed his head closer to her heat. She felt him chuckle against her, the vibrations only adding to the pleasure. She moaned loudly, perhaps too loudly for comfort, but Aemond only seemed to want more of those noises to come from her.
He slowly curled his fingers, his mouth praising her clit. The added pressure with the curl of his fingers, and the sucking of her clit made her eyes squeeze shut.
“Oh gods Aemond, I’m going to-” Just as her orgasm was going to consume her, it stopped. With her heavy breathing, and slightly shaky legs, she slowly sat up. Aemond smirked up at her, holding her gaze as he nipped at her inner thighs. “You stopped..”
“Yes. Because if you are going to peak it should be on my cock.”
Her face flushed at the words, and she stared at him with wide eyes as he pulled his trousers down slightly to free his throbbing cock. As their eyes met, he seemed to notice the slight anxiety in her eyes, because he pressed his forehead against hers and lined himself up with her entrance.
“Tell me to stop if it hurts too much.” She nodded in response, and she wrapped her arms tightly around his shoulders as he pushed into her. She let out a gasp; The feeling was new, discomfiting but..new. Her face scrunched up at the stretch, and Aemond shushed her quietly as he started to move. After a few thrusts, her body relaxed, and she started to moan his name.
Hearing his name fall from her lips was like a prayer answered, like a lifelong dream he had been waiting for. He grunted as he started to rock his hips back and forth into her slowly. It took everything inside of him to not pound into her, to fuck her like he had fantized about. He wished that her father could see her now, her maidenhood gone and her body fully submitting to the pleasure he so gracefully gave her.
“Aemond..Aemond oh gods-” Her voice broke as he went faster, her moans only getting louder. She tried to wrap her mind around the pleasure he was giving her, the way his hips moved slowly yet deeply, the way the tip of his thick cock rubbed against the spot so deliciously. Her eyebrows furrowed, and she held him close to her.
One of his hands was on her thigh, the other on the table as he thrusted into her, as if holding the edge of the table would stop the creaking sounds, or the way she moaned his name, or how his groans got louder as his climax approached.
White splattered her vision as her orgasm washed over. She cried out his name in pleasure, holding him close as his legs trapped him inside of her. The feeling of her core pulsating and tightening made Aemond’s head spin, and he grunted out a moan of her name as he came himself, spilling his seed inside of her.
As the two sat there, basking in the afterglow of being intimate, neither of them would move for what felt like hours. Even though the position that they were in was compromising, they smiled, and laughed softly at the situation itself.
Once they both got cleaned up-the best they could get cleaned up for just having sex on the dining room table-Aemond took her hand. She smiled softly at Aemond, her heart racing in a new, and exciting way. The two stared at each other for a while, trying to wrap their minds around the fact that now, they could truly be together, or at least, now, they had a hope that they could be together.
Summary: a series of diary entries written by Aemond Targaryen following his tumultuous marriage and the realm's descent into war | word count: 13k~ | warnings: angst, smut, infertility, chronic illness, war, character death, wife features is described briefly, spoilers for f&b
15th day of the 4th moon, 128
They have made me a husband. A prince wed to a flower plucked too soon.
She stood before me by the Septon, trembling in her silken gown, her face pale as the moon. I was told her beauty would make up for her lack of standing. That her delicate disposition was proof of her good breeding, a prize unfit for a mere second son. How fitting, then, that it was to me she was given. A scrap for a scrap.
I find myself wondering how she might have appeared in better health, had her frame not been so thin, her skin not so colourless. She is the image of a flower wilting in the frost. I cannot fathom what my father intended when he arranged this match. Did he think her weakness would breed strength in me? That I would look upon her frailty and find myself tempered by pity?
Perhaps it is too kind to assume that my father put any thought into the matter. The one of little importance.
I feel nothing but irritation. A prince needs heirs, and she is as likely to bear a child as a winter rose is to bloom.
She retired early tonight, her maids fretting over her as though she were a babe in swaddling clothes. Preparing her for the bedding no doubt. Several lords approached me thereafter asking for a ‘bedding ceremony’. I fear her gentle heart would have given out if such a thing were to actually happen.
They tell me her name means ‘grace’ in the ancient tongues of the Reach. Grace, indeed. She moves as though her bones might shatter beneath her weight, her steps feather light. I suppose if I were to be truthful and perhaps kind, which I do not know why I should, I would admit there is a beauty in her fragility. Such is the beauty of a fine layer of ice on water in the early winter, easily broken with a mere breath to its surface.
I have no need for beauty, and no patience for weakness. Yet weakness is what I was served, wrapped in lace and trembling upon the bedsheets.
When consummation was inevitable, I thought I might snap the poor thing in two when I fucked her. She is so slight, so frail, as though the gods built her of spun glass and good intentions alone. She did not cry, though I expected it. She lay beneath me as one might endure the bite of a leech, silent, resigned, and still.
I despised her for it.
Not for her fragility, but for her acceptance. For the way she stared at the canopy, her lips pressed into a pale line, her hands gripping the sheets as if she feared being swept away by my storm. I do not know what I wanted. A protest, perhaps. A tear. Something to remind me that she was alive, that I was not bedding a corpse.
When it was over, she whispered, “Thank you, my prince,” so softly that I nearly thought I imagined it.
Thank you. For what? For duty? For what she believed was kindness? She did not look at me as she said it, and yet those two words have haunted me since.
It has been three nights now, and I have not returned to her chamber. Mother, ever dutiful, had broken fast with me the next morning to ensure ‘the act’ had indeed taken place, of which I confirmed it had. But she pressed no further on the matter, as if that was all that was important.
I tell myself it is for her benefit, that I do not wish to worsen her condition. But the truth, if I am to be honest here, is that I do not know what to do with her. She is no adversary, no equal, no dragon.
She is a flower pressed flat by the weight of its own stem.
2nd day of the 5th moon, 128
The rain has not ceased for a fortnight. King’s Landing reeks of soiled hay and wet stone. I've kept to my chambers to avoid the rancid air, but the storm intrudes all the same.
She has been ill again. The maesters tell me that her disposition is weakened, the damp worsening her condition. It grates on me relentlessly to think that something as simple as rain is enough to set my sickly wife abed for days on end. As if she is made of sugar and will dissolve if she steps outside for a single moment.
I half-expected to hear of her passing this morning when I visited her. Pale and fragile as she appeared when her maids opened the curtains. And when she rose out of bed to look out the window, it was painfully, like a stubborn plant forcing its way through frozen soil.
I asked her why she did not wish to rest.
Her smile was as weak as her body.
“Once these rains have washed away, the grass in the Reach will be as green as those in the Seven Heavens.”
She thought of her home even now. She did not consider King's Landing her home.
Since she uttered those words, I have tried to see it as she does. To see past the filth and shit of King's Landing and imagine the fertile fields and warm sun. As she hails from the Reach, she is drawn to flowers, hence why I noted that day that there were so many strewn about the room in various vases.
They wilt in the damp, just as she does.
Sometimes I find myself watching her more often than perhaps I should. I reason that as much as I loathe it, she is my wife. Whether she notices my watching her and says nothing or is ignorant to it, I do not know.
She moves slowly, as if not to shatter her fragile bones, but not out of fear I now see. She is afraid of little I have noticed, though she has every reason to be. A girl as sickly as her wed to a prince known for his temper, gods, she should tremble when I blink.
But she does not.
I regret I spoke harshly to her. Told her to rest. Save her strength. To let the flowers wilt if they must.
And before retreating back to her bedsheets at the will of her maid, she said.
“Even wilted flowers have worth, my prince.”
I had no reply for her.
11th day of the 6th moon, 128
She looks better today. Has done for several days in a row, much to the maesters relief.
The flush in her cheeks was neither from fever or strain, but life. And seeing her now as opposed to how I had often known her, she was beaming with it. Whether it was out riding or the gardens, she would routinely ignore the advice of those who cared for her health to bask in the sun, if only for a mere few hours.
Her breath was even, her voice was clear.
For the first time since our wedding, we spoke freely.
I had not meant to stay for long, truly. But we walked through the gardens on a warm early afternoon. Although I had to stop every few paces to allow her to bend to retrieve some half-wilted flowers so she might place them in her basket.
She said the maesters said she will likely never be strong enough to bear children. At least healthy ones, or ones who would draw breath once born. That feminine melancholy drifted over her face for a moment, as if she suspected I already knew that truth myself.
And truly I had. It was why I had made no attempt to bed her since our consummation.
I did not know how to respond. Usually women speak of such matters with carefully shielded delicacy, whereas she spoke plainly. But I could not bring myself to express the disappointment I should have felt, or the anger that had simmered beneath the surface for so long.
Anger, perhaps not. Weary, maybe.
My answer was not one she would have expected. That I never asked for children. But in my stupidity, I had in fact said, I never asked her for children.
It seems I have driven an already sheathed blade even deeper.
My words may have been misshapen but they were the truth and that is all I have to offer her, is it not? I hold no love for her, but I would never deny such a fragile creature as my wife what I would give any other.
She said nothing. She lowered her lashes and the silence that followed was so unbearable I considered leaving her altogether.
I never asked her for children.
True enough, I suppose. But even I can see how little truth matters in the face of what I’ve taken from her.
I know as well as anyone, what I have actually expressed is that I expect nothing from her.
And perhaps the latter is more cruel.
14th day of the 6th moon, 128
Tonight, we coupled for the second time in our long marriage.
I had avoided her bed for months, claiming duties, council matters and brief bouts of illness that she no doubt didn’t believe as reasoning for my absence. Though after a time, people were beginning to whisper, so I had no choice but to comply. And there was a time where I believed my own mistruth, that I was sparing her. But in truth, I did not wish to see her fragility laid bare again.
She never protested, and likely never would.
So I went to her.
Her chambers were lit by a single candle dotted at several points around the room. She sat at her vanity, pulling her hair free of tight braids and pins. Her hands were so small and pale, I wondered if this small action itself did not overwhelm her delicate nerves.
It was she who broke the silence.
“Have you come to pity me, my prince?”
I almost turned away then.
She let me unlace her gown, let me bare her to the dim firelight.
It was less frantic though no less awkward. She held me as though she feared I might vanish, and I let her. Perhaps it was the wine, or the quiet of the hour. When I touched her, she shivered. And when my lips accidentally brushed against her neck, she tilted her head back. The floral perfumes she had applied to her skin felt too much of a distraction.
When I finished she looked up at me. It has always unsettled me, her ability to look upon me without flinching. I am a dragon and she is a petal, and yet it is I who wilts beneath her gaze.
Even the bloodiest of injuries had no such effect on me.
- - the day of the 8th moon, 128
Aegon celebrated his nameday swiftly as he usually does. It is the third time in one month where he has had to be dragged from celebrations because he is unable to handle his wine. He had of course revelled in the attention, called for songs, dancers and yet more Dornish Red, as if he had not had enough.
The lords humoured him. The ladies pretended not to notice. Father was not even in attendance, it was mother and Helaena who sat diligently at the top table, faces sullen as if they held the weight of the Realm on their shoulders.
For my part, I watched from the shadows, as I often do. My appetite for such things is thin at best, and thinner still with the murmurs that reached my ears tonight.
They speak of her. My wife.
“Too weak to attend,” one said. “She’s been frail since the wedding,” said another.
I could feel their eyes upon me, their pity or curiosity or judgment, I could not say which was worse. It felt such a disservice for others to remark upon her the way I have.
Nobody was as shocked as I to see her when the doors to the hall opened. There she stood, walking carefully into the light, bathed in a dress that was not crimson, not dark, never. But red all the same, as if she had thought of honouring the house she wed into but not yet willing to loosen the reins on herself entirely. The colour was pale, muted, a shade more suited to her, though it did little to disguise her frailty. Truth be told, she does look sickly in red.
I knew she had wanted to wear it, though. That was why she had chosen it.
For a moment, I thought she might collapse under the weight of the eyes and silence on her.
I thought to rise as she approached me, but for some reason I did not. She inclined her head to me so faintly I doubt anyone else saw, and I saw her locks were adorned with jewellery she had not usually worn.
She inquired as to the whereabouts of my brother, no doubt asking whether the celebrated prince was on his very own nameday, but she did not seem downtrodden when I informed her he had retired to his chambers. As if it were a mere formality.
“Shall we dance, husband?”
I thought to refuse her, to spare her the strain, but the look in her eyes silenced me. And I could not very well be seen to refuse my own wife. She extended her hand, pale and trembling, and I took it without a word.
I thought it would embarrass me, this spectacle before the court. Her weakness had done so before, and I had no doubt it would do it again. But I could not bear to say the words aloud, not when she had dressed in my house colours for me.
I led her to the centre of the hall, her small frame so light beneath my guiding hand that I wondered how she had summoned the strength to stand, let alone to dance. When I placed my hand at her waist and we began to move, I noticed almost immediately that she was struggling to keep pace with the beat. Her breaths were short, shallow, her fingers tightening on my shoulder as though holding herself upright by sheer force of will. Still, she did not stop.
“I hope I have not made a spectacle of us,” she whispered.
I only said there was no need for her to apologise.
When her steps faltered again, I acted without thinking. I lifted her slightly, guiding her feet onto mine so that she would not have to move. She blinked at me, startled, but did not protest. For the first time that evening, her breaths seemed to ease, her grip on my shoulder loosening ever so slightly.
I kept my gaze forward, refusing to meet the eyes of the court. If they found it amusing, I would not give them the satisfaction of seeing it bother me.
I told her that when I was born, it was said I was half the size of Aegon, but twice as fierce. He had cried louder, but they said I fought harder. That perhaps it was the cruelty of the gods to make those of us born weaker feel as though we must prove ourselves twice over.
She studied me, with her soft eyes, but I did not meet them. I regret that now.
When I lost my eye, I told her, they pitied me. Looked at me as if I were a thing to be mended, or worse, endured. And that is I imagine how she feels when they look at her.
She said nothing for a moment, but the faint pressure of her hand against my shoulder told me she had heard.
“Yet, you have made yourself strong. Where I have not.”
For a moment I could only stare at her. But when I found my voice, it was hushed, so that others dancing around us might not hear.
“Strength is not always shown through the sword.”
She replied with nothing.
Perhaps we are not so different, she and I.
19th day of the 10th moon, 128
She is with the maesters today.
I knew this but I found myself in her chambers regardless.
Aegon, in his perpetual state of drunkenness, had the gall to make a joke of it. Saying that she was with child. The court laughed of course, unable to tell the difference between a joke and insult. I am grateful she was not present to hear it. And for the fact that I did not defend her.
Her desk was an array of papers and cuttings as if she had left in a hurry. Lately she was more tired than usual, and instead of chills and shakes, she was hot to the touch and feverish. Perhaps nobody will understand her condition truly, but I am told that she has been this way since birth.
Lately I have found that practicing with the sword does not steal my attention the way it used to, so there I found myself, looking through the smatterings of paper and flowers, and I doubt it will be the last time.
A leather bound notebook sat snugly atop everything else, the pages fanned out as though abandoned mid-turn. I thought perhaps it was a diary, not unlike the one I keep myself, somewhere to keep my thoughts and worries if they arise. But the little writing that was present was descriptive, brief, and so feminine in its curves and loops that I could barely read it.
When we were first wed, and for several months since then, I had watched closely and from afar as well as she insisted on walks through the gardens, even despite the advice of the maesters. She could not be stopped. She would fill her basket slung over her elbow with wilted, near-dead flowers, the petals curling inward, their stems drooping,
I had not thought to ask her why then. Why she collected such things if they were already so close to falling short of bloom.
The flowers are pressed between the pages of a book, their fragile shapes preserved as though she has defied time itself. Beside them, in her careful script, she has labeled each one, names I recognise, though I have never cared to remember them before. A rose, a poppy, a sprig of thyme, rosemary. Even weeds have found their place here.
She has always been given to sentiment, to seeing beauty where others would not bother to look. It is a softness I have long struggled to understand. But she has made them more than what they were, given them a purpose beyond their fleeting bloom.
It was an evening primrose, its pale petals pressed so thin they seemed almost translucent. Beneath it, in her neat script, she had written:
“Evening primrose. For quiet devotion.”
And below that, a date, the day after we were wed.
I stared at it for a long while.
And as I stand there, I realise I have never seen her hands tremble when she writes.
I cursed myself when I returned to my chambers and remembered I had not restored the book to the page I found it on. She will know I have touched it. Her sacred little book.
27th day of the 12th moon, 128
The Keep is more quiet than it has been in months, as the year comes to its close. The usual tensions of the Realm remains, as does my father, who is more akin to a walking corpse than a man most days. He can no longer walk up the steps by himself, and my mother does not have the strength to assist. Even Aegon has managed to hold his tongue of late, though I suspect it will not last.
She has been visiting Helaena more often than usual as of late. Seated together in her solar, embroidering, their voices soft and indistinct, like the murmuring of a distant brook. A casual observer might have mistaken them for sisters, though I doubt either would care for the comparison.
“Soft in the head,” Aegon says of Helaena. “Soft in the body,” he says of my wife. He does not mean it as a compliment, though he says it with a grin, as if he expects me to laugh. I do not.
Though I don’t agree, the two do share a certain gentleness. An ethereal charm that I am not able to form into words. They are both easily dismissed, glanced over in a crowd of boisterous and overzealous personalities. Dismissed by those too blind to see. Aegon, is one such fool.
When I approached, Helaena looked up first with her pale eyes that were so familiar, but said nothing. And my wife, to my surprise, greeted me warmly, and seemed surprised to see me. When I spoke to Mother later, she insisted that my wife was a good influence on Helaena. And that she has a calming presence. One she says I should feel grateful for.
I did not tell her that I am.
2nd day of the 1st moon, 129
The belly of King’s Landing celebrated the turn of the new year more so than any within the Keep. The thunder of laughter and dancing seemed to stir the very grounds beneath me. The merriment of the season seemed to warm the chill in the air, and it seems almost everyone has felt its embrace.
She surprised me tonight.
I had not expected her, not at this hour, and certainly not in such a state. Her usual pallor was touched with faint color, her step more certain than it had been in weeks. There was a lightness to her gaze, an energy that I had not seen in some time, and for a moment, I thought her appearance a trick of the dim firelight.
I motioned for her to sit, though she declined, choosing instead to stand near the hearth. For a while, neither of us spoke.
But then she said she had been thinking about her place here, at the Keep and by my side, as my wife. I waited, unsure of where this conversation might lead.
“I know I am not the wife you might have wished for,” she continued. “I know what the court says of me, of my frailty, my weakness. And I know what it is to be a man of your station.”
Her meaning became clear, though I did not wish to hear it.
“If you were to take a mistress.”
I did not mean to startle her by interrupting, but I could not bear to hear the rest. Had she no respect for herself? That she would assume I am so restless that I cannot stay one moment without bedding another woman, simply because I am afraid she will break beneath me? What could I say? That I did not desire anyone else? That the thought of betraying her, even in name, made my stomach turn?
And then she asked why. I offered the only truth I could manage.
“I do not know. I only know that I do not wish to. Is that not enough?”
She replied with a simple, but quiet, “it is.”
She did not stay long after that, but she lingered yet in my mind as she does now, writing this entry at the hour of the wolf. Sometimes when I look upon my delicate wife, it feels as if she is other-worldly, plucked from some distant place and planted right here to wither in the sun. She seems less a creature of flesh and blood and more a whisper of something eternal, a soul untethered by time.
There is a stillness about her, a quietness that feels unnatural, as though she is not bound by the same rhythms of life that govern the rest of us. She exists in the space between moments, the breath held just before the candle flickers out.
She is not a woman to me, not entirely. She is something deeper, something I lack the words to name. Perhaps that is why I cannot bring myself to stray, why the thought of betraying her feels like a sin greater than I could bear.
Indeed why not? I could not answer her then, and I doubt I could answer her now.
5th day of the 2nd moon, 129
Am I not a man, but a beast.
She accompanied me this morning to break my fast. Something we now often do to please Mother.
She sat across from me, the light through the windows pebbled across her face, showing how the flush that had decorated her cheeks was starting to fade. A fleeting bloom I did not wish to see vanish.
She picked at the honeyed bread with delicate, little bites, savouring its sweetness. I hardly touched my breakfast. I find it difficult to eat in the morning. But here I sat, too focussed on the golden sheen of the syrup upon her lips.
When she licked the honey from her lips and fingers, I felt a sharp, sudden pain to my chest.
I do not know what possessed me then.
One moment, I was watching her across the table. The next, I was upon her. My hand tangled in her hair, my tongue licking along the seam of her lips to taste the sweetness that lingered there. She gasped against me, I remember her warm breath, startled but pliant.
It was not quick, though it was desperate, as if I could mold her body to mine, as if I could press all I was, all my essence into her fragile frame. My hands gripped her waist, her hips, her thighs, heedless of her delicacy.
I was a creature of need, of raw, unchecked hunger. And her sweet cunt tightening around me was the only thing that could sate it.
Her breath hitched as I fucked her, but said nothing. Her hands held my shoulders, as if to keep herself steady. I did not stop to think, to question.
When it was over, she lay beneath me, her breathing shallow, her hair tousled. And for a moment I could not bring myself to move. I stayed inside her, relishing the warmth of her sweet womanhood, breathed in her scent at her neck, and felt I might weep.
She smelled of vanilla and amber.
What have I done?
I did not dare look at her, but equally she said nothing.
I fear I have hurt her. Both in body and spirit. And yet, I cannot regret it. Though now I must wonder if she looks upon me with fear, with pity.
6th day of the 2nd moon, 129
I sought her out today.
The guilt has gnawed at me. Sharp and aching. I thought she might be angry. Or worse, afraid.
She was in her chambers, a shawl around her shoulders to stay the chill that seemed to find her easily, a book rested in her lap. When I entered, she looked up, her expression unreadable.
I said I owe her an apology. Which was a difficult enough thing to admit to myself than to her.
She closed her book slowly, and moved to stand. The shawl made her look frail.
“For what?”
For that morning, I replied to her. For taking liberties. For being selfish and only thinking of myself.
She interrupted softly. “You have nothing to apologise for.”
She must have seen the confusion on my face.
“You did not hurt me,” she added. Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, “I was…surprised, perhaps. That is all.”
Surprised?
She answered that sometimes she felt undesirable. Repulsive. And the words from such a delicate, little thing were like a blade to my heart.
How do I tell her that I desire her more than I can bear?
She told me that she said nothing during the act because she felt it was improper for young ladies to desire such things. To enjoy them. And she had.
I only said that she is not simply a lady.
She is my wife.
She uttered so quietly I thought I might miss it.
“I did not think I could make you feel this way.”
Gods. She can.
She is not what I expected, not what I thought I wanted. But she is what I need, in ways I am only beginning to understand.
4th day of the 3rd moon, 129
Father is dead.
I've repeated the same sentence in my head for hours now, and yet they still feel hollow. Echoing like the toll of a dull bell. Everything has changed.
Though not unexpected, the whispers of his failing health have been constant for years. Even as long as I have been alive, I'd wager. But the finality of it. The truth. The realm will stir into chaos, as Mother had always warned us it would.
They mean to crown Aegon. They mean to gift him what Father had always upheld was Rhaenyra's.
Any whisper of treason is swiftly dealt with. Otto Hightower sees to it. Nobody is safe, it feels.
My wife has been locked in her chambers, barred from leaving as if she were a criminal. I am forbidden to see her, but I am told by the maesters that her condition is too delicate to bear the strain of what is unfolding around us. The stress, they claim, has worsened her already fragile health.
I am furious. The thought of her, alone and frightened, makes my blood boil. She is not a pawn to be hidden away while the realm burns. She is my wife, and I will not be kept from her.
Mother has tried to calm me, speaking of duty and order, of the chaos that would erupt if the truth of Father’s death were known before the plans are set in motion. But I see no order in this, only madness.
She does not understand. How could she? She has never known weakness, never known what it is to live under the constant shadow of her own failing body. My wife has. And now they confine her to her chambers, as though the isolation will preserve her.
Surely they must know it is not the noise of court or the weight of the realm that will break her. It is the solitude.
If they think to keep me from her, they are fools.
I will not allow her to be dragged head first into the mess Mother has made of this.
9th day of the 3rd moon, 129
Aegon is king.
The bells rang to usher in a new era. A new king. Grandfather had organised the crowds to gather in the Dragonpit, to witness the moment the conqueror’s crown was placed upon my brother's brow, and Blackfyre thrust into his grip.
For all his faults, Aegon is no stranger to spectacle. He held our great ancestral sword aloft, and the smallfolk roared their approval, blissfully ignorant of the blood that stains this crown and the chaos that will surely follow.
I stood beside Helaena. She was dreamy as usual, and barely looked in her husband's direction. She knew as well as I, that it all stank of desperation.
My wife attended, though she was likely too unwell to. It wasn't difficult to guess she had been spoken to by Grandfather, instructed what to do to appear as if she was supportive of this farce. But still, she insisted on standing by my side.
She had applied rouge to her cheeks in an effort to mask her pallor, but it did little to fool anyone. Her face was thin, her movements careful.
The smallfolk noticed. I saw the way they whispered to one another when their eyes fell upon her. They are a superstitious lot, always quick to see omens where there are none. A sickly wife at the hasty coronation of a king.
Her hands trembled as she gripped mine, her strength waning with each passing moment. I whispered to her that she should sit, but she shook her head, her resolve unbroken despite the frailty of her body.
And then the ground shook.
Meleys burst forth, the Queen-Who-Never-Was seated at her neck. And the smallfolk that were not stuck beneath her claws scattered like leaves in the wind. My wife’s knees buckled, her strength finally giving way. I caught her before she could fall, my arm wrapping around her waist as I shielded her from the chaos. Her breath came in shallow gasps, her fingers clutching at my sleeve.
But Meleys did not strike. Nor did Rhaenys speak.
I did not release her until the crowd began to stir again, until the danger had passed. Even then, I could feel her trembling against me, her breath shallow and uneven.
My house has been fractured. Our futures uncertain.
And all I can think of is her pale face, her trembling lips, as she said. “Are you alright?”
I could have laughed if I were not so angry.
12th day of the 3rd moon, 129
The maesters still hover over her, though I have been here at her bedside since the coronation.
She is more fragile than I remember, her breath shallow, her skin too pale beneath the warmth of the fire. Her gaze follows me everywhere, as if afraid I might vanish. Perhaps she sees me as fleeting too.
Perhaps she fears that I might not return.
I did not think I would be the person she would cling to. And at times I do not know how to feel about it. She has not changed, and yet I used to look upon her with contempt and irritation.
Could it be that I have changed?
I must go to Storm’s End soon.
The Baratheons are key to ensuring an alliance, to strengthen my family's claim to the throne by rallying the great houses of Westeros to our cause. I resent Aegon's rule, yes, but I do not wish to see my whore sister on the throne even more so.
Should that happen, my wife would be in danger as well.
It is Daeron who I must barter a marriage for. It is a necessary journey, one I cannot avoid, no matter how much my heart aches at the thought of leaving her.
She knows this. She knows my duty to the family, to the crown, and yet when I spoke of it, a shadow crossed her face. Her lips parted as though she wished to speak, but she remained silent. The fear in her eyes, however, was enough.
“Will you come back to me?” she asked me.
She is afraid. She fears for my safety, just as I fear for hers. And equally, though she does not speak it, she resents that I have been dragged into this cause.
I promised her I would return.
When I kissed her before I left, I did not want to let go. Her hand gripped mine as though she might shatter with the slightest breeze. She did not speak again, but I saw the unshed tears in her eyes, and it nearly undid me.
I do not wish to leave.
I do not wish to leave her.
- - - - - -
I am living in a nightmare.
She sleeps as I write this. So deeply I keep looking over my shoulder to make sure she is not stood right there.
The journey from Storm's End to Kings Landing was a blur. And when I returned and dismounted Vhagar, I was soaked to the bone from rain. I did not stop to speak to Mother. Could not bear to.
I had not meant for it to happen. But what does intent matter now? The boy is dead.
Lucerys Velaryon is dead.
His body fell from the skies, his dragon broken and bloody. And I just watched. Fear gnaws at me, but not for myself, but what this means for my family and all those that live under my protection. Rhaenyra will want vengeance for this.
My mother, grandfather, they will want for me to claim I wanted this, just so they might shift their judgement onto me instead. Claim that I began this war and not their scheming. They will whisper, I know they will, that this was revenge for the boyish quarrel that left me half-blinded.
And such has ended in his death.
It is not so simple. I know what I have done. I know what they will call me. A kinslayer. A monster. And worse, I fear that she, my wife, will see it too.
When I returned to our chambers, she was sat in a nest made of pillows, propped up to avoid strain. Hearing my arrival, she sat up straighter, though she looked weak, and shakily got to her feet despite my initial protests.
Her eyes still looked upon me with softness, as if I were deserving. And I was unprepared for her reaction. She saw me, soaked and trembling but did not speak. Did not ask what had happened, though she could see some turmoil in me.
Her hands, small and trembling, undressed me without rush. Stripping me of not only my clothes but the weight that slumped my shoulders. She did not judge, did not speak of what was so plainly written across my weathered face.
Her silence was a gift. One I did not deserve.
And yet I leaned into her touch. It was so warm against my skin. I even allowed her to remove the leather over my stolen eye. Something I rarely do in her presence.
I was bare, laying beside her, shaking. And she shed her clothes so that we might embrace without the confines of fabric. Her hands ran through my hair, untangling the salty strands delicately with all the patience in the realm.
“I killed him.”
I whispered it into the dark, without seeing her face.
“Lucerys. I killed him.”
She did not ask why or how. She slid closer, her tender breasts against my back, and ran her hands down my arm.
I told her everything. What I said. Threatened. How I flew after him in the storm. Vhagar.
Her voice in response had no anger. Only sadness.
“You returned to me. That is all that matters.”
12th day of the 4th moon, 129
I went to her chambers tonight as if the Gods had paved the path for me. I could not summon the strength to summon her to mine. Not after what I have done.
She did not question the shadows under my eyes. She simply welcomed me as she always does, with a tenderness I do not deserve.
When our bodies came together it was a communion of two souls. Deliberate. Not a conquest in the least. She is the only thing anchoring me to this world. And each scrape of her fingernails against my back felt heavenly. Kissing me softly. Tracing the scars that mark my body with the same hands that never tremble in my presence. Even now, when I feel I am beyond forgiveness.
For a night, I did not feel like a kinslayer.
14th day of the 4th moon, 129
I was not there.
I was not there. And I should have been.
I was with her instead. And in my place, it was Helaena’s chambers they reached. Their names I forget, but they were grotesque as if from some old wives’ tale. I cannot stomach to imagine their faces in my mind.
My nephew is gone. They made my sister, my blood, point him out, as if he were meats fetching a good price at the slaughter. If I had been there, in my chambers, as I was supposed to be, would I have been able to stop this? Could I have spared my sister the sight of her son’s blood soaking the stone floors?
I cannot think of it without bile rising in my throat.
The court is ablaze with questions, panic rippling through every corner of the Keep.
Where were the guards? How could this have happened?
I, too, demand answers. For all her faults, I never believed Rhaenyra capable of such an act, sending assassins into the heart of the Keep to put Helaena, of all people, in danger. But this? This cruelty? She has proven herself to have even less humanity than I once dared to credit her.
Helaena has not spoken and not emerged since. I do not know if she ever will.
I cannot protect my family, even in my own home. Though my wife reassures me, I feel like a kinslayer twice over. Even once I returned to her bed after the commotion had died down and Aegon too, she reached for me, and I let her. Her hands were frail, but somehow steady when they touched me. Like tiny little stems curling into my blood. Growing more and more. Like a gentle annihilation of the man I think I am.
She wept for the child. For Helaena, who would never again hold her son.
And I wept with her.
25th day of the 4th moon, 129
The boy was paraded through the streets, wrapped in silks and embroidered fabrics. My mother and Helanea followed, and any level-minded person would guess that this is desperation. Something I would not forgive grandfather for if he forced such a thing onto me and my wife, if we had a child of our own.
Aegon has ordered the ratcatchers put to death, every one of them, as if blood could somehow wash away blood. I doubt it will ease his conscience, if he has one left. He claims it is vengeance, justice. It is anger. It is shame. It is fear, thinly disguised.
At the council, I learned that Aegon had dismissed my grandfather as Hand. His replacement? Ser Criston Cole. A decision as reckless as it is insulting.
Mother’s face said what the rest of us could not. She sat in silence, her hands folded tightly in her lap, her lips pressed into a thin line. I said nothing either, though the weight of her displeasure mirrored my own. Criston may wield a sword with skill, but a Hand must have wit and reason. He has neither.
I know I hold little love in the eyes of my own mother now anyway. She looks upon me like I am a monster, as if I have been my whole life. As if this is not what she has made of me.
I returned to my wife afterwards. We rarely speak now, though her presence is a balm I cannot name. The illness has caught her chest again, I can hear it in her breath. She told me to keep my distance, fearing I will catch it, as if I care for such trivial things.
I stayed regardless, seated in the chair by her bed as the fire burned low. She did not scold me for it. She simply turned her head to watch me, her eyes soft, almost apologetic. I reached for her hand, and she let me take it. I can see the fear of what is to come weighs heavy on her.
This quiet between us. Is this feeling what those countless ballads harp on about? Could this marriage, born of resentment and difficulty, become love?
2nd day of the 6th moon, 129
Aegon’s hold on this war is akin to his grip on a cup of wine at the hour of the wolf. Slippery, at best. He sits in council and speaks of Harrenhal with such conviction, as though Criston Cole marching there will be anything more than foolishness. Daemon holds that cursed ruin, and we all know what awaits Criston if he tries to pry it from him. Yet Aegon seems blind to reason, drunk on his desire to pull victory from thin air.
I suggest a different course. Rook’s Rest. But he will not see reason. And of course it was met with hesitation. Aegon’s indecision is a rot that will take him black, and Mother’s silence does nothing to stay it.
They all think me hungry for blood and battle. Aemond One-Eye.
There is a part of me that longs to prove myself. To be remembered for something other than the boy who lost his eye or the prince who killed his nephew. My wife knows an Aemond the realm does not. The one that sits beside her as they lays coughing at night. She sees a man, a good one perhaps. Whereas the court merely whisper of me as if I am a dark shadow.
The realm will never know the man my wife sees. There is a power in them seeing only what I allow, what I need them to know. Strength. Fire.
Sometimes, I wonder if she mourns the parts of me that the world will never have.
She listens to me speak of my plans, hands clasped, seeing the fractures in her husband, the places where pride and vengeance run too deep to cut out. I wonder if she pities me for it. If she doesn’t, perhaps she should.
13th day of the 6th moon, 129
Rook’s Rest still burns, I'd wager. Though it has been several days since the battle. The wind still whips at me, I feel, as I watch Meleys hurtle towards the earth. Her dragonrider still pitched to her back.
Aegon does not relish in his victory. He lays near death, every breath a struggle. Not dissimilar to how I have seen my wife oftentimes.
I returned to her chambers as soon as I was able. The Keep feels hollow these days, and there I might find peace, where none exists inside me.
She looks frailer than she did when I left, though she insists otherwise. The maesters prattle about her condition, and I find myself snapping at them more than I ought. They are failing her. Everyone is failing her. Even me.
When she tried to rise from bed to greet me, I could not stop myself, I barked at her to stay put, the words sharper than I intended.
I hate myself for it. But the thought of her straining herself, of her fragile body bending beneath the weight of this cursed war...it twists something in me, something I cannot name.
She is mine. My wife. My delicate flower. The one thing in this accursed world that is still soft, still untouched by the poison of the crown and the war.
I will not lose her.
She, of course, asked what had happened. Having heard the unfortunate nature of the king’s condition. Having heard the whispers. I said it was recklessness. Incompetence. But she has always been perceptive.
She sees the darkness in me. The flicker of doubt that darkens her beautiful eyes, one she does not dare speak aloud.
But I cannot speak to her of the shadow that is cast over my heart. So instead, I spared hers, and told insisted it was Aegon's folly that lead to his downfall. Nothing more.
She nodded. But her gaze lingered on me. Searching. I know she does not believe me.
She reached for my hand, and I held hers too tightly. She winced.
I watch her even now, as she sleeps, her breath too shallow for my liking, her form too still beneath the furs. My mind races with thoughts I cannot quiet. What if she never sees me return again? What if I leave and come back to find her gone?
I will not let it happen.
19th day of the 6th moon, 129
The council have chosen me as their Regent. Me, over Mother. It is as it should be. For all her wisdom, her place is not there. Her gentle sex does not suit the burden of governance, no matter how much she believes otherwise. She clings too tightly to something she herself has denied Rhaenyra, and I will not stand idly by and listen to her hypocrisy.
The council at least know my worth.
Already I have begun to shape the crumbling realm back to stability. The first act began with Mother, relegating her to duties befitting of a Dowager Queen, and one she did not take lightly. It is not cruelty. Necessary. There is no place for soft murmurings of mercy at my council. She will understand in time.
The work is endless. The weight immeasurable, but one I wear with pride. I have longed for this. To show I am not weak, but formidable, with no time for distraction.
The realm needs me now more than ever.
28th day of the 6th moon, 129
Regency suits me well. It is a shame I was not born first.
The first real edict was to close the city gates, to forbid people from leaving and also to avoid our enemies sneaking past our fragile lines. King’s Landing must be fortified, protected from the vipers who would see us undone. Let the smallfolk whisper and grumble, their safety is ensured only because I am willing to make the hard choices.
Trade has slowed, of course, but I care little for the merchants’ squawking. Better that they lose their coin than lose their lives when Rhaenyra’s forces march upon us.
Though the power is intoxicating it is not without its burdens. I see the faces of the council as they defer to me, the uncertainty that flickers behind their eyes. They doubt my youth, my ability to lead, but they dare not say it aloud.
There are moments, fleeting though they are, when I wonder if I have already given too much of myself to this war. But I cannot dwell on such thoughts. The realm does not wait for doubt, and neither shall I.
7th day of the 7th moon, 129
I had nearly forgotten her.
The council chamber was quiet when she appeared, the hour so late that even the most loyal attendants had taken their leave. I sat, pouring over papers and maps, looking up as she stood at the doors draped in translucent fabric, her fragile frame looking almost ghostly.
She had come all the way from her chambers, weak as she is, just to see me.
For a moment, I was struck dumb, caught between guilt and irritation. I had not sought her out in days, too consumed by the weight of my duties.
I asked her, sharper than I intended, what she was doing here and that she should be resting. And she did not flinch, but I could see her eyes flicker downwards.
“I had to see you.”
It was as if she wanted to see if I still existed. And that I was not some otherworldly vision, told only through whispers and rumours. For she had not seen me in near a fortnight. Her voice was so soft that it struck a chord I did not need for it to resonate.
I could not say anything more than the realm expects more of me now. The demands on my shoulders. I cannot spare a moment.
Her voice strained. “I had to see you because otherwise I scarcely know my husband lives and breathes.”
Her words erupted guilt and irritation alike. Buried beneath a thin, black veil I have carefully fabricated.
I could only insist I do all this for her. To keep her safe.
“How is it for me, Aemond? All I see in you is this desire for power. You speak of the realm, of me, but this is just sheer ambition, and you are too blind to see what it is doing to you. And I will not be your excuse for how tightly you cling to what you seek.”
I snapped and said how could she know. She has not ruled and never will. She does not understand the burden I bear.
“Perhaps I don't understand. But I know the man I married, the one I grew to love. And all I see is him slipping away.”
Gods, she sounded so wounded I was not sure whether to resent it or pity it.
The man she grew to love.
I was rendered so shocked I could not say anything. Even when her eyes begged for a response. And she turned to leave, her steps weak and faltering with every second. And I did not help her.
I did not help her.
I cannot shake the look on her face.
I know I should go to her, but I cannot. Her weakness, her frailty, I am afraid it will take me down with it.
And the realm cannot afford more weakness from the crown.
24th day of the 7th moon, 129
Everything is unravelling.
Rhaenyra has thrown everything she has at us, now even her bastards ride dragons. It is a cruel mockery of what we were meant to be. Blood of the dragon, sullied by lowborn filth. And Helaena, sweet and broken, refuses to aid us. Her grief holds her captive, and I cannot rouse her from it. I need her dragon, but she will not hear me.
Today was unbearable.
The council drags their feet and the walls close in. The smallfolk riot in the streets from hunger, one Rhaenyra herself has caused but that they seem to forget.
I came back to my chambers after the council adjourned, weary and enraged. And there, on my desk, I found them. Snapdragons. Flowers of bold pinks and oranges, fierce and alive, their edges tinged with red like the tips of dragonfire.
She has been here.
There was no note. No explanation. The flowers spoke what she did not.
It is a reminder of who I am, or rather the man I should be. The man she loves, not the beast I fear I am becoming.
I stood there for what felt like an age, staring at the blooms as if they might speak to me. In that moment, I made my decision. I must go to Harrenhal soon, to face Daemon, but I will not leave without seeing her first. Without making amends.
When I went to her chambers, there were no maesters, but her fever was heightened, and so she slept with sheer clothing and no bedsheets. She looked like a nymph, laid there, her breasts visible through the fabric and flowers at each bedside.
Like she didn't belong in the confines of the Keep. She belonged out there, amongst the trees and rivers, to exist in breath and wind.
She looked up, rose from her gentle slumber, and looked at me. Her eyes soft and searching.
I kissed her and she did not pull away. She let me touch her, hold her, gasped as I slid her nightgown up her hips and nipped at her thighs to taste the sweet nectar that poured from her.
She was warm and heady, an intoxicating mix of salt and sweetness, like honey warmed by the sun. I drank from her as if parched, savoring the way she trembled beneath me, the way her body seemed to bloom under my touch.
Her breath hitched as I lavished her with my tongue, her fingers desperate as her nailed pulled pleasantly at my hair. Each sound she made was a victory, each shiver a testament to the power she held over me. For all my strength, all my fury, I was undone by her, reduced to this, worshiping at the altar of her body.
Even as she cried out I could not stop. And when it became too much, I rose, her flavour still clinging to my lips. And we coupled slowly, tenderly, for hours. Devouring her as if by doing so, I could take some of her kindness, and bathe me clean of the darkness that lingers within.
She is no fool.
“My love. Do not make love to me as if I will never see you again.”
I could not answer her. She knows I must go. To Harrenhal. Now on my own, if nobody else will assist me.
I felt her fingers on my cheek.
“If you cannot promise me that. Promise me this. Write to me. Wherever you are. Whatever you do.”
I could not find it in my heart to deny her such a simple thing. I will send her my words, if I cannot send my body, soul and love.
I realised right there, her small body spent in my arms how many weeks, months even, I had spent unappreciative of the flutter she always gave me. The unending kindness she would offer. The truth, even when I didn't want it.
I had forgotten to treat her with tenderness.
1st day of the 9th moon, 129
Harrenhal is mine.
The stronghold of the Strongs fell with little resistance. The castle itself, vast and cold, looms like a beast over the land, its ruins whispering of past glories and darker tragedies. House Strong is no more. I have seen to that myself.
Save for one.
Alys Rivers remains. She claimed she had visions of my coming, of my victory, and of greater things yet to unfold. She spoke in riddles, her eyes fixed on me as though she could see into my soul.
Her words, her presence, are tempting in their way. Alys Rivers is a beautiful woman, older than I expected, with a certain allure born of her confidence and mystery. She has made no secret of her willingness to warm my bed, to offer herself to me in exchange for her life.
But I did not take her. I will not.
I told her plainly that she would live for now because her visions may serve a purpose. Nothing more. Let her think she has some measure of power over me if it keeps her pliant and useful. Yet even as I write this, I know I should send her to the sword, for the danger she represents.
My wife would see it how it is. Desperation.
I have not written to her yet. Not my wife. Not the only soul who would calm the storm within me.
I will tomorrow.
For tonight, the shadows of Harrenhal linger too heavily, and the blood on my hands feels too fresh.
17th day of the 11th moon, 129
Now I know why Daemon left this wretched place behind.
Harrenhal is not a castle, it is a carcass. Its halls are hollow, its walls crumbling, and its very air feels like a curse pressing down on my chest. The fires that claimed this ruin have never truly died. They linger in the stones, in the bones of the dead, whispering their stories to anyone who dares to listen.
And I am here now, breathing it in. I thought it would feel like a triumph, taking Harrenhal, but it is not.
I have not slept well since my arrival. And when I do, the dreams come. Muddled and confusing. Vivid and cruel things that weave consciousness into sleep.
Last night, I dreamt of her.
She was in her chambers in bed, sickly, her skin pale and translucent. The maesters swarm her like vultures for flesh, muttering useless words and hovering instead of healing. Her eyes found me, tired and hooded, and it was not a look of blame or fear, but something that still reminded me I am not the man she needed me to be.
In her eyes I saw my regrets. Every harsh word I spoke. Every moment I turned away. Every time I let ambition and anger drown out what little light we had kindled between us.
I tried to reach for her in the dream, but the distance was too great. I called her name, but she did not answer. And when I woke, my throat was raw, as if I had truly been shouting in my sleep.
In another dream, I was between her milky thighs, lapping at her sweet cunt like I had been starved of it for years. She moaned so sweetly as she always did. And when she clawed at my scalp to pull me closer to her it felt different. She was stronger. Less tender.
And when I looked up, her nectar glazing my face, I felt my heart grow cold and hollow. Her skin was pale, yes, but her hair darkened into something akin to raven feathers, her eyes sunk back slightly, cheekbones sharpened. And the soft, lightly colour there morphed into stark emeralds, lips red and quirked upwards.
Perhaps Harrenhal is cursed. Perhaps it draws out the darkest thoughts, the deepest fears, and forces them to the surface. Or perhaps it is only me. Perhaps I am cursed.
I must write to her. She is my tether, the only thing that keeps me from being swallowed whole by the darkness here. Tomorrow, I will write. Tonight, I will try to sleep and hope the dreams do not return.
Dearest Wife,
I write to you from the cold halls of Harrenhal, a place that holds no warmth, no life. Not like your chambers do. The days here stretch long, the nights longer still. It is a place of ash and shadow, where even the air feels heavy. And yet, amidst the ruin, I found something unexpected, a winter rose, growing stubbornly in the cracks of stone.
I have enclosed it with this letter. It is small, fragile, but it persists. A reminder, perhaps, that beauty can be found even in the bleakest places. I thought of you when I saw it. Handle it gently, as you always do.
How do you fare, my love? I pray the maesters have been attentive, and that the chill has not worsened your condition. I think of you often, though I fear my words fail to capture how much. I see you in every quiet moment, in every breath of wind. You linger in my thoughts as if you are a part of me, inseparable and eternal.
I do not wish to burden you with the trials of this place, nor the weight of my duties. But know that I am well, and I will return to you as soon as I am able. Until then, take care of yourself, for I cannot bear the thought of you suffering in my absence.
Yours Always,
Aemond
4th day of the 2nd moon, 130
Alys spoke of visions today.
She said she could see two dragons coming together, sharing the same fate above the great God's Eye. Then my wife, she saw our reunion, my wife's hair lit as if from the sun of the Seven Heavens. She sounded so certain, as if recounting events that had already transpired. She was so confident, I almost believed her.
Almost.
She sees so much, so she claims. Watching the flames dance along her eyes is, in itself, invigorating to watch. Her gentle mutterings are welcome sometimes in the quiet, hollow hallways of Harrenhal. They linger, pulling on the threads of my mind as if I am to her whim.
She moves through this great castle as if she has been a ghost here for generations. Her gaze does not cower before me as many others do, but she stands close. Perhaps sometimes, too close. And I think myself weak for not dismissing her.
She is a woman who knows the route to survival, and I cannot fault her for that.
They are brief, fleeting. The times where I wonder if she offers herself for something more than just survival. When she hands me a raven, her touch lingers longer than it should.
I do not know what Alys Rivers wants from me, nor do I care to ask.
I have not written to my wife of her. How could I? How do I explain this shadow in my midst, this woman who speaks of futures I do not wish to see? I tell myself it is unnecessary, that Alys is nothing more than a tool, a means to an end.
And yet, I wonder if I am lying to myself.
Daemon is coming. That much I believe. Whether Alys’s visions are truth or falsehood, the outcome remains the same. We are on a path that cannot be turned aside.
When the time comes, I will be ready.
My Dearest Husband,
Your letter reached me today, and I must confess, I wept to see the winter rose you sent. Such a small and delicate thing, so rare. I pressed it into my own book, so it may keep company with my other treasures. Thank you, my love.
I have pressed a snapdragon into these pages also. Last spring, you commented that the colour of their petals reminded you of a dragon mid-roar, and I wished to remind you of simpler times, before the world felt so uncertain.
I have soaked these papers in the oils I apply to my hair and skin. Perhaps a silly indulgence to some, but I thought perhaps it might bring you some comfort, a memory of home in the coldness of that dreadful castle.
The maesters say the chill has caught my chest, though it has for many here. You must not worry, I assure you it is nothing more than the season’s cruel bite. I have taken my draughts and kept warm as you would wish me to, though the days feel colder without you here to hold me.
I hope this letter finds you well. Write to me when you can, even if it is but a few lines. Your words are a light in these dark times, and I cling to them more than I dare admit.
I hope you campaigns in the Riverlands fare well. Remember you are my husband first, not a shadow of war or duty. Please do not forget or lose grip on the man I fell in love with.
Yours Forever,
Your Loving Wife
- - - - 130
The quill trembles in my hand as I write. Ink smears before I can make sense of my thoughts. This entry will be illegible by morning, I am certain. It makes no sense— how could it? Dreams are madness.
Alys.
Alys.
Her belly was swollen, a grotesque curve rounded with child, one of my blood. Not hers. Not hers! I could not look at her without feeling bile in my throat, the heat of shame.
And then my wife.
My wife!
She was there, crumpling to the ground, her grief splitting the air like a storm. Her screams. Gods, her screams. I have never heard her voice raised in such a way, never seen her face contorted with such anguish.
I wanted to go to her, to explain, but I could not move. My feet were rooted, and the air was thick, choking me. She looked at me, her eyes wide with betrayal, and I felt myself drowning in them. No. Not in them.
In water.
My lungs burned. My limbs thrashed. The surface was a distant shimmer, unreachable. I could hear her still, even beneath the water, her screams warped and muffled, but no less devastating.
I woke gasping, clawing at the air as if I could still feel the water pulling me under.
What does it mean? What does it mean?
Harrenhal speaks as if it has a clawing, fearsome mouth.
Kinslayer. Usurper. Liar. Monster.
I am all and none. All and none.
The water, surely it does not drown me, it must cleanse me.
But it cannot. Nothing can. Nothing will.
My Dearest Aemond,
I write to you from my bed, as I have found myself unable to rise for much of late. The maesters are vigilant, though they assure me there is no cause for alarm and that I should not tire myself by writing. They say it is only the season and my own weakness conspiring against me. I do not tell them how I feel the cold seep deeper with each passing day, but I tell you, my husband, because I know you will not dismiss my words so lightly.
News of the battle at the Lakeshore has reached even here. The servants whisper of it, though I hear only fragments. There seems to be a changing of guards here at the Keep, but I do not leave my chambers, so I cannot see why. Are you well? Please tell me you are. It has been too long since I last heard from you, and I cannot help but worry. You are so far away, in such a dangerous place, and the weight of it lies heavy upon my chest.
I would not ask this of you if I thought it selfish, but please, write to me. Even a single line would be enough to still my restless heart.
Take care of yourself, my love. Remember that you are not alone in this, no matter how distant we may seem. You are mine, as I am yours, and nothing, not war, not duty, not even death, can change that.
All My Love,
Your Wife
My Loving Husband,
Why have you not written? Why do you leave me in this silence? The days are long without word from you, and the nights are even longer. I wait, and I wonder, and I worry. Is it so hard to take up your quill? Is it so hard to tell me that you are well?
Please, my love, do not let this silence stretch any longer. Tell me you are safe. Tell me you are whole. Tell me anything, for I am desperate for the sound of your voice, even if it must come to me through ink and paper.
Do you think of me, Aemond? Do you think of the nights we spent in each other’s arms? Do you think of the flowers I left for you, the words I whispered when the world felt less cruel? I hope you do. I hope you remember.
I have tried to be strong, for you, for us, but I am alas not as much as you. Please, my love, do not leave me to this silence any longer. Write to me. Ease my heart. I apologise for my heavy emotions, the ink smudges because of my shaky hands, and they are not as steady as they once were. Do not think poorly of me for it.
I fear I am beginning to lose my sense of time. Did I already tell you the maesters say I will recover? Forgive me if I repeat myself. My thoughts seem to wander, but they always find their way back to you.
I love you, Aemond. It hurts more than breathing. Please let me hear from you.
Yours, always and forever.
Your Loyal Wife
My Beloved Wife,
I read every stroke of your ink like a blade to my chest, not because they wound me so, but because I imagine your voice. Reminding me what I have left behind.
Do you know, my love, how much I miss you? How much I miss the feel of your hands on me, grounding me when the storms inside threaten to consume me?
Do not lose hope, for I cling to it still. If you cannot feel my arms around you, know that my soul reaches for you, across all the miles that separate us. Hold fast, my love, until I can come back to you.
Do not think poorly of your emotions, nor of your trembling hands. They have always been steady enough to hold me, to steady my own restless soul.
I do not deserve you, my delicate flower. But I am yours, wholly and utterly. I will write to you again soon, I swear it. I will not leave you in silence again.
Please, take heart, as I try to do. Remember that I love you, more than I have ever been able to say.
Yours, now and always,
Aemond
My Dearest, dearest Aemond,
Do you remember our first days as husband and wife? How cold you seemed, how distant? I used to think you disliked me, perhaps even resented me for my frailty. I was so small and scared then, unsure of my place in your life, in your heart.
But I see now what I could not see then. You are a man of storms, my love, and I was too weak to weather them. Yet, even storms have their moments of calm, and it was in those moments I found the man I have come to love more than life itself.
I do not know if this letter reaches you, nor if I have the strength to write another. But I need you to know, that I am wholly, and truly, yours. Now and always.
Please, remember me kindly.
Forever,
Your Loving Wife
My love,
It has been too long since I last wrote to you. For that I am sorry. I did not mean to worry you.
Truthfully I have left Harrenhal behind, trawling the Riverlands to those loyal to my sister still, even now. I head towards a confrontation I cannot avoid. Daemon wants his fight, and as much as I would like to be by your side, this challenge cannot be ignored. He is a fool if he thinks he can stand against me, but I must prove it nonetheless.
Once that is done, I swear to you, I will return to your side. This madness, this war, it has taken too much from us both. I long for the peace of your presence, the quiet of our chambers, where only you and I exist in our own world.
I do not know what awaits me when I return. I do not know what has become of you, though I hope you are well. Please know that, despite the distance and the bloodshed, you are always in my heart.
I will write again as soon as I can. Stay strong, my love. Wait for me.
I am yours,
Aemond
My love,
I await your reply like a lovesick child.
I fear the worst with each passing day, each hour that I do not hear your voice. Have I lost you? Is the cold consuming you, or have you fallen into silence for some other reason I cannot fathom? Please, I beg of you, send me word. Let me know that you are still waiting for me.
I have prepared myself to face Daemon, though I care little for the confrontation. His challenge has become a matter of necessity, but I cannot shake the thought of you, fragile and alone, while I am here, so far away. I would rather be by your side, taking care of you, than facing that traitor. But I have no choice now.
I am desperate, my love. A few lines in your gentle hand would give me the strength of a thousand men. Without you, what am I but a man trawling this desolate, darkened land, lost forever without your light to guide my way.
Please do write. My cherished flower.
Aemond
My darling wife,
I woke to a raven today. The words written within it seemed impossible, a cruelty that no man should have to face. It tells me of your passing, of your death.
But I refuse to believe it. I cannot.
You are not gone. I would have felt you, felt your soul leave this realm. I would have felt the Stranger take you from me, and yet, there is only the emptiness. The cold distance that stretches between us, yes, but not your absence. Not truly.
Were such a thing to happen, my love, I would have felt a pain so deep in my chest, I would have cried out. I would have howled until my throat bled. You are too vital to me for your death to be a mere whisper in the wind. No, this cannot be real.
Do not let the maesters fill my mind with their lies. Do not weaken the fragile hope I cling to, the only thread keeping me tethered to this world. Please, I beg of you, let me hold onto the belief that you are still waiting for me. That when I return, I will find you where you belong, by my side.
I will nourish you, body and soul, as I should have from the very beginning. For I do not believe that the distance, the war, the bloodshed, it has not been enough to sever the bond we share. When I come to you, I will fix what I have broken in myself, and I will fix what has withered between us.
This war has broken me, my love. I have witnessed too much, done too much, and it has hollowed me out in ways I cannot even express. But you, you always knew how to heal. Your touch, gentle, sure could mend what no one else could. And so, I beg you, when I return, lay your hands upon me.
Fix me.
Make me whole again. It has been so long since I have felt so. Without your touch, your voice.
I will come for you.
Forever Yours,
Aemond
21st day of the 5th moon, 130
The winds howl so loudly now.
They sing on the eve of what may be my last. Daemon is here and he waits for me. One of us must fall, though I have reassured my wife that it shall not be me.
I write this now because I do not know if I will have another chance. If the Stranger comes for me, I will not meet him with words left unsaid.
To my mother. You were the first to see me, even before I knew myself. When I was a boy without a dragon, I ran to you, tears staining my face, and you held me as though that could mend what I lacked. The day I lost my eye, the boy you nurtured was forced to become a man. A bitter man. Perhaps I lost more than my eye that day. Perhaps I lost the better parts of myself. If I am to die tomorrow, know that I never blamed you for showing your love to me the way you did, and though I may not have shown it, I am grateful.
My sister. Sweet sister, I am sorry. Sorry for your grief, sorry for your pain, sorry for all the ways I could not protect you from this cruel world. You deserved peace, and all you have been given is sorrow. I hope that, in another life, I might have been a better brother to you. I hope you will forgive me for failing you.
Aegon. Brother, I have resented you for much of my life. Perhaps it was jealousy, perhaps it was anger, perhaps it was something I will never fully understand. But you are my brother, my blood, and for all our differences, I have never wished you harm. Not truly. If I do not return, lead this realm as you see fit, but know that power is a fleeting thing. Do not let it consume you as it has consumed me.
To my wife, my delicate flower, if you ever read this: forgive me. Forgive the times I was cold, the times I let my anger and pride obscure my love for you. Forgive my silence, my absences, my failures to be the husband you deserved.
I see you even now, though miles lie between us. I see your smile, rare but radiant. I hear your voice, soft but sure. I feel your touch, delicate but anchoring. You made me feel whole, even when I thought I was nothing but a shattered thing.
Daemon may take my life tomorrow, but he cannot take what I carry with me, the memory of you, the warmth of you, the love you gave me even when I did not deserve it. That is mine, and mine alone.
If the Stranger does not take me, I will come back to you. I will hold you, care for you, and let the world crumble as long as I have you. But if I do not return, know this.
I loved you.
With all that I am, with all that I ever was, I loved you.
The winds howl louder now. Perhaps it is time I let them carry me. And if it is to be so, take me to her.
Summary: Aemond’s life was incredibly dim after the war, a bottomless carven he’d sunk himself into with his own actions, until one by one, little flames came into his life.
Pairing: king!aemond targaryen x wife!reader (AU)
Fic warnings: nothing, just FLUFF, there’s mentions of past angst and trauma, but... GIRL DAD AEMOND!!!
Word count: 8.2k
authors note: happy fathers day to girl dad aemond <3
masterlist
If someone had told Aemond during the war that he’d even live to see past that fateful day at the Gods Eye, he would snarl and tell them that he’d rather die gloriously than whatever else fate had in store for him. But as the war ended, and the ashes from his discretions dimmed, he was left with a hole in his life so vast that he wasn’t sure that he’d be able to fill it.
But the war had eventually ended.
The fires died down, the roar of familiar dragons faded into bitter memory, and the ashes of his many discretions settled into quiet ruin, not forgotten by anyone but not brought up. What remained for him was not peace, but a yawning emptiness that he could almost feel cramping at his own jaw. An empty abyss so vast that he doubted it could ever be filled. War had changed Aemond, irreversibly, and in ways he hadn’t expected.
The whispers of a woodswitch had twisted his mind, and now he bore the scars of unnatural influence on his mind, and was traumatised by the things he’d seen within the damp walls of that cursed land. He had watched those who wronged him meet their end — some by his own hand, others by the hands of chaos during — but he had also lost more than any amount of revenge could ever restore.
His family, his blood, his brothers and sister were gone, burned out as swiftly as it had been forged. And what remained was hardly anything to sing about; his mother was now so entangled in her own delusions that speaking to her felt like reaching through smoke.
His reign as Prince Regent had never been meant to last. Although he begged, he knew it was a borrowed title, a duty taken up in the name of his fallen kin, something of his own doing to some degree. But when the last of his brother's children succumbed to the cruel winter fever that swept through the city, everything changed.
The Targaryen line of succession thinned from a rope to a thread, and suddenly, the burden of kingship shifted squarely onto his shoulders permanently. While Aemond has prepped himself for being King all his life, his short time leading during the war, and the task he was to take on after were two completely different monsters to fight.
The war had been a monster he understood: it roared, and he roared back, ready to fight; it was two sides: Green and Black, family and hate. But peace? Peace was a stranger in fine robes to him, a subtle, insidious thing that demanded he be whole when all he felt was broken and alone.
Aemond sat the throne not as a conqueror, not like his ancestors, but as a ghost wearing a crown, feeling as dead as the people who created it.
Aemond truly had little to enjoy in life; getting everything that he wanted and longed for was a double-edged sword that left him wounded more than losing his eye ever had. He had to navigate his grief along with taking on a new task, a realm, something his small council had wasted no time in reminding him about.
“You cannot rule alone, Your Grace.” He could still remember the pain behind his eye as he heard from one of his small council members during one of his first permanent meetings as King, “The Realm needs unity, and you need a wife.”
That much, he could not deny. He needed a queen, whether he wanted one or not.
But where others might have seen an opportunity for alliance, for legacy, for strength, Aemond saw only chains.
His cousins Rhaena and Baela were the obvious suggestions from everyone, names whispered in the corridors of the Keep like half-formed prayers that he could salvage the Targaryen line that way. But he dismissed the thought outright. No number of empty words or desperate pleas could convince him, or them, to pretend they could mend what had been broken, that he hadn’t killed their father.
The blood spilt between them was too deep, too fresh, and even if it hadn’t been, he would never entertain such a farce. He would rather have perished that day at the Gods Eye than bind himself to a woman he deemed a pretender.
That decision, however, left few other paths.
The great houses of Westeros wanted little to do with the remnants of House Targaryen. The Baratheon’s, once staunch supporters of his cause, had turned their backs in bitter silence, scorning the memory of oaths made before the war. The Lannister’s were quiet, too busy rebuilding their own strength to entangle themselves in dragonfire politics. The Riverlands still wept for their fallen. And the Reach had closed its gates.
As for the witch, the strange, beguiling witch, she was long gone. Dead and buried beneath marshlands and silence, leaving behind nothing but half-remembered whispers and a ghost of betrayal that stung a little more than others.
There was no one left to marry.
No one suitable. No one willing. No one alive.
He often stared at the list the council had delivered — daughters of lesser lords who still had weight to their name, some barely past their maiden years, others hardened by politics and ambition. But they were all names with no meaning, no faces to haunt his thoughts. It felt like choosing a sword from a room full of dull blades - serviceable, but uninspired.
Still, he knew he would have to choose eventually.
The realm would not wait forever; winter was creeping further south, and with it, uncertainty. If the Targaryen line was to endure, it would need more than one scarred prince with a dragon and a crown. It would need heirs. It would need strength.
And he… he would need to become something more than the broken man left behind by war.
For a while, all hope had truly been lost that Aemond would find someone to sit beside him for the rest of his life, that was, until he met you.
You arrived at court in the quiet aftermath of war, the daughter of a minor Reach house — one that had bent the knee late, but wisely, avoiding the full wrath of dragons. Your family name was known only in passing, and your presence at the Red Keep was unremarkable by court standards: part diplomacy, part observance, part subtle reminder of House Targaryen’s waning influence over the once-loyal South.
And yet, to him? You were unforgettable.
You did not shimmer like the daughters of the Great Houses, nor did you have a presence that filled rooms with pointed laughter or political ambition. You moved like a whisper through the Red Keep; gentle, observant, seemingly delicate. But Aemond, trained to read silence as keenly as sound, sensed something else beneath that soft exterior. You were not weak, just quiet. Tempered, and in that calm restraint, there was strength.
At first, he ignored you, or tried to.
You were one more face at a banquet, another name offered with a bow too low. But there was a steadiness to you that made him linger. When you spoke, it was never to impress. When you listened, you truly heard everyone around you. And when you met his eye for the first time, you did not flinch.
That unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
He began to notice things. The way your hands folded in your lap with practised grace at the sept on the 7th day. The way you walked alone in the gardens rather than crowding into courtly gossip that the ladies often held during afternoon tea. The way your voice never rose to chase attention, and yet somehow always carried when you did decide to speak. You were not like the others, not moulded for power in the way the council would prefer, but neither were you afraid of it.
There wasn’t steel in you, but bone, something raw and natural, hidden beneath linen and courtesy. And gods help him, Aemond found he preferred it to the glittering blades the lords kept offering him.
He first spoke to you in passing, a cool exchange in the library over some half-forgotten history that Aemond knew by hand, but for you, he’d pretend he just learned. You had corrected him on a minor detail — a date, a name, he couldn’t recall, and he didn’t care — and while his brow had creased in irritation, you had not withdrawn from talking to him. You had looked up at him, unwavering, and said: “Even dragons can be mistaken, my King.”
He should have been offended; usually, people often sought to offend him when correcting him. But instead, for the first time in what felt like years, he’d laughed, just once, just enough to startle himself. Just enough to remind himself that he wasn’t made of dragon glass inside.
He found excuses to see you after that.
A letter asking for a stroll through the Queen’s gardens, a conversation in the sunroom where you sat reading in the warmth. A dinner where seating was rearranged at his subtle command. He never confessed to it, not even to himself, but every encounter seemed to leave behind something he hadn’t felt in years: quiet, peace, possibility, and warmth.
And yet, he knew it could not last — not easily at least.
Aemond knew that while he was king, the council still had expectations. A wife from a lesser house was not the alliance they envisioned for him and his reign, hence why your name was never uttered on any list he was ever given. Even those loyal to him would question it if he was to indulge, you had no great army behind you, no sprawling coffers of gold to offer the fading riches of the crown. You offered no guarantee of peace beyond the boundaries of your small domain.
But what you did offer was something Aemond had never expected to find: someone who did not look at him with fear, worship, or loathing, but with a tender understanding that he hadn’t seen since he was just a boy. Eyes damped with calmness, with a softness that neither threatened him but instead, welcomed him as he was—the scarred, bitter, dangerous man he had become.
That terrified him more than he could say.
He still hadn’t told the council. Not yet. The list of eligible brides remained untouched on his desk, curling at the edges and gathering dust on the ink. He stared at it some mornings, all while he felt the weight of the crown settle like a shackle around his throat.
But then, by some play of his hand, he would see you in his mind, see you wrapped in your soft pink shawl as you walked the paths of the godswood, your breath misting in the cold morning air, your eyes soft and watchful as you mumbled to yourself in the heart of the Keep. Walking towards something, walking towards him.
And for a moment, he allowed himself to wonder, not about duty or strategy, but about what it might feel like to choose something not out of obligation, but desire, to have you walk towards him and never stray.
He didn’t want a political bride; he didn’t want an allegiance; his days of mindless duty were gone.
He wanted you.
But Aemond was not a man who made decisions lightly, even at the notion of wanting you left him at war with himself for weeks. His mind trapped in a web of what-ifs and imagined consequences if he proceeded.
Every quiet moment was filled with them.
What if the realm turned against his family once more? What if his choice fractured already tenuous alliances? What if he proved, in the end, no better than the fools who had once ruled with their hearts instead of their minds?
And yet, the louder those doubts became, the more persistent his thoughts of you grew. Through your time together, you had taken no action to sway him, offered no subtle seduction or plea for affection from him, or even shown a desire to be Queen. You had merely remained, as you were, calm, honest, composed, while he stewed in his turmoil. He admired that.
Gods help him, he needed that.
The war had left him surrounded by ghosts and obligations. His own mother wandered the halls, half lost in her own memories and mumblings, more in common with his late sister than he ever thought. His council muttered constantly about names and lineages, numbers and heirs. Every path he was offered felt like a negotiation with fate — a stupid compromise wrapped in silk and laced with poison.
Except you.
You were the only path that didn’t feel like a betrayal of himself.
He wore himself down with the weight of it.
He never was one for sleeping well but it got worse. He grew short with his council, his temper fraying. He stopped attending the hunt for a bride altogether, letting names pile up like snowdrifts in the throne room. And when he finally made his decision, he did not announce it with any bite or snarl like he would have a year ago. He simply rose from his chair in the council chamber one bitter cold evening, the candlelight catching on the silver of his hair, and said, flatly:
“I will not marry for the crown, I will marry for the future, and I have chosen my queen.”
The chamber had gone silent as soon as the words had passed his lips.
There were objections, of course. Predictable ones. His master of coin was the first to speak — pale with shocked fury, citing precedent and strength and alliances to fill the pockets of the crown. Others followed, half in shock, half in fear of what it meant that Aemond Targaryen — scarred, cold-eyed, terrifying Aemond—had done something unexpected.
But it didn’t matter.
He had made his decision, and for once, it was not for war, not for vengeance, not even for power. It was for something simpler, something that had somehow become more terrifying than all three.
It was for you, the woman who accepted him and his hasty proposal that same night.
The wedding ceremony was small by Targaryen standards, the crown too depleted for anything extravagant, but neither of you wanted that. It was modest, almost private, exactly what the two of you were. There had been an intimate ceremony with just the two of you on Dragonstone as well, a small Valyrian ceremony that Aemond had wished to honour himself and his family.
But as soon as it was announced there would even be a wedding, whispers flitted through the court like restless birds. Some called it a disgrace, others a political blunder. But none dared say it to his face. And as you stood beside him in the Great Hall that day, draped in the soft colours of your house, your hand small but steady in his, Aemond felt the world fall quiet for the first time in years.
No gold-braided noblewoman could have steadied him like you did. No courtly-trained bride could have met his gaze the way you did, unflinching, calm, knowing. You had not been born to be queen—but somehow, you became one the moment you chose him in return.
And at that moment, with your fingers intertwined in his, and you shared your first kiss, Aemond finally understood. The realm could hate him, the council could doubt him, the histories could question him.
But for once, he had chosen something not for House Targaryen, not for the throne, not even for the realm.
He had chosen peace.
And he had found it.
In you.
Marriage did not make Aemond easier to love.
He was not cruel — not in the way many feared he would be — but he was still distant. Guarded. Silent in ways that words could not mend. He had spent so long surviving by himself—gripping tightly to his rage, grief, and discipline — that the new peace felt unnatural. Softness felt dangerous. Love… even more so.
He knew bedding you was never going to be an issue; the two of you clicked in ways he wasn’t sure were possible with someone, but loving you was a beast he did not know how to tame.
Aemond still carried the war inside him like it was bound to his soul, and even now it clung to him in the darkest hours of the night. It lingered in the shadow under his eye, in the way he sometimes flinched from your kindness as if it were a trap. And though the crown was now firmly upon his head, the halls of the Red Keep no longer echoed with the cries of grief.
He still remained ever vigilant — watchful, restrained, cold.
You had not walked into the union with rose-tinted hope. You had seen him before the vows were ever exchanged, truly seen him. The way he moved, like he bore chains only he could feel. The way his eye, so sharp and calculating in court, would sometimes lose focus—drawn back into memory or regret. You had not been chosen to heal him. You had not expected to.
But even so… you hoped.
The early months of marriage were difficult.
You learned the limits of his affection by accident — what could be touched, what should be left alone, what you shouldn’t ask about. He rarely offered compliments, and he never asked for comfort. And in truth, he seemed unsure of what to do with your presence at all.
Some days, he left before sunrise and returned after dusk without a word. Others, he sat beside you in silence during meals, eating little, his thoughts miles away as you mindlessly tried to fill that silence. You tried not to take his attitude to heart; you told yourself it was not you, but the war, the ghosts, the boy he had been and the man that had been shaped in his place.
Still, there were cracks in the armour.
He would watch you when he thought you weren’t looking. It was subtle glances over books, across the courtyard when he was walking, from the balcony as you walked in the garden. And sometimes at night, when sleep came extra uneasily, he would rest his hand just close enough to brush yours between the sheets, not holding it, not quite that.
Simply close.
And then, there were the words. Sparse, but honest. When he spoke to you, it was never idle. No flattery, no pretty courtly lies. But when he told you something, he meant it. A memory of his brothers, a thought he had while flying, a single low-voiced admission after one of his many sleepless nights: “I do not know how to be what you deserve. But I will try.”
That was the first time he looked at you not as his wife, but as something more. Someone real. Someone he could not pretend to keep at a distance forever.
And then came the change.
It was not sudden, not the sort of shift that others noticed straight away, but you did. The way he lingered longer at your side. The way his hand found yours without hesitation, the way he began to listen when you spoke of your family, your home in the Reach, your childhood. He asked questions, not out of obligation, but out of honest interest, as though he was trying, in his own quiet way, to build something with you.
Then one morning, not long after the first thaw of spring, you told him you were expecting.
For a long time, he said nothing. Just stared at you with something unreadable in his lone violet eye. You wondered if you’d done something wrong — if the news had stirred the wrong ghosts, if he truly regretted you in that moment. But then he stepped forward, hands unsure as they hovered just above your waist.
“Truly?” he asked, voice uncharacteristically hoarse.
You could only nod, and something in him broke.
Not in grief, but in wonder.
He sank to his knees before you — Aemond, Prince Regent, second son of Viserys the Peaceful, kinslayer, oathbreaker, dragonrider — and rested his forehead against the swell of your stomach that barely existed yet.
For the first time in your marriage, he wept. Not like a king. Not like a warrior. But like a man who had never believed he would feel anything again but cold.
After that, things began to change — not all at once, and not without effort. He still had sharpness in him, still vanished at times into thought or memory. But he returned to you quicker now. He sought you out without excuse, he placed a hand to your belly every night before sleep, and when he dreamed, he dreamed aloud to you—of flying, not for war, but for the sake of showing his child the sky.
He began to show up, not just as a ruler or a husband, but as a man trying to build a life.
He spoke to you more freely, asked after your health, dotted on you in ways you didn’t think you needed, and read over the old Valyrian texts on childbirth and naming customs to better understand as your belly swelled. He took to escorting you through the Keep himself, one hand hovering protectively at your back, untrusting of the new guards. When you sat, he sat beside you. When you stood, he offered his arm to take the weight off. And when you smiled — when you truly smiled with teeth — he watched as if trying to memorise it.
At night, he would lie with his hand spread over your belly, his eye half-lidded with thought, whispering things he couldn’t say in daylight to anyone else but you.
“They will know your strength,” he murmured once. “Not just my blood, but yours too.”
He began to speak to the babe as if it could hear him — sometimes in High Valyrian, sometimes just in soft, uncertain words. He told stories he thought they’d like, and he made promises. And when the council dared ask again about heirs and alliances, he answered with a calm finality that allowed no argument: “My queen carries the future, that is enough.”
Even the court — always gossiping, always watching — grew quieter in regard to the two of you. There was something different about him now. Aemond still walked like a sword unsheathed, but there was purpose behind it. Peace in the tension. He smiled more in the privacy of your quarters—not often, not wide, but real. And when he looked at you, it was with something unmistakable.
Not possession.
But sheer devotion.
And so, the man who had once been war incarnate now sat with a hand on your swelling belly, speaking softly of futures he had once believed would never come. And you—who had never expected to hold a broken dragon’s heart — held it nonetheless, steady and true.
For the first time in his long, blood-ridden history; Aemond’s life was no longer rooted only in violence, but was now founded in the beginings of love, in life. His rage soothed in the quiet strength of a woman who had refused to flinch from him.
The day your daughter came into the world, the Red Keep was cloaked in storm clouds and the threat of rain. The wind howled over the walls, and thunder rumbled over Blackwater Bay drawing closer; echoing off the water and straight to the Keep like the gods were angry at something unseen.
You had been in labour since the early hours, having woken up that same morning with a gush of wetness down your leg and a cramping that had you yelling for your husband instantly.
At first, customarily, Aemond had remained outside the birthing room. Left to pace the corridor like a barely contained dragon. But as the day dragged on, every scream that escaped the chamber sent a jolt through him — each one more violent than a sword to the gut.
He stood motionless at times, staring down the corridor with his jaw clenched so tightly that blood rose in his mouth and teeth threatened to crack. The servants and maesters who would update him gave him a wide berth, and no one dared speak to him beyond that. Not even his mother, who watched him from a shadowed alcove, whispering prayers to the Mother and nonsense he couldn’t even listen to properly.
He tried to reason with himself that this is nature, this is what women were expected to endure. That his wife was strong, stronger than anyone he’d ever known.
“She will be fine, they said she would be fine.” He could hear rattling around his head.
But reason meant nothing when it was you crying out in pain behind that door.
And when the fourth hour passed — and then the fifth — and when he heard your voice break on a scream that sounded like it had been torn from your very soul, Aemond finally snapped.
Without a word or a care, he shoved open the heavy wooden doors that locked him from you and stepped into the room.
The midwives gasped instantly, panicked about what to do as one of the maesters stumbled backwards. The heat of the room hit him like a wave — thick and metallic with blood, with sweat, with the scent of pain and your tears.
You lay on the birthing bed, hair damp and curling, cheeks flushed and streaked with tears, your body bent in the throes of another contraction as your hands grasped at the bedding. You didn’t see him at first; you were too far gone in the storm of labour to see him or hear his entrance.
He had never seen you like this, never seen anyone like this.
You looked like a goddess at war.
“Your Grace, you must wait outside,” one of the Maesters protested.
But Aemond didn’t hear him. He had gone utterly still by the door, frozen as he took you in.
You turned your head then — eyes meeting his — and in your gaze was something he’d never known how to name. Pain, yes, but also defiance. Love. Trust. Help.
“My love,” you rasped. Just one word, one breath. That was all he needed to know you needed him by your side, to stay.
And he did.
He crossed the room slowly as if the floor itself might collapse beneath his boots and knelt at your side. He was careful in taking your hand, unfurling it from the soaked cotton bedding, as it trembled with exertion. You gripped his fingers so tightly it hurt, but he didn’t flinch.
His pain, he could take. Yours, he could not.
“I’m here,” he said gently, voice cracking as he spoke only to you. “I’m here, my flame, I’m here...”
The next hour blurred into one, as you screamed, as you pushed, as you wept.
And Aemond — Aemond shook beside you like a boy who was trying to keep it together. He wiped the sweat from your brow with a trembling hand, and he cursed the gods under his breath with each push. He pressed his forehead to your temple and whispered in High Valyrian a promise that no harm would come to you or the child.
And when, at last, the child emerged into the world—small and wailing, pink and perfect—Aemond was the first to move.
The maester, pale with exhaustion, offered a nod as he looked over the child. “A daughter, Your Grace.”
He watched, stunned, as the midwife cut the cord and wrapped the bloodied child in linens. His legs were unsteady as a doe beneath him as he reached out for her.
She had barely opened her eyes, but he could see that they were as violet as starlight, and she cried.
Aemond Targaryen had never known such feelings.
He turned to you — your face radiant with exhaustion as the maid attended and cleaned you up, your smile fragile but victorious—and said the only thing he could.
“She’s perfect.”
You let out a weak laugh. “She’s ours.”
He stepped toward you then, laying the child against your chest, his hand still cradling her tiny back as she nuzzled your bare skin; her mother and her kin. Tiny fists scratching against your skin as she finally settled down at your touch.
“Her name is Vaella,” You whispered, looking down at her, and he nodded once, reverently, with no argument to the name.
“Vaella,” he echoed, like a vow.
And as he knelt beside the bed, one arm wrapped around you, the other holding your daughter to your heart, the storm outside finally started. Rain lashed the windows, and the wind howled across the stones.
But within the chamber, all was quiet.
Aemond had faced every horror the world had to offer, but nothing had brought him to his knees before quite like watching you bring life into it.
And from that moment forward, he was no longer just a kinslayer, or even a king.
He was a husband.
He was a father.
He was hers.
By the time Vaella reached nine months, she had mastered the art of wrapping Aemond Targaryen around her tiny, chubby fingers.
She was crawling now — fast, determined, always after something, or trying to look for someone.
Usually waiting for her father. It was to the point that if she so much as heard the distant sound of his boots in the corridor, her little hands would slap against the stone floor as she scrambled toward the door. Little body crawling at pace; shuffling and bubbling out excited noises that only grew louder when her father finally appeared in the doorway.
And even after a long day of meetings and holding court, he still had the energy to share his daughter's excitement with a smile that he'd never share anywhere else.
Aemond was as soft as melted butter in the sun when it came to her.
He never let her cry or wait for long, not if he could help it. The moment her lip wobbled or her hands reached for him, he was there — scooping her up with a tenderness so at odds with his reputation that even the most hard-hearted of courtiers would be shocked to see him.
But peace in your home, as always, was temporary.
The Riverlands were stirring again.
It wasn’t war, at least, not yet, not if he could help it, but there were disputes between old houses, tension still thick in the air from the burning at Aemond’s hand barely buried. And the lords had requested the presence of the crown itself to remind them who ruled, to build amends with them for everything he had done. Aemond had resisted at first; he had trained stewards and sent emissaries in his place, even some of his small council. But in the end, it had to be him.
He, with his dragon’s shadow again covering the Riverlands.
He, as a symbol of the realm’s new stability, despite terrorising the Riverlands just years previously. He had lamented to you in the dark of the nights, the both of you curled in bed as he whispered that I didn’t feel like he could ever go back, for as fearsome as your husband was, then the crown was off and the court was away, he was just as scared at the young boy he had hoped he had grown out of.
You knew he had to go, and he knew it too, but it didn’t make it any easier.
“She won’t understand,” he murmured to you the night before his departure, holding Vaella tightly against his chest as she babbled sleepily, her fist clutching strands of his hair. “She’ll think I left.”
You reached for him, brushing your hand over his shoulder as you sat beside him on your shared bed, curled affectionately towards him. “She’ll know you’re coming back, my dragon.”
His eye flicked to yours. “Will she? She’s just a babe.”
“She’s your daughter,” you said gently. “And your daughter is brighter than all the men on your council combined; she’ll know you won’t be gone for long.”
That earned you a quiet smile, a tired one, a grateful one.
“She tried to say dada today,” you added softly, your hand smoothing over her little back, feeling the breaths under your palm.
“She did not.” He tutted softly, amused at you.
“She said ‘Dahhh’ and pointed at the sky. I’m counting it.”
He laughed, truly laughed, and the sound loosened something in your chest.
The morning he left, Vaella was still drowsy when he pressed a kiss to her downy hair and another to your lips. She clung to his tunic as if she knew something was different, that something wasn’t right, letting out a soft protest when he tried to pass her back to you, her tiny legs kicking instantly, anxiously.
“I’ll return before the next moon, but hopefully sooner,” he promised, resting his forehead gently against yours. “And I’ll bring her something—perhaps a river pearl, or a little sword she can’t use yet.”
“She’ll want your boots and your rings and nothing else,” you said, smiling despite the ache in your heart, bouncing the babe who looked confused as to why her father was so sad.
“I’ll give her all of it.” He murmured softly, promising.
And then he was gone — Aemond, King, Protector of the Realm, husband, father — swept away by duty once more.
The Keep was quieter without him.
Vaella adjusted better than you had feared, though she grew restless in the evenings without her father to sing to her. Her eyes would always flick to the door, and she’d crawl toward it whenever heavy footsteps of a guard passed, as if expecting to find her father there again, arms open, waiting.
Only to be saddened when the door never opened, her tiny bottom on the floor in waiting.
At night, you held her a little tighter than usual, cuddling her as tight as Aemond did, trying to sing the songs that only his tongue could muster. And when she said "Dada" for the first time — clear, strong, insistent as she looked at the door.
You wept.
You wrote to him every day, though you knew the ravens could not always keep pace with his travels. Still, you did it anyway. You told him of Vaella’s teeth beginning to finally push through her gums, how she began to bite at everything and anything to numb the pain of it growing.
How she tried to mimic your laugh and clap when she’d sit with you, or copy the words you’d say in tiny babbles. How she discovered her reflection and seemed convinced it was another babe, a friend, a sibling.
And Aemond, despite his busyness, wrote back when he could; his letters were short but warm. You could tell he wasn’t indulging the stress of being in the Riverlands and dealing with them, trying to make amends and put out fires that had long continued to burn over the years. He never wished to stress you, but he always left ending with a line for his darling girl:
Tell Vaella her father dreams of her laugh every night.
It was three long weeks later when he returned.
It was not a grand return, not heralded by trumpets or banners. Just the soft thunder of Vhagar’s wings against the clouds, circling once above the Keep before landing outside the gates as the sun began to set. Closer than he would usually land, but he was anxious to return to you, to his family.
You were already waiting with Vaella in your arms, wrapped tightly in your soft pink cloak, her little eyes squinting against the fading light as the two of you stood just outside the city gates, surrounded by modest amounts of guards.
The moment Aemond dismounted Vhagar, Vaella let out a loud, delighted shriek, her legs kicking in your hold as her tiny fists flapped about, eager to get out of your arms and to him.
“Dada!” She shrieked into the early evening.
Aemond froze at the sound, and for the briefest second, his composure cracked where he stood — lips parted, chest heaving, eye glassy with stunned emotion. And then he was pacing towards you, his hand and his councilmen forgotten as he b-lined for his flames, his girls.
He reached you without hesitation, arms wrapping around both of you at once. He pressed a kiss to your temple, then another to your lips, and finally, carefully, he took Vaella from your arms and held her as if she were something sacred.
“Let me see you,” he whispered, cupping the back of her head with one long-fingered hand. “Gods, let me look at you.”
She babbled at him, delighted, hands tugging at his collar, and he just laughed — low and hoarse and full of something ancient and overwhelming.
“She’s heavier,” he murmured. “Has she grown this much in just three weeks?”
“She never stops moving,” you said, smiling, fingers brushing her soft cheek. “And she said ‘Dada’ for the first time this week.”
Aemond pressed his forehead gently to hers. “She saved it for me.”
“She did.”
He didn’t let go of her as he walked with you back through the Keep.
The servants bowed deeply as he passed. He was still their king, but he scarcely noticed them. His world had narrowed to just two: the child in his arms and his wife at his side. And for all his grace and poise, there was something nearly boyish in the way he kept glancing down at Vaella, as though afraid she might disappear if he blinked.
That night, you did not dine in the Great Hall.
You stayed in your private chambers, just the three of you, with a fire that burned low in the hearth, casting golden light across the stone walls, and the air was filled with the scent of violets and cinnamon from the oils your maids had used earlier in your bath.
The room was made ready with dinner upon your arrival; plates of meats, fruits, and cheese, and a small bowl prepared just for the baby. The servants slipped away quietly as you entered, leaving the three of you in peace.
Aemond wasted no time as he sank down into the chair with a weary exhale, pulling Vaella into his chest again and watching her explore his face again with tiny, curious fingers, poking and prodding.
“She has two teeth now,” you said, handing him the tiny silver spoon to feed her with. “But don’t let her bite you, she keeps trying to take fingers and nip at them.”
“Good girl,” he murmured, amused, letting her gum at the spoon before attempting to feed her.
It was clumsy, but he was out of practice. She spat half the food onto his sleeve and herself, but he laughed; there was no anger to be had in a happy baby.
“She’s perfect.” He mumbled again, neglecting his own food while his girls ate.
You sat across from him, watching the two of them like a dream made real. The fire crackled. The Keep was quiet. And the King who once spoke only of war and vengeance now gently wiped mashed pear from his daughter’s chin, letting her smear a sticky mess on him as she found a way to nibble at his knuckles too, all without flinching.
When she was finally full and drowsy from food and milk, Aemond pulled her close against his chest, rocking her slowly. He had refused to let the nursemaids take Vaella for the night and denied entry to every servant who came to the door.
Tonight was not for the crown. Tonight was for him and his family. In that quiet moment, Aemond was not a king, not a ruler—he was simply a father and a husband.
“I hated being away,” he admitted quietly. “Even when I was doing what had to be done. It felt… wrong. Empty, without the two of you by my side.”
Your heart thumped a little harder at that, your footsteps quiet as you rose and knelt beside his chair, your hand resting on his leg.
“You came back in one piece,” you said. “That’s what matters, to both me and her.”
He leaned in, brushing a kiss against your brow, and then another to your lips—slow, lingering, grateful.
“I don’t know if I’ll ever deserve either of you,” he said against your skin, “but I swear to the gods I’ll never take this for granted.”
Eventually, it was time for bed, and he undressed slowly, carefully, comfortably for the first time in weeks. He wore a simple black tunic and breeches as he took Vaella from her cradle once last time, settling into the large chair near the fire to sing to her like he did before he left, his long legs stretched out, her tiny form curled on his chest.
You sat nearby, dressed softly in your own nightwear, hands carefully undoing your hair as you sat and watched him. He was staring at the child like she had become his religion.
“She crawls faster now,” You said softly, brushing out your hair from the day. “Sometimes I swear she’s trying to find speed and fly.”
“She’ll ride before she walks if I have anything to say about it,” he replied, his voice low. “She’ll have Vhagar, one day.”
“She might not want Vhagar.” You smile softly.
“She’ll have any dragon on Dragonstone that she pleases when she’s older,” He hummed softly, lips pressing to her hair.
“But for now, I’ll build her a saddle for your lap, and we’ll fly together on Vhagar,” he said with a faint, wistful smile. “I will never leave her or you again—not like that, not for that long.”
“She understood,” you said gently. “She missed you, but she never doubted you’d return. I think… in her own way, she knows who you are.”
“Who I was,” he corrected quietly. “But she changes everything.”
You watched as Vaella’s fingers curled against the fabric of his tunic. Her lashes fluttered, already falling into sleep. Aemond looked down at her, as if in awe that something so perfect could find rest against him.
“She is the best of us,” he whispered. “Because of you, I look at her, and I see the man I left behind… and the peace that I took and almost didn’t believe I deserved.”
He looked at you then, eye soft in a way only you had ever seen.
“Thank you,” he said. “For waiting. For keeping her whole, for keeping me whole.”
You rose from your vanity seat and came to his side, sitting on the arm of the chair, your hand resting lightly over his on her back, and the other on his neck as you kissed his hair. Vaella slept between you, her warmth binding you both tighter than any crown or vow ever could.
And in that firelit room, for the first time in years, Aemond did not feel like a prince returning from war. Or a King out of his element.
Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x f!niece!reader
Warnings: Angst, miscarriage, talk of abortion, sexually explicit content.
Word count: ~4.3k
Summary: Aemond and his niece have a much needed heart to heart as they deal with the fallout of what occurred in the throne room.
Author's note: Chapter five of Tear Down My Reason. No tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.
She groaned softly, stretching and attempting to turn onto her side. Discomfort between her thighs made the switch in position feel cumbersome, and she stilled momentarily. Her head felt thick, her thoughts foggy and jumbled. Lifting the bedclothes, she peered beneath, lifting her nightgown just enough to see the bloodstained swaddle of cotton stuffed against her most intimate area. It was then that the memories slowly started to drift back.
Aemond’s sword slicing through the farmer’s neck, the head rolling against the flagstones as ichor trickled its way towards her. Guards hoisting her up and out of the throne room. The sudden cramping in her lower belly, and the blood that had flowed. The men posted outside the door rushing to fetch the maester. Being placed upon the bed as she was handled carefully, gently. Being told in the softest of voices that the child that had grown within her was gone. She had howled like an animal, her throat sore from shouting for her mother, until eventually a draught had been forced against her lips and tipped past her tongue, and everything had faded to blackness.
Milk of the poppy; so that was why she felt so sluggish. Slowly, her eyes moved around the room. It was still daylight outside, but whether it was a new day or not she could not be sure. She did not know how long she had slept for, but she felt as though it was not enough. Her body felt heavy and her eyes struggled to focus. The place in the bed beside her had not been slept upon, the covers were still pulled taut to the edge of the mattress. She wondered where Aemond was, if he knew, if he would be angry with her. She had had one job – to carry their child, his heir – and she had failed. She closed her eyes against the tears that began to track silently down her cheeks, she did not have the energy to wipe them away, and was too physically exhausted to endure breaking into sobs.
This was her punishment, she thought. She had not treated her pregnancy as happy news, and so the gods had seen fit to take it away from her. Placing a hand over her lower abdomen, she pressed down gently – she did not feel any different, though there was a dull ache within the depths of her, a similar sensation to when she had her moon’s blood. If this was divine torture, then she wondered what fate her uncle intended for her. She was thankful for the numbness that the poppy milk afforded her, it dulled the icy fear that sought to clutch at her chest.
She had slipped back into a doze when the door to the bedchamber creaked softly open.
“How are you feeling?” The voice was soft, yet authoritative, feminine, not that of her husband.
Blinking awake, she was taken aback by the sight of long auburn curls and soft brown eyes. She moved to sit up, suddenly ashamed to be caught in such a vulnerable state by the dowager queen.
Alicent held up a hand, the bell sleeve of her turquoise satin gown rustling gently against her side with the movement of her arm. “Rest,” she said firmly, “there is no need to exert yourself.”
She leaned back against the pillows, eyeing the older woman carefully. She saw only sympathy in her expression, though it did little to comfort her. “Where is Aemond?” she asked, her voice hoarse with sleep.
Sighing, Alicent moved around the foot of the bed, and settled upon the edge of the mattress, it dipped gently with her weight. She reached out a hand and, thinking better of it, allowed it to drop to the bed covers before she made physical contact. “I have asked that he give you space,” she explained gently, “understandably he is upset.”
She was not sure what that meant, especially not when it came to her uncle. Upset for most people would mean sadness and tears. She was unsure if such things were within Aemond’s capability. Had he raged, shouted, turned to violence? Her thoughts drifted to the man he had beheaded.
“What of the farmer?”
Alicent smiled sadly. “You are gracious to think of others in your own time of need. It has been dealt with. It was unwise of Aemond to allow his temper to dictate his actions, and it will not be a mistake that is repeated. In his own way, he felt he was defending you.”
She could not help the way that her features twisted in derision. Everything the farmer had said was true; she was a bastard, Aemond had spent their entire childhood and much of the war reminding her and her siblings of that very fact. What was there to defend?
Drawing her hand back and placing it into her lap, Alicent twisted the rings upon her fingers. Her gaze was steady as she looked upon the supine form of her good daughter, sensing her disbelief, and she was eager to convince her. “You are his queen,” she insisted, “he cares for you.”
She scoffed, rolling her eyes up toward the canopy above the bed. “I have failed him. We shall see how eager he is to defend my honour now.”
“I am sorry for your loss, for both of you, but that is the way of women. It is not always easy.”
“You birthed four healthy children,” she whispered bitterly, “how could you possibly understand?”
A heavy silence fell between them both, until she heard Alicent exhale shakily. When she turned her head to look, the dowager queen’s eyes were watery and downcast, her nails scraping absentmindedly against the cuticles of her other hand.
“I fell pregnant again after Viserys,” she whispered, sniffing softly, “a punishment for my sins, I suppose. I could not have kept it, even if I had wanted to. But it was my choice. This was not yours, and you must not blame yourself.”
She stared at her for a moment, wide eyed in disbelief. “I am so–”
“No, no,” Alicent interjected, rising to stand and composing herself with a swiftness that seemed unnatural. She did not look directly at her when she next spoke, already turned towards the door. “Is there anything you need that might aid in your recovery?”
“Could I see my brothers?” she asked quietly.
Alicent gave a simple nod of acknowledgement and swept out of the room, closing the door gently behind her.
The shift in energy in the room felt like a cleanse – the joyous laughter and childish exuberance that radiated from both Aegon and Viserys chased away the misery and darkness. Propped against the pillows, she smiled as she watched them alternate between jumping barefoot upon the mattress and chasing each other around the bed. Their movements jostled her and, though she still felt sore and fatigued, she did not mind. Their excitable nature and sticky hands were a welcome distraction from the misery she had wallowed in for however long she had been lying alone in this bed.
Breathless, the boys fell back against the covers. Viserys sprawled across the foot of the bed, one chubby hand gripping her ankle for comfort, while Aegon came to cuddle close to her, his head upon her chest. He smelled faintly of lemon cakes as she nuzzled into his downy head of silver hair, and he giggled, shifting to lift his head to look up at her.
“Grandmother says you have been ill,” he told her, his lilac eyes wide and imploring as he stared up at her, “are you better now?”
She stiffened, unease swirling in her gut. It still did not sit right with her that her brothers would call Alicent such a term of endearment. She pursed her lips, before ruffling the top of his head. “Not quite, but I will be.”
“I do not want anyone else to die,” came Viserys’ soft whisper from his place by her feet.
Her heart ached at his admission. She prodded playfully at his side with her toe, wanting nothing more than to chase those fears away for him. He was so innocent, he should never have to worry about such things. “You will not be rid of me so easily, you little pest,” she joked, “someone has to make sure you take a bath.”
He laughed and the sound eased the weight upon her heart. As the sky outside darkened from the hazy lilac and orange hues of twilight, to the inky black of night, the three of them fell soundly asleep, huddled together. For the first time since arriving back in King’s Landing, she felt at peace.
In the haze of sleep, she was vaguely aware of both boys being lifted from the bed, and a few moments later the mattress beside her dipped as a larger body laid upon it. Not entirely lucid, she was certain she was dreaming, and did not open her eyes, allowing unconsciousness to claim her once more. She slept on, unaware of the arms that wrapped around her or the face that pressed into her neck, muffling quiet sobs.
Her eyes cracked open as the first rays of dawn seeped through the gap in the curtains, and she turned to see Aemond lying on his side next to her. His eye was open, watching her, and he blinked slowly, lips parting slightly, upon realising she was awake. Dressed in a white cotton undershirt and breeches, his hair was loose and tousled, and he was missing his eyepatch. The sapphire in the socket of his missing eye shone dully in the early morning light. He looked exhausted; there were dark circles beneath his eyes and damp tracks upon his cheeks that made it look as though he had been crying. She longed to reach out, to trail her fingers down the path that the wetness had travelled, but did not dare. Noticing that his eye searched her features in silent question, she finally found her voice.
“How long has it been?” she whispered, “How long since..?”
She could not bring herself to say it; how long since you beheaded a man in front of half the city, and our child died inside of me?
“Two days,” he replied softly, his voice hoarse. “Mother wanted me to keep away, she said you would need at least a week, but that seemed too long. I could not.”
Her eyes widened, and she recoiled, her heart racing in fright. “Aemond, no! It is too soon. I am not recovered, I–”
“Not for that,” he moved swiftly to reassure her, reaching out to coax her back to where she had been laying previously. “I just wanted to see you, to make sure you are alright.”
She breathed a sigh of relief, and settled back against the pillows once more. At least he was not here with the intent to mount her, to attempt to replace the heir she had lost him.
“You must be very angry with me,” she uttered, clutching the edge of the quilt.
“No,” he responded, his voice thick with emotion – when she turned her face to look at him again, he looked as though he was on the verge of tears. “This is my fault, not yours. For my crimes I have lost my dragon, my son, and now the child I was to share with you.”
“Your son?” she asked, lifting herself up onto her elbow to stare down at him. She did not know that Aemond had fathered any other children, and felt an uncomfortable stirring of jealousy creep bitterly up her throat.
“With Alys,” he confessed, reaching up to gently twist one of his niece’s long, dark curls around his forefinger. “She told me she was with child, a boy, our son. But it was all a trick, an illusion to save herself. There was never any child at all.”
They had not spoken of Alys since their wedding night, when she had mentioned her, and Aemond had flown into a rage. She now finally understood why it was such a sore subject for him. She softened as she watched a solitary tear escape from the corner of his eye, and reached down to gently wipe it away with her thumb.
“I am sorry,” she murmured.
“No, I am,” he replied, pulling her down to him and clutching her tightly against his chest.
She was unused to such displays of affection from her husband, but responded by clinging to the front of his shirt and pressing her face against the hollow of his throat, as his fingertips pressed firmly into her back. The scent of leather was faint against his skin, earthy and rich.
“Were it not for me,” he continued, “you would have children with Lord Stark by now.”
“I would not,” she said softly – if he could be honest with her, then the whole of her truth was the least she owed him. “I did not want that. I drank moon tea each time.”
“Why?” Aemond asked, pulling back to look at her, his brow furrowed in confusion.
She sighed, turning onto her back and gazing up at the canopy as she folded her arm behind her head. “I did not want that to be all I was worth,” she admitted, “I did not want to be made to squeeze out heirs for a man I did not know, to be erased from my family’s legacy by adding to that of another house. It seemed unfair to me that Jace and Baela had dragons and were made to feel useful, important. I was merely a piece to be moved and traded across the board. But even now when I think about it, if I had indeed had a dragon of my own, I do not think I could have burned anyone. I am useless.”
“You are gentle,” Aemond corrected, grasping her chin gently and turning her face back towards his. “Helaena was gentle, and she was the best of any of us. There is no shame in that. You remind me of her.”
“Was it kindness that drove you to put the entirety of Harrenhal to the sword? To burn the Riverlands to ash?” she asked bitterly, resentful at him for his brazen acts of cruelty, and at herself for not being fierce enough to do such things herself.
Aemond huffed softly, his hand dropping away from her face. “Perhaps if I had been more like Helaena, I would have wed you the night I first promised to, and all of this could have been avoided.”
She stared at him thoughtfully for a moment, taking in the lines of his face – still the same man that had robbed her of her maidenhead, and yet changed by war into someone else entirely. “I think I prefer you now,” she said, “you were cruel and prideful back then, and you would not have been kind to me. You are gentle now too, in your own way.”
He lowered his gaze, his hand finding hers in the bed and loosely entwining their fingers. “I did it to defend you, you know,” he said, hinting at the act of violence he had committed two days previous, lifting his eye to hers, “I wanted you to know that I cared for you. If I had known that our child–”
“I know,” she replied, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. “Perhaps it would have happened either way. It is not for us to know.”
“We do not have to try again,” he told her, “not if you do not want to.”
A wave of relief and gratitude rushed through her at his admission. She longed to lean in, close the gap between them and press her lips to his. Since their wedding she had never had the desire to initiate such affection with her uncle, and the sudden urge frightened her so much that she resisted, simply staring at him as he stared back, until they were interrupted, and the tension was broken by a knock at the door – Maester Orwyle had come to check on her, and was quick to shoo Aemond from the room. She felt a pang of loss at his absence, her hand coming to rest upon the warm spot that he had previously occupied in the bed.
Her loss lingered like the shadow of an unwanted guest at the back of her mind, though over the coming days and weeks that followed she was grateful to regain some of her independence, finally feeling strong enough to leave the bed, to bathe herself, and change into clothes that were not intended for sleep. She thought that Aemond would serve as a reminder of her miscarriage, but found that as he was allowed to share their marital bed once more that his presence made it easier to bear. He kept his promise, and did not try to be intimate with her, but held fast to her as they slept each night, as though he were afraid she might simply float away if he loosened his grasp even for a moment. He watched her movements each day, like a clingy child might observe their mother, enquiring after her intended whereabouts and making excuses to occupy the same space that she did. She would have found it overbearing ordinarily, but it was comforting to not be alone with her thoughts and grief, and she suspected he felt the same way, which was why he sought her out.
“What is that you are reading?” Aemond asked, as he entered the solar.
She reclined on a couch, in the full view of the window, luxuriating in the gentle, warming rays of the early afternoon sun. A small hardback book was splayed open in one hand as her eyes moved slowly over the words – not really reading it – it was a story she could recite by heart.
At the sound of Aemond’s voice, she glanced up, a soft smile tugging involuntarily at her lips. It still bewildered her how easily she had come to welcome his company, even crave it. “The Princess and the Lion,” she told him, closing the book and running her fingertips gently over its cover. “It is one of my favourites. Helaena and I used to read it aloud together when we were children. We would take it in turns for who would read the parts of the lion and the princess.”
“What is it about?” he enquired, coming to perch upon the edge of the couch where she sat.
“There is a fearsome lion that roams the kingswood, and all in the kingdom are afraid of it,” she told him proudly, feeling herself become more animated, “one day, while on a hunt, the princess becomes separated from the rest of her party and encounters the lion. She is afraid at first, until she realises that its anger is due to a thorn it has stuck in its paw. She pulls it free and the lion transforms into a handsome prince. He had had a curse placed on him, and a simple act of kindness was all that was needed to break it. They fall madly in love and live happily ever after.”
Aemond scoffed derisively, rolling his eye. “That sounds ridiculous."
She scowled, clutching the book to her chest defensively. “You have not read it.”
“Hmm, read it to me then.”
Her eyes narrowed as she studied him carefully, wanting to see if he was making a joke at her expense, but his stare was steady and unwavering. “Now?” she asked, “Aloud?”
He shrugged. “Unless you have somewhere else to be.”
She hesitated a moment longer, then flipped the book back to its beginning and began to read aloud.
Aemond shifted as she read, crawling up the couch and sprawling out until he lay flat upon his back with his head in her lap. She glanced down at him occasionally, seeing he was listening intently as she continued to read aloud to him. The hand that was not holding the book came to rest upon his head, gently stroking her fingers through the silken strands of his hair.
After a while, she heard the subtle change in his breathing and looked down to see that his eye had drifted closed and he had fallen asleep. She closed the book and placed it beside them on the couch, allowing herself to study his features. She traced the lines of his sharp nose, prominent cheekbones and chiseled jaw with her fingertips. She wondered if perhaps he had had a curse placed upon him to make him so cruel – he was handsome enough to be a prince from a storybook, but behaved nothing like one. At the gentle brush of her fingers upon his lips, Aemond’s eye fluttered back open.
“Did you finish the story?” he asked sleepily.
“No, you drifted off,” she told him, cradling his face in her hands.
She was not sure what possessed her, but she leaned down, her lips brushing featherlight against the plushness of his. To her surprise, he kissed her back, lifting a hand to the back of her head, anchoring her to him, deepening the embrace as he parted his lips and flicked his tongue delicately against hers.
When they parted, her heart raced in her chest and her cheeks were flushed as she gazed at him in wide eyed wonder. She could see desire dilating his pupil, his own lips parted in heavy breath, and it caused a warmth that spread from between her thighs all the way into her belly.
“We do not have to,” he whispered, releasing her hair.
“But I want to,” she uttered back.
It felt like an understatement. She had never needed anything so desperately, certain that if they were to stop things here she could wail and claw down the curtains in frustration.
“Come here,” Aemond commanded gently but firmly, coaxing her to straddle him.
Her breath hitched at the position as she sat astride him, her hands braced against his chest. He had never allowed her to take control like this before – all of their previous couplings had been frenzied, driven by instinct as he had settled between her thighs and rutted into her. What was transpiring between them now was a choice, they both wanted this. It was both terrifying and exhilarating.
When Aemond tugged her down to him for another kiss, there was no tentativeness, it was an urgent and messy collision of lips, teeth and tongue and she could feel him hardening rapidly beneath her as she shamelessly rolled her hips. When they broke apart, the movements of their fingers were frenzied in their haste to rid her of her small clothes and pry open his breeches. Once his erection was freed, she had expected for him to take control, to thrust into her without preamble. Instead, he took her hand, guiding it to wrap around his manhood and then he let go. Her eyes settled upon the swollen, leaking head of him then lifted to his face. He watched her expectantly, throbbing in her hand, and there was a strange sense of power that surged through her, knowing that she was in charge of what happened next.
Gingerly, she rose up on her knees, lifting her skirts with her free hand as she positioned him at her entrance. She teased him, sinking down a little, before rising up again. Each time she sank down, her muscles relaxed enough to allow more of him inside. She bit her lip to hide the grin of the way her uncle’s features contorted at each of her movements – in its own way this was torture for him, yet she knew he did not want her to stop. She stilled once he was fully sheathed inside of her, and though his hands came to rest upon her hips, he made no moves to thrust up into her. She could practically feel his body vibrating with the urge to take control, and admired his restraint.
Slowly, she began to rock her hips, gasping as the angle caused the tip of him to brush against a spot inside of her on every pass that made her ache and clench around him. She fisted her hands in his shirt, breathing raggedly through parted lips.
“Gods,” she panted, as her thighs began to ache, “I cannot…please…”
“I know, shhh,” Aemond soothed quietly.
He began to move slowly upwards, not fucking himself into her, just enough to ease each undulation of her hips as he held them steady. Continuing to aid her with one hand, he reached up to pry open her bodice with the other. His hand cupped and squeezed her breast, his thumb circling and working the rosy bud into a stiffened peak, before turning his attention to its twin.
Her head fell back at the dual stimulation, her sensitive walls fluttering as her body went rigid in anticipation of what was to come. As the pad of this thumb dragged across her pebbled flesh, and he rolled his hips, knocking against the aching depths inside of her, her entire body shuddered and she let out a keening cry of pleasure. Her nails dug into his chest as she spasmed around him, warmth blooming in every part of her body, making her feel boneless. She was faintly aware of Aemond’s own groan of satisfaction as he pulsated inside of her, pushing upwards into her with the force of it.
She collapsed against his chest, breathless and sweaty from exertion, and Aemond wrapped his arms around her, holding her close as he fought to steady his own breathing.
He smoothed a hand over the curls at the back of her head, his voice almost a whisper as his nose brushed the shell of her ear. “I will have the maester make you tea.”
Her fingertips stroked idly over the soft cotton of his undershirt, before she lifted her head, locking her eyes upon his. “No,” she said with a slight shake of her head, “not this time.”
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Summary: You visit King’s Landing with your family and after an unexpected reunion with Aemond everything changes. What happens when your family finally discovers you are bound to their enemy?
Notes: 18+ ONLY!!! Smuttt, LOTS of angst, fluff, enemies to lovers kinda, forbidden love, loss of virginity, p in v, oral (m&f), targcest, violence/abuse, abusive father, pregnancy, pregnant sx, child birth, birth complications, mentions of death, definite s1&2 spoilers, some script from the show, the negativity towards team black is purely for the story, happy ending.
Word count: 10.2k (i need therapy)
masterlist
You arrive with your family in Kings Landing after your journey from Dragonstone. You could tell your stepmother Rhaenerya was annoyed that the queen herself had not come to welcome you all.
You were the daughter of Daemon and Rhea, his first wife. Your father and mother despised eachother and you knew deep down he was somehow responsible for her death. A skilled rider like her does not just have accidents like that. Your father always felt extremely distant from you, he probably loathed the fact that you were even born from that loveless hateful marriage. On top of that, you felt cursed to have gotten his golden hair and not your mother’s brown hair. It made you look even more like your father and also stand out even more next to your dark haired stepbrothers. You had been forced to move around with your father between his marriages with Laena and now Rhaenyra. Although Rhaenyra has been fairly kind to you, you have always felt like the outsider of the family, an unwanted child, an ever lasting reminder of Daemon’s first wife.
Daemon and Rhaenyra part with you to visit the king in his chambers so you follow your stepbrothers to the training grounds where you find Aemond sparring with Ser Criston Cole. You watch as Jace and Luke exchanged worried glances. You may not have been around for most of it but you remember the rivalry that has always been there between your brothers and Aemond. Luke had been the one to take Aemond’s eye, accident or no, that is not something easily forgiven or forgotten. You would never say it in front of your family but you never thought badly of Aemond for hating your stepbrothers, it felt well deserved.
You watch the way Aemond moves, dancing around Ser Criston as he tries to strike him. Aemond pulls a final perfect move that ends with his sword against Cole’s throat.
“Well done, my prince.” Ser Criston says to Aemond. “You will be winning tourneys in no time.”
“I don’t give a shit about tourneys.” Aemond responds. “Nephews, have you come to train?” His intense stare falls to Jace and Luke before landing on you. Your brothers just roll their eyes at him before leaving the grounds, earning a cocky smirk from Aemond. You follow behind them off the training pitch before parting ways and heading to the balcony overlooking the grounds.
You hang around as Aemond continues training, trying not to seem too obvious as you watch him. His movements were smooth and mesmerizing, he looked like a dancer with his golden hair swaying gracefully with each of his strikes. It was hard to take your eyes off him. Once you notice him putting his weapons away you decide to go and find your chambers.
“(Y/n)!” You hear Aemond call your name from down the hallway you were exiting.
You turn as he catches up to you. Once you’re standing in front of him you realize just how tall he has gotten. He smelled so good, how can he smell so good right after all that training and sweating? His natural scent was intoxicating. He smiles down at you so you smile back up at him. Gods, he has gotten so handsome.
“Yes, my prince?” You ask.
“Did you enjoy watching me train?” He smirks.
“I- I was watching everyone train.” Your cheeks turn red.
“Sure.” His smirk grows, making you blush more.
“You train well.” You say to break the brief silence.
“Thank you, princess. May I just say… you have really grown up.” He looks you up and down, taking in your womanly curves and full breasts.
Your heart suddenly races and you feel an unfamiliar feeling in your stomach, but lower.
“Thank you, my prince. As have you.” You say as you try not to stare at his sharp jawline or strong looking arms. Wondering what those arms would feel like around you.
You felt increasingly shy by the minute talking to Aemond, which was very odd for you because you were much like your mother, who was bold and headstrong. But Aemond made your strong head feel like a million butterflies were fluttering around up there as well as inside your stomach.
“I have to go and rejoin my family but I will see you later?” You say as you begin to turn to leave.
“I look forward to it, princess.” Aemond bows to you with a smile.
Truthfully, you had all the free time in the world at the moment. Your father and stepmother busy visiting the king and the gods only know where Jace and Luke wandered off to. But you needed to leave Aemond’s presence right away because the overwhelming sexual tension between you was becoming very dangerous.
Your head is completely in the clouds thinking of Aemond, causing you to nearly crash right into your stepbrother.
“Jace! Sorry, please forgive me.”
“What was that all about?” He asks.
“What are you talking about?” You raise a brow at him.
“I saw you speaking with Aemond.” He says firmly.
“So?” You scowl.
“So? It looked like a pretty friendly conversation, I have never seen Aemond smile at anyone like that.” He rambles in an angry tone. “And I have never seen you look at anyone like that, sister. So, as I said… what was that all about?”
“We were just talking Jace, calm down. You’re blowing this way out of proportion.” Annoyed, you shrug him off and continue down the hallway.
**********
With your family busy with their own things you become increasingly bored in your room. You decide to find a book from the small bookshelf in your chambers and make your way to the gardens. You curl up to the large tree and become deeply invested in your book, so much so that you don’t notice someone walking towards you until you look up to see Aemond towering over you.
“Aemond!” You startle as you make your way to stand.
“Forgive me for interrupting you, princess.” He gestures his eye to your book.
“Not at all.” You smile. “It was either find something to read or die of boredom before supper.”
He chuckles at your joke and you smile shyly in response.
“What are you reading?” He asks.
“Oh, um, nothing really.” You blush.
You tuck the book behind you and he arches his brow in question.
“Ugh, alright... It’s just a silly romance story.” You sigh as you pull the book out from behind your back.
“A romance, hmm?” He smirks. “So you enjoy that sort of thing?”
“Yes, I suppose… like most woman do.” Your blush deepens.
“And have you…” He hesitates. “…had any of your own romance stories?”
Your loud laugh catches him off guard and you quickly change to a serious expression.
“Forgive me, my prince. Um, no. I have not had anything of the sort.” You admit.
“Why not? It seems like something you clearly want. And I am almost certain there must have been plenty of suitors who have thrown themselves at you…” He says as he looks you up and down seductively.
“Of course it is something I want. And I have had a few interested suitors in the past. I just… have not found a man worthy enough of me.” You shrug.
“I see.” He says, his smirk remaining.
Aemond walks you back to your chambers and the conversation between you was surprisingly comfortable the entire walk. You bond over both being the family outcast or the “black sheep”, you both had much harder childhoods than your siblings. The sparks between you were undeniable. You realized your stepbrother was right, you have never looked at anyone like this, or felt like this towards anyone. But Aemond was off limits, not only was he family but you knew your parents, especially your stepmother, greatly disliked Aemond because of the history with him and her own sons. Even just thinking of him that way feels forbidden.
**********
The entire royal family all join together for supper, the tension in the room high. King Viserys joins the room and gives you all a heartfelt speech about your family rivalries.
“It both gladdens my heart and fills me with sorrow to see these faces around the table. The faces most dear to me in all the world. Yet grown so distant from eachother, in the years past.” Viserys begins.
He removes the gold plated mask on his face that had been covering the horrible effects of his illness.
“My own face is no longer a handsome one, if indeed it ever was… But tonight I wish you to see me as I am. Not just a king, but your father, your brother, your husband, and your grandsire, who may not it seems… walk for much longer among you.
Let us no longer hold ill feelings in our hearts. The crown cannot stand strong if the House of the Dragon remains divided. Set aside your grievances. If not for the sake of the crown, then for the sake of this old man who loves you all, so dearly.” He says passionately, choking back tears.
His speech triggers heart warming and emotional toasts from Rhaenyra to Alicent, and Alicent to Rhaenyra, stating she will make a fine queen. The tension between them begins to fade and the mood of the entire room begins to lift as everyone drinks to the toasts.
Until there is some added tension when Aegon gets up and walks over to pour more wine into his glass, muttering something to Baela, Jace’s newly betrothed. Knowing Aegon you assume it was something vulgar. Especially when your stepbrother Jacaerys slams his fist on the table and stands. He composes himself and suddenly Aemond also stands. The room stills for a long moment as they eye eachother down. Jace proceeds to make a polite yet cocky toast to your uncles, Aegon and Aemond.
“Well done, my boy.” King Viserys says to Jace.
Aemond sighs and sits back down, you could feel the anger radiating from him. Your brothers always seem to enjoy getting him riled up. You had to resist the strong urge to place your hand on his. Instead, you offer him a sweet smile and his lips curl up for only a brief moment before his hard exterior was painted on his face again.
Music plays and you all enjoy the beginning of supper, everyone happy and laughing with eachother. You chatted mostly to Aemond who didn’t speak much but seemed content to listen to you. It did not go unnoticed by your brother Jace but he chose to ignore it. The air in the room feels lighter as all of the tension fades away. After a short time, King Viserys is brought back to bed due to his pain flaring up.
The music continues and more food is brought to the table. You watch as a roast pig is placed directly in front of Aemond, your eyes shoot to your brother Luke who is already smirking and chuckling at Aemond. Before you even have a second to think, Aemond’s fist slams onto the table and startles you.
“Final tribute.” Aemond says as he stands holding up his cup, the music stopping and the tension suddenly filing the air again. “To the health of my nephews… Jace… Luke… and Joffrey.”
He looks to your stepbrothers who are glaring at him in return.
“Each of them handsome, wise…” Aemond pauses.
You try to meet his eye with your desperate pleading ones, knowing exactly what he was about to say.
“…Strong.” Aemond states.
“Aemond-“ Alicent tries.
“Come!” Aemond talks over her. “Let us drain our cups to these three strong boys.”
“I dare you to say that again.” Jacaerys challenges.
“Why? Twas only a compliment.” Aemond walks up to Jace. “Do you not think yourself strong?”
It all happens in a flash, Jacaerys throwing his fist at Aemond, Aemond taking the punch to the face with a smirk before shoving Jace to the floor. Aegon starts his own fight with Luke. Now everyone is standing, including yourself, as the guards pull back your brothers.
“Why would you say such a thing before these people?” Alicent demands to Aemond.
“I was merely expressing how proud of my family mother.” He says, yanking his arm out of her grasp. “Mm, though it seems my nephews aren’t quite as proud of theirs.”
Jacaerys tries to charge at Aemond again before Daemon intervenes and Jace steps back.
“Go to your quarters.” Rhaenyra orders the younger people, including yourself. “All of you go, now.”
You are last to leave as you watch your father and Aemond stare eachother down.
**********
With everything going on no one even notices you leave the group as you rush to Aemond’s chambers. Once you reach his door you knock loudly.
“Leave me be!” You hear Aemond call on the other side of the door.
“Aemond, it’s me. (Y/n).” You call through the door.
You hear nothing but silence for a long moment and get a sinking feeling thinking he is just as mad at you as everyone else. Until the door opens and he slowly peers out from behind it.
“What do you want?” He says dryly, causing a strange ache in your chest.
“I wanted to check you were alright.”
“Why?”
“I- uh, because Aemond… my brothers were horrible and I am so sorry for the way they behave sometimes. They can be so bloody… arrogant.”
You see a faint smile cross his face at that and it brings you a heavy sense of relief.
“Do you want to come in? I don’t think we should discuss such things out here.” He says as he opens the door more for you.
“Sure, yes. You are probably right.” You say nervously as you make your way into his bedroom.
The air feels instantly tense when the door shuts behind you both, suddenly completely alone.
“They have ruined the entire visit.” You vent to Aemond. “I know everyone is looking at you for tonight, because of what you said, but I saw Luke too… They have always loved to antagonize you, and then you get blamed when you react!”
Aemond simply stares at you, feeling truly seen for the first time in his entire life. You were unlike anyone he had ever met, the only person he did not feel as if you saw him as a monster or a burden.
“Yes, well. Your brothers are bastards.” Aemond says with a mix of anger and humour.
“I disagree…” You say with a serious face before smirking. “They are not my brothers.”
Aemond smirks in response when he catches onto what you meant. It was so rare to find someone who agreed with him, who truly understood him. He suddenly realized he did not want to lose you.
“Will you have to return to Dragonstone with them?” Aemond asks.
“I expect I will, yes.” You say sadly.
“Do you want to go?”
“No, certainly not.” Your eyes meet his. “But it never matters what I want.” You advert your gaze to the floor.
“What do you want (y/n)?” He asks as he steps closer to you until he is nearly a breath away.
“It does not matter…” You say in a whisper.
“It matters to me…” He says lowly, glancing to your lips. “What is it that you really want (y/n)?”
“You…” The whisper of the word escapes your lips before you can think, your brain panics for a moment when you realize what you said out loud.
The panic is quickly replaced by surprise when Aemond cups your cheeks and brings your lips to his. You hesitate for a moment, thinking of your family, before your restraint snaps and you throw all caution to the wind and kiss him back passionately. You blindly follow along in the dance your tongues begin to do before you pull away briefly.
“I want you, Aemond.” You breathe. “All of you.”
“You know your family would not like this…” He whispers as his lips move down to your neck.
“I do not care.” You moan.
“This would ruin you for any man to come.” He mumbles as he continues kissing and nipping along your neck, his other hand coming up to grasp your breast. The feeling sending sparks throughout your body.
“Good.” You breathe. “I do not want anyone else, Aemond. Only you.”
“Good.” He says, pulling back to gaze into your eyes. “Because I do not wish to ever share you with anyone else. I do not care of our family rivalry… you are mine now.”
You simply nod eagerly and bring your lips back to his. You both make your way towards Aemond’s bed, lips never parting.
“Are you sure this is what you want, (y/n)?” He asks in a breathy voice as his fingers play with the strings on the back your dress.
“I am certain you are what I want, Aemond.” You say to him with heat in your eyes.
A small smirk forms on his lips as you turn around and he finishes pulling the laces of your gown. After a few moments the dress falls to the floor, leaving you in your thin shift. You turn back to face him and begin removing his shirt, eyes staying intensely connected to his as you do. His shirt falls to the floor and your eyes greedily take in his perfectly toned chest.
He helps as you pull your shift over your head, leaving you completely bare before him. Aemond quietly gulps as he takes in your naked form. He had seen naked women before at the brothel his brother had dragged him to, but you were something else entirely. A heavenly sight that the gods guarded from the world, a sight he had been blessed enough to see.
You reach to pull at the laces of his pants and he helps quickly get them off as they join the pile of discarded clothes. You reach to Aemond’s eye patch, he flinches hesitantly, causing you to abruptly stop. He gently grabs your wrist to lift your hand again, encouraging you. You reach up and slowly pull off his eye patch, revealing a beautiful blue sapphire. You lightly brush your thumb along his scar and he lets out a heavy breath. You both stand there for a moment, drinking in the sight of eachother in all your glory. You look down taking in the sight of his length and worry about how that would possibly fit inside you. Aemond moves towards you slowly, this time bringing your lips to his for a gentle, slow kiss. So many feelings spoken in this short kiss.
“Shall we get into bed then?” You say lowly.
He nods with a smirk as you both crawl into bed, Aemond hovering overtop of you as your lips connect once again, his hardness pressing against your stomach and your breasts pressed tightly against his chest. He takes his time kissing you like this before he kisses along your jaw, down your neck, moving lower until his mouth finds your nipple and sucks hard, causing you to gasp.
Aemond would have loved to continue his journey lower and provide you with even more pleasure, but he knew he was pressed for time because any moment your family could come searching for you to leave, they were likely looking for you right now. Besides, his patience began to run thin when you reach down and wrap your soft fingers around his aching member. The groan that escapes him sends a jolt right to your core.
He lines himself up to your entrance and his eye meets yours for permission. You nod quickly and he pushes into you slowly, both your mouths dropping open and panting at the feeling. Aemond stops when he feels the barrier. You try and control your heavy breathing.
“This is going to hurt for a moment.” He whispers and you nod again.
He pushes through your maidenhead and you cry out in pain, your fingers digging hard into his strong biceps. Aemond stills inside you and kisses you hungrily, the feeling of you squeezing tightly around him made his head completely spin. You whimper into his mouth as he slowly slides out of you before pushing back in. The pain slowly begins to fade as he tries to keep you distracted with his lips.
“More, Aemond… please…” You breathe after a few moments, wrapping your legs around him to pull him closer.
Aemond does not hesitate to quicken his speed, causing you to throw your head back as moans poured from your mouth. Neither of you cared if someone heard even knowing you would be in deep trouble. You almost hoped to be caught so you would have to be bound to each other.
Every sweet sound he dragged from you quickly pushes Aemond closer to the edge. He reaches down to rub on your pleasure point, hoping to push you over the edge before he loses control.
“Oh gods! Aemond!” You cry out as you come undone around him.
Intense shocks of pleasure shoot through your entire body and you see stars. Aemond watches the beautiful sight below him as you ride out your orgasm. He thrusts into you hard as his own peak crashes into him, groaning out in pleasure as he comes deep inside of you.
He remains inside you for a minute as you both pant, trying to catch your breath and your thoughts. He smiles and kisses your cheek before rolling off of you. You cuddle up to him and he hugs you tighter. You let out a content sigh before your smile turns into a frown, reality coming back to you.
“I do not wish to leave… to leave you…” You say quietly.
“I do not wish for you to leave either… so don’t.” Aemond says as you turn your head to meet his gaze.
You sigh and lay your head back on his chest, soaking up every minute you have with him.
**********
“What on earth are you talking about?” Daemon demands.
“I just do not understand why I have to leave too. We have only just arrived. I also was not even remotely involved in the fight at dinner, and Rhaenyra will be returning here anyway.” You try to reason with your father.
“What reason could you possibly have to want to remain here alone?” He asks.
“I- I suppose I do not have one…”
You could not tell your father the true reason you wanted to stay, he surely would drag you away if he knew. No other excuses come to mind.
“Good. You will leave tonight with all of us.” He says firmly.
**********
The ship ride back to Dragonstone was absolutely nauseating. You had never been so sea sick, throwing up every morning. The anxiety of leaving Aemond without being able to say goodbye just made you feel even worse. You had no idea how he was feeling, if he was upset, angry, or hardly cared at all. You prayed that some day you would have a chance to return to King’s Landing, to return to Aemond.
**********
So much had happened since your return to Dragonstone. King Viserys had died the same night of your departure and the throne usurped by Aegon. Your morning sea sickness did not go away and the most random smells would make you sick. Certain foods made you throw up just from the scent, while others smelt like heaven, even some of your favourite flowers had you reeling with nausea. The maester eventually confirmed your greatest fear… you were with child. Thank the gods for the maester’s discretion.
It was utterly impossible to tell your family the news with every horrible thing that was happening. The worst of it all… the death of your stepbrother Luke at the hands of none other than Aemond Targaryen, the father of your child. You knew there had to be more to the story, but your family in Dragonstone obviously found the greens completely unforgivable now. You truly did feel heartbroken for Rhaenyra, it also made you feel more protective of your own child growing inside your belly. But your dream to reunite with Aemond seemed to fade farther and farther out of your reach.
You had your dresses fitted looser as your belly began to swell, blaming it on over eating, which you were doing a lot of anyway as you now dealt with an appetite for two. You were not sure how much longer you could hide this, but each time you attempt to tell your father you cannot get the words out. The more chaos that ensued and the more your father cursed the greens and the harder it became to admit.
**********
Your father and stepmother had called for you and you quickly made your way to them. Your heart was racing and palms sweating as you join them.
“You wished to see me, father?” You say once you enter the room.
“Yes, (y/n). I have great news.” Daemon says. “We have found you a worthy husband.”
“W-what?” Your jaw drops, you were not expecting this at all.
“You are to marry Cregan Stark. The Starks have already pledged their fealty but this is the best way to solidify that relationship.” Your father explains.
“Father… I cannot marry Cregan Stark…” You say.
Daemon scoffs at you.
“You can, and you will. It is not up for discussion.” He says firmly.
“There is something I must tell you both…” You say quietly, worried.
You were officially out of time, you had to tell them and you had to do it now. Daemon and Rhaenyra give you their full attention as you refuse to meet their eyes.
“I am with child.” You state quietly, your fists clenched at your sides in nervousness.
“That’s not possible.” Your father scoffs with a chuckle, as if trying to convince himself.
“The maester has already confirmed it…” You continue to speak quietly. “I am quite far along…”
“Who is the father?” Rhaenyra asks.
You meet her gaze but remain silent.
“Dammit young lady! Who on earth did you sleep with?” Daemon yells at you, making you jump.
He stomps towards you and grabs you by the throat briefly before letting go. Although it was only for a second you stumble backward with your hand on your sore throat as your eyes meet his in fear.
“If you are already this angry… I am far too afraid to tell you who the father is.” You say with a shaky voice, holding back tears.
“We are not going to harm him, child.” Rhaenyra reassures you but your father rolls his eyes as if to disagree.
“That is not my greatest concern… My concern is more to do with who it is...”
“Who in seven hells is it?!” Your father snaps and steps towards you again, you step back as he does until your back hits the wall.
“He…” You try to get the words out, your father stops and they both stare at you impatiently. “The father is… Aemond Targaryen.”
You feel as if you are going to puke or possibly faint as you watch the absolute horror spread across their faces.
“I’m sorry…” Your father chuckles in disbelief. “I must have misheard you. Did you say… Aemond fucking Targaryen?”
You look to your feet and nod.
“You’re fucking with me… Please tell me you are fucking with me.” Daemon says, your silence in response answers his question.
Rhaenyra is still standing there speechless in shock.
“This was before…” You look directly to Rhaenyra. “…everything.” Your eyes shift back to your feet.
“Do you have any idea what you have done?” Daemon says angrily, rubbing his temples in frustration. “What in seven hells are we supposed to do now?!”
“I… I do not know…” You say in nearly a whisper. “I am truly sorry father… it just… happened.”
“Have you even asked the maester if your condition is treatable at this stage?” Daemon asks.
“Treatable? What do you mean?”
“Is there no way they can rid you of that thing?”
“Is that really what you are considering be done, father?” You scoff in offence.
“Dear daughter, I am considering throwing you down a flight of stairs or stabbing you in the stomach to rid you of that thing if necessary.” He snarls.
Even Rhaenyra shoots him daggers at that statement, having recently lost their own babe during childbirth.
“Stop calling it that! It is a child, my child, and I will not let you harm me nor my baby.”
“I refuse to let you birth the spawn of that monster. Go to your chambers while I go speak to the maesters about what can be done.”
“Father-“
“I said get out of my sight!” His voice booms, causing the room to go still.
You stare at him as if you were to say something else but then turn to run out of the room crying. As soon as you reach your chambers you slam the door and lock it. You desperately reach for your chamber pot before vomiting into it. After, you try and steady your heavy panting as you think of what to do.
Your mind races as you stand up and throw a travel bag onto your bed before quickly packing your things, whatever you could fit. The hour was already late, you thought, so there was no need to wait until nightfall to escape. Surely you could sneak off to the stables unnoticed and flee on your horse, find a ship somewhere on Dragonstone before you were caught. You take a deep breath and look around your bedroom, the life you would be leaving behind, the family. But screw them! You have never felt a true part of either of your father’s families. You rubbed your stomach tenderly, thinking about the future of a true family, your family. With that in mind you throw open your bedroom door only to stop suddenly as you see your father standing on the other side. He looks to the bag in your hand.
“Going somewhere, daughter?” He asks slyly.
“I- I cannot stay here…” Your voice trembles.
“I forbid you to leave this castle until we have decided what to do with you.” He says sternly. “You will not leave your room, we will have breakfast brought to you in the morning.”
Before you can argue he slams the door in your face and locks you inside. You shake and pound at the door. Beating your fists on it as hard as you can.
“You cannot do this to me! Please father! Please!” You cry and beg from the other side.
You fall to the ground staring at your trembling red hands, aching from banging on the door. Anger boils within you until you are back on your feet throwing things around the room, the sound of screaming and breaking glass echoing into the hallways. Eventually you tire yourself out and collapse onto your bed, crying yourself to sleep.
**********
The next morning you hear a knock at the door.
“Come!” You call.
One of your chamber maids opens the door with a tray of breakfast food.
“Good morrow, princess.” She says politely, concern crossing her face as she notices the state of the room. “Shall I send in someone to clean?”
You shake your head before peering behind her and seeing no one else around.
“I need something else from you.” You say quietly to her.
“Of course, princess. What can I do for you?” She says.
“I need you to deliver a note to my guardsman. You know the one I speak of, he is the only one I can trust.” You say as you move to grab parchment and ink, throwing them down on the small dining table which your breakfast now sat.
“I- Forgive me, princess. I do not think can… Your father-“ She says timidly.
“Please! Please, I am with child and I do not know what he is going to do to me. He is trying to kill my baby, he may even kill me to do so if he must. Please, I am begging you.” You grab her hands as you plead with tears in your eyes.
She peers behind her shoulder to the hallway before looking back to you and nodding, making you sigh in relief. You had no idea if you could fully trust her, for all you know she will take this note straight to your father, but you had no other option right now.
“But quickly, princess.” She whispers, continuing to peak into the hallway for anyone coming this way.
You quickly scribble a letter to your only fully trusted person in this land. The only guardsman that had followed you from Runestone to each place you moved. He was loyal to your mother and you knew he always had distaste for your father. It was still extremely risky but he was your one chance at getting out of here. You hand her the folded up letter which she tucks into her dress and you whisper endless thank yous.
“Princess.” She says with a curtsy before departing.
All you could do now was wait…
**********
There is another knock at your door not long after the maid leaves. You open it eagerly and are surprised to see your stepbrother Jacaerys standing on the other side.
“What do you want?” You ask.
“I wanted to know if it was true…” He says flatly.
“That depends on what my father has told you… That I am a deceitful traitor? That I am a whore? That I am growing a demon spawn inside me?” Your say as your blood begins to boil.
“He said you were with child. With Aemond’s child.” He says, pure anger in his tone. “So same thing really…” He shrugs.
“Fuck you, Jacaerys.” You snap.
You are nearly as shocked as he is at the bold statement, but you had no care left in the world about how your family thought of you now. They have already decided in their minds to hate you for being with the child of their greatest enemy. Nevermind the fact that the act of it happened before all of that. If things had not turned out in the horribly tragic ways they did, and the whole of the royal family had remained civil with eachother, you knew your family would still have been displeased but they would have ultimately accepted your bond to Aemond.
“Wow, (y/n)… I knew there was something between you two when we visited King’s Landing. But I thought after everything he has done, everything the rest of them have done to our family…” His voice raises. “I have no more words for what you have done…” He says in almost a whisper, shaking his head in disappointment.
“Well, if you have no more words then I bid you a good day, brother.” You say sharply before closing the door in his face.
You feel like you could spit fire with how angry and hurt you were. You wish Jace’s words did not phase you but they pierced into you like daggers.
**********
Your lunch and supper had been brought to your chambers. You could not help but worry when you saw it was a different maid than this morning. You prayed to the gods nothing happened to the other one due to your actions.
It was the hour of the owl when someone knocked at your door again. Despite the late hour you were wide awake, unable to sleep at all. You cautiously open the door and nearly cry of relief when you see your guardsman standing outside the door.
“We must hurry, princess.” He whispers to you. “Pack what belongings you need.”
You throw on your cloak before grabbing the travel bag you previously packed and threw it over your shoulder before giving him a nod. He holds his hand out to you and you grab it as he leads you out of your chambers and through the dark hallways. He was careful to avoid other guards, occasionally ducking you both behind another wall as one passed by. He leads you down another hallway you had never seen, leading you right out of the castle through a hidden door.
“This way princess.” The guard says.
You follow him to the shore where there lies a small boat. You give him a questioning look, there was no way you could make it all the way to Kings Landing in that.
“There is a ship waiting for us princess with a handful of men I trust. It had to remain out of sight.” He explains.
You nod and get into the boat before he paddles away into the darkness. The small light of Dragonstone begins to fade into the distance just before the dim lighting of a small ship comes into view. He assists you up the rope ladder and onto the ship. You could see no more than five other men on the ship along with your guardsman. They quickly begin working the sails and get the ship moving.
“I cannot thank you enough, Ser. You have truly saved our lives.” You say to the guard as you rub your stomach.
“I was sworn to protect you and your mother. I may have failed your mother but I will not fail you, princess.” He says.
You give him a sympathetic smile of gratitude before looking out into the dark waters of the sea. Thinking of all that is yet to come.
**********
A few days later, you watch as King’s Landing comes into view. Your heart begins to race and your stomach twists into knots. You were the daughter of their enemies, you had no idea how they would react to your arrival. If they would even listen to what you have to say.
You arrive to the gates with your guardsman, the rest of the crew having begun to sail the ship back.
“Who goes there?” A kingsguard asks.
“Princess (y/n) Targaryen. We are here as allies and bring important news.” Your guard speaks for you.
The kingsguard is silent for a moment, contemplating. Your heart pounds in your chest with worry they will simply refuse you and you will have nowhere else to go.
“Very well.” They open the gate and lead you in.
“The king is available to see you right now.” The kingsguard says.
“Oh. I was actually hoping to speak with Prince Aemond first.” You say timidly.
“The prince is with the king, you may see them both now.” He explains.
You nod and take a deep shakey breath before slightly lifting your dress to walk up the stairs. You are led into throne room, following behind the kingsguard and your guardsman.
Your eyes find Aemond first, standing diligently next to his mother. His eye meet yours instantly quickly flickering to your large stomach and you see his eye widen as the rest of his face remains expressionless. You take another deep breath as you continue walking, focusing hard on putting one foot in front of the other until you reach where Aegon sat on the iron throne.
“Princess (y/n)! To what do I owe the pleasure of this unexpected visit? Has your traitor family finally decided to bend the knee?” Aegon speaks to you arrogantly.
“No, your grace. I am not here on their behalf, I am here on mine. They had no knowledge of my travels here… I would bend the knee to you now if I were able, my king.” You say, rubbing your stomach. “I am with child…”
Your gaze darts to Aemond for a short second who has not taken his eye off you since you entered the room.
“I can see that.” Aegon chuckles. “I am glad to hear you are pledging your fealty to me, but I do not understand what your being with child has to do with me?”
“It… It does not have to do with you, your grace.”
You look to Aemond again, this time Aegon follows your gaze.
“Well then!” Aegon laughs loudly. “It seems my brother had been very busy during your last visit to King’s Landing.”
Yours and Aemond’s silence was answer and confirmation enough. Alicent stands beside Aemond in a silent shock as she stares at your round stomach.
“You must be exhausted. My guards will escort you to your chambers.” Aegon says. “We shall see you at supper. I believe you two have much to discuss.” He grins, looking to Aemond who glares back at him.
“Thank you, your grace.” You give a small curtsy, unable to bend too low.
You and Aemond watch eachother as you are led out of the room and to your new chambers, your own guardsman following until you are left alone in the room. As soon as the door is shut tears quickly fall from your face, Aemond looked so angry. What if this entire thing was a huge mistake? You had not fully considered Aemond may not even want to have anything to do with you or this child. Who knows what they might do with you now, what if it’s worse than what your father would have done?
You don’t have long to dwell on the thoughts swirling in your mind before there is a firm knock at the door. You quickly wipe your tears from your face.
“Come!” You call.
The door opens and your heart stops when you see Aemond enter, closing the door behind him.
“Aemond!” You say in surprise.
“Is it my child?” He asks forwardly.
“I- yes… I am so sorry…” Your voice breaks as you fight back tears and look to the floor.
“Sorry?” He says softly as he steps closer to you and gently lifts your chin to meet his gaze. “You have no reason to be sorry, (y/n).”
“But I thought…” You start to say.
“If anything, I am sorry this happened without my being there afterward, without being there to protect you.”
“You could not have known…” You say in a whisper.
“Well, I know now.” He says as he takes both of your hands in his. “I will care for you both, you have my word.”
You smile up at him and the tears you held back fall down your face, Aemond takes his thumb and wipes some away.
“I am bound to you, all of me.” He says intensely, as he cups your cheek and stares into your eyes.
“But… are you not only bound to me because I happen to be with child?” You frown.
“I have been bound to you the moment our lips first touched, (y/n).” He gives you the warmest smile you have ever seen on him.
With that said, he touches his lips to yours in a soft tender kiss. The kiss ever so slowly builds and builds until you’re a whimpering mess and chasing eachothers tongues. Aemond pulls away to look at you, pure fire behind his eyes.
“Does being with child stop you from wanting… from being able to…” Aemond couldn’t get the words out but you knew what he was referring to.
“No, no, not at all.” You say with a smile. “Quite the opposite actually…”
Aemond gives you a questioning look.
“If anything, I need you even more now.” You explain before pressing your lips back to his.
He begins pulling the strings of your dress as the kiss continues. You reach your hands in between you and remove his shirt before pulling at the ties of his trousers. Once your dress falls to the ground you feel instantly self conscious, your body having changed a considerable amount since he last saw you. But the way Aemond looks at you was like a wild animal about to pounce on its prey. The sight of your naked body, swollen his child, was the most heavenly sight he could ever see.
You get into bed, kissing in between every movement, like your lips could not stand to be apart for longer than a few seconds. Aemond’s lips soon move to your neck before kissing his way down your chest. His warm mouth wraps around your nipple before sucking hard, causing you to gasp, your nipples being even more sensitive from the pregnancy. He kisses all over your stomach lovingly as one hand rubs across it gently. He looks up and smiles at you as you smile back at him, pure happiness on his face.
“I have been dreaming about this…” He says lowly before licking a strip up your core.
You whimper and squirm as his tongue teases you with gentle licks before he wraps his strong arms around your legs to hold you still as he begins to eat you out ravenously. Your hand shoots to your mouth to cover the loud moans pouring from you as your other hand finds its way down to his head and your fingers bury into his silky white hair. You tug his hair lightly as you’re overcome with pleasure and he groans in response, the feeling of it against your core bringing you closer to the edge.
Your entire body feels like it’s on fire as he works you with his tongue, the intensity only increasing as he slips two of his long slender fingers inside you. It’s not long after that until you come undone, clenching around his fingers and bucking against his face as you cry out. Aemond doesn’t relent until your legs are shaking and you’re pulling away from the overstimulation.
He moves back up the bed, wiping his face, and you pull him into a hungry kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue.
“I need you inside me right now.” You beg, the need for him only increased by your release.
He practically growls at your words as he pulls his loose pants fully off and tosses them to the ground. He wastes no time plunging himself into you, causing you both to moan out in tandem. You bask in the full feeling of him inside you again, you felt so empty without him all these months and now you were finally reconnected.
The angle is awkward due to your protruding belly in between you, your eyes meet as unspoken thoughts pass through you. Without a word you reposition so Aemond is laying on the bed and you’re climbing on top of him. After straddling him you shove him back inside you, watching as his jaw drops open at the feeling. With your limited mobility Aemond still takes the lead and begins pounding into you from below. You cling to his shoulders to keep yourself upright as your tits bounce in his face with each thrust and your moans now fall shamelessly from your mouth. You don’t see him observing every facial expression and sound you make while you ride him. The sight and feel of you had him barreling towards release.
“Me too.” You pant as your second orgasm creeps up on you, the sound of your name on Aemond lips only increasing it.
“Gods!” Aemond groans out as the last of his restraint snaps and he spills into you.
His release brings you to your own, the feeling of him pulsing inside you has you seeing stars as you moan loudly, no longer caring if someone heard you.
You fall onto the bed beside him, both panting heavily. After a minute Aemond turns to his side to look down at you, your eyes meet his and you both smile warmly at eachother, nothing but love passing between you.
“I love you, (y/n).” Aemond says as he brushes your cheek with his thumb.
“I love you, Aemond.” You say back, your hand gently covering his still on your cheek.
He leans down and places a firm kiss to your lips before pulling back to admire you again.
“So what now?” You ask.
“Now?” He raises a brow before smiling again. “Now, we marry. Have our child, and live happily ever after.”
“I like the sound of that.” You smile.
**********
The wedding was very small and private, only the main royal family of King’s Landing in attendance. You would have loved to have a large wedding and a grand feast but with your, condition, it had to remain quiet to the people. You still enjoyed every minute of the day, saying your vows with the love of your life and enjoying a lovely dinner with music.
Every minute spent in your wedding chamber was also well enjoyed. You had obviously already consummated the marriage but you could not keep your hands off eachother. The night was passionate and intense.
“I want to taste you husband…” You say lowly.
“Who am I to deny you, little wife.” He smirks.
‘Little wife’, gods, the need for Aemond quickly pooled between your legs at the sound of that.
He leads you over to sit at the edge of the bed and stands in between your thighs. Seeing the way you stare up at him, your face only inches away from where he needed you most, it made his aching member press harder against his trousers.
“Take it out, little wife.” He says.
That name lit a fire inside you. You pull at the laces of his trousers and Aemond hisses when your soft hand wraps around his hardness to pull it out. Your eyes meet his and he watches you with heavy eyes as you begin slow sensual licks around his tip, he shudders when your tongue brushes over the hole. Just as Aemond is about to beg you for more, you shove him as far as you can into your mouth and he groans loudly. You continue to work him with your hands and mouth, testing and finding out what he likes.
“Fuck, I’m-“ Aemond barely chokes out the words before he’s spilling into your mouth with another loud groan.
After that Aemond took his sweet time with you. Kissing, licking, stroking, and worshipping every single inch of your body. You moaned as your hands buried into his hair, his face between your legs eating you like a man starved. One of his hands reaching up, interlocking with yours as he uses his other hand to slide his slender fingers inside you, bringing you closer and closer to the edge.
“Come for me, little wife.” Those words had you instantly soaking his face and moaning so loud you knew that the guards in the hallway were likely feeling awkward, but you could not care less.
You lost count of the amount of orgasms he coaxed from you that night. If you were not already with child, you definitely would have been after your eventful wedding night. You both felt like you could never get enough of this intimacy, this love.
The months following were extremely stressful, with the inevitable war being planned out, and Aemond being highly involved. He did his best to give you as much of his time as possible. The smile on Aemond’s face when he first felt the baby kick, was the happiest you have ever seen him. He also made sure you were well taken care of by the maids and maesters throughout the entire pregnancy.
**********
Aemond returns to bed well past the hour of the owl after a long dreadful meeting with the small council. To his surprise you were wide awake reading a book in bed with a candle lit beside you. You smile warmly when you notice him.
“What are you doing awake, little wife?”
“Sleep has been difficult lately.” You say as you rub your round belly. “The babe is going to come any day now.”
The tension releases from Aemond, thinking how grateful and lucky he was to have such a beautiful wife and a child on the way.
“What are you doing up so late, husband?” You ask.
Some of the tension returns to him as he sits down on the bed beside you with a heavy sigh.
“The small council meeting dragged on and on… my brother’s ignorance is going to lose us this war.” He sighed in annoyance.
“You should be king.” You say, a hand coming to rest on top of his.
“What?” He agreed with you of course, but it was a bold statement coming from someone else.
“You should be king, my love.” You look deeply into his eye. “Tis you who studies history and philosophy, it is you who trains with the sword, who rides the largest dragon in the world, it is you who should be king.”
His heart raced at your words, his deepest darkest thoughts he would never say aloud you were saying directly to him. He leans in and places a firm kiss to your lips to show his agreement.
“You are so perfect.” He says to you in a whisper, the words making your heart swell.
He kisses you again, this time with more intent, his tongue dancing against yours. His eye meets yours for permission to continue and you nod, biting your lip. He continues kissing you as you pull up the skirts of your night dress and he undoes his trousers and throws them to the floor. He lays behind you, reaching his arm around to lightly rub your stomach as he kisses down your arm. You both sigh in pleasure as he so very slowly enters you. The sex is slow, intentional, gentle, loving. Savouring every little moment and feeling of one another.
“Stop stop, something is wrong.” You suddenly say as a strange feeling passes through your body.
Aemond immediately stops and pulls away from you and you noticed the bed sheets are soaked.
“I think my water just broke…” You look to him.
Your panicked faces quickly turn excited and he quickly throws his pants back on before calling on the maester and servants. The babe was finally coming!
**********
Aemond paced back and forth outside the birthing chamber for hours, freezing in horror every time he heard a painful scream or cry coming from inside. You had been in there for so long, and none of it sounded good. He knew childbirth was hard and there would be a lot of pain, and he did not know how a normal birth is supposed to sound, or how long it’s supposed to take… but when Alicent came to checkup on him he could see the extreme worry on her face when he told her you were still in there and they both heard another scream of pain from the other side of the door.
More time passes, far too much time, before the chamber door finally opens and the maester came outside, shutting the door behind him.
“Well?” Aemond demands.
“My prince… I am afraid the babe refuses to come.” He explains hesitantly. “We are left now with the difficult choice to attempt saving the child… but at the cost of the mother’s life.” He explains.
Aemond freezes, his heart suddenly racing and palms sweating, his worst fear being brought to life right before him.
“Absolutely not.” He says, his voice shakey. “There must be another way.”
“I’m afraid if she cannot birth the babe naturally… there are no other options, my prince. Otherwise we may very well lose them both”
“Let me see her.” Aemond demands.
“Of course, my prince.” The maester timidly agrees and leads Aemond into the room.
Aemond enters the room to see you on the birthing bed which was drenched in blood, your face covered in sweat and exhaustion. He felt a wave of terror wash over his body at the sight. A grateful smile crosses your tired face when you see your husband.
“My love…” You sigh with a soft smile.
“Everyone out.” Aemond demands the room full of midwives and the maester.
“But my prince…” The maester says, hesitant about leaving you at this stage of the birth.
“I need a moment alone with my wife, I will call you all back in a minute. Wait outside. Now.” Aemond demands, leaving no room for argument.
The maester bows his head and everyone scrambles out of the room. The second the door shuts Aemond is on you, grabbing onto your hand as his other brushes the damp hair from your forehead.
“My love…” He looks at you with pure sadness and worry in his eyes.
“What did the maester tell you?” You mumble, barely having the strength to speak.
“They said if the babe will not come they will have to…” He tries to explain, voice trembling.
“Please... Please, do not let them cut me open. I am not ready to die Aemond…” You pant the words in a panic, tears falling down your face.
“No, you will not die my love. You cannot die…” He says, kissing your forehead and hugging you close as he fights off his own tears. “But in order to live, to remain here with me, to remain here with our child…” Aemond takes your face in his hands. “You have to push.”
“I can’t…” You burst into tears. “I have tried Aemond I really am trying. I can’t… I can’t…”
“Yes you can.” He says reassuringly as he still holds your face. “I am here now, I am not going anywhere. You can do this, (y/n). You must…” His voice breaks at the last words and a tear falls down his face.
You sniffle and nod your head in agreement.
“Alright, come!” Aemond calls to the door.
The maester and midwives quickly file back into the room, finding their positions again. The maester looks to Aemond for an answer to his earlier suggestion.
“We are going to try pushing once more.” Aemond states.
The maester looks concerned and hesitant in the idea, but does not try to argue any further with Aemond. With your husband by your side, your hand in his, you attempt on pushing again. You scream in pain as you push and push and push, the babe refusing to move an inch.
“I can’t do it… I can’t do it…” You sob.
“You must…” Aemond whispers the gentle reminder in your ear. “Please…”
You must do it, you must live... Aemond could not even consider what he would do if you did not.
You begin to push again, putting every ounce of strength you have into it, you scream as your body feels like it’s being torn open, squeezing Aemond’s hand so hard you wouldn’t be surprised if you broke the bones. You take one quick breath before continuing to push and push, fighting through the blinding pain. Finally, you feel a huge wave of relief wash over your body and the sound of crying assures you that it’s all over. Your heavy eyes refuse to open and your body begins to feel even weaker.
“What is happening?” You hear Aemond ask in a panic.
“She has lost far too much blood.” The maester responds.
That is the last thing you hear before you completely lose consciousness. You don’t see or hear them basically shoving Aemond out of the room despite his protests, or the tears in his terrified eye as he stares at your limp body laying still in the bed.
**********
When you come to, you are still laying in bed but the sheets are now clean and your night dress had been changed. You see Aemond standing on the other side of the room, facing the window.
“Aemond?” You call out weakly.
His head quickly shoots to your direction before he walks over, holding a bundle in his arms.
“My love, how are you feeling?”
“Fine.” You give a soft weak smile. “Is this our child?”
“Our son…” You repeat lovingly as he places the babe in your arms.
You look at your beautiful baby boy with his silver gold hair and your heart soars, even more so when you glance back to your husband who’s now sitting beside you on the bed. Your heart felt so full in this moment. Everything you had been through to get to this very moment, was all worth it.
Summary: Aemond is plagued with doubts and seeks refuge in the one place where he is at peace with himself; between his beloved wife's legs.
Pairing: Aemond x fem!reader
Word Count: 2.6k
Warnings: MDNI, 18+ only!! this is so in Aemond's thoughts, self doubt, lack of remorse, smut, oral (f receiving), talk of sex, slight breeding kink, Aemond is lost in his head and obsessed with eating his wife out, Aemond may be prince regent of Westeros but he is king of eating pussy, unedited, hmm kinda just porn really - let me know to add anything if need be!
Author's Note: Came home drunk (typos??? potentially. unnecessary droning on??? potentially.) after a couple cocktails and had the urge to erm write. About oral sex specifically, of course. Anywayssss, enjoy (I hope!) - xoxo kisses!!! <3
Masterlist!
Sometimes Aemond let his mind wander to all that could have been and all that could come to be had he only made his decisions differently. He seldom felt regret - never felt as if he would change the things that have led him towards the path of greatness he was on. But what ifs and the memory of failures are as stubborn as a newborn plague and Aemond was just as vulnerable to illness as those whom he revered and those whom he detested.
It was warm under the light of the setting sun, a kiss on his skin as Aemond rested against the balcony at the window and watched over what he longed to have for himself. If things had been different, at any time and any place, where would he be now?
The thought of living his life without his injury had come to sicken him but it lingered at the back of his mind. Had certain moments taken a different turn, would he still feel the need to drive people to respect him through fear and prove himself worthy at every chance he could find? Aemond swallowed at the thought. And he stood there, looking to the skies as if the clouds could free him from the suffocation of the feelings that had haunted him since the night he lost his eye.
Feelings of failure, feelings of defeat, feelings of fear and feelings of humiliation.
Even after meeting you, and understanding that loving you meant different things - things he wasn’t familiar with, things he wasn’t sure he was capable of becoming familiar with - the lingering thought of what if was all consuming.
Aemond could hear you coming seconds before you were beside him. He was thankful you stood by his side, silently and wordlessly as your eyes dragged across his face, analysing what you could of his thoughts from his perfected emotionless expression. Quiet moments like this, where Aemond got lost in his mind grew fewer at each move he made within this war.
But here you both were, silently in each other’s company. Aemond was a passionate lover. But he was also at times a cold and imperfect partner. And some of those times where he retreated into himself, although he had rarely lost control of himself in front of you, left him vexed at your presence.
Because to Aemond, you were perfect. Frustrating at times but that was often the fault of his own lack of patience and tolerance. You were, at the end of the day, too perfect. He saw your compassion, your empathy, your kindness. And he saw your strength, your wit, your fearsome loyalty.
And here Aemond was, unable to even regret many of the times he acted without any of those perfect things. After the fate that Lucerys had met, Aemond found he could not find it in himself to feel remorse for much else.
You let your fingers graze along the leather sleeve on his arm, your light touch burning into his skin through the fabric. He closed his eye and kept it closed for minutes of silence that felt like hours before he spoke lowly.
“I have done bad things.”
You sucked in a breath. “Would you be here today if you had not done those things?”
“No, you do not understand me. I cannot bring myself to care for some of the vile things that I have done. That I have caused. I should care, should I not?”
Releasing a long sigh, you shifted on your feet. Aemond knew that you were different to him. You didn’t agree with many of his actions and decisions but you knew there was nothing you could do except to be there when he needed you. It had taken time to realise you couldn’t change the way he thought, the way he felt, the way he reacted to things - you weren’t sure if you truly, deeply wanted to take on that burden.
As Aemond grew more honest with you, you had come to realise that when it came down to it he was not a completely good man. But he was good to you and while Aemond saw your strength, you knew you were weak when it came to him. Loyalty and love for your husband burned painfully in your chest no matter his imperfections and you never bothered to try to justify it.
“Perhaps if I had acted differently, somewhere,” Aemond’s words were rushed, a switch from his normally slow drawl. He would curse himself tomorrow for his moment of weakness but he couldn’t ignore the pit in his stomach. “Then I would not be the way that I am now.”
You stared at him for a moment. His expression was of ice and had you not known him the way that you do, then you would never have noticed the confliction in his eyes. “There is no use-”
“I know there is no use in thinking about what may have been, I know,” Aemond spat.
“Alright,” you paused. “But you will never know what could have changed. You made your decisions, you were the author of your own fate, Aemond. ‘Tis the way things go - we must face it. What difference would it make if things could have been different? You cannot undo what you have already done.”
Aemond’s jaw ticked and he moved so that his arm hung at your waist. You briefly glanced back inside at the servant who prepared your nightly cup of tea at your bedside. Aemond seldom made a show of your relationship when you weren’t entirely alone. Nevertheless, you didn’t let your mind linger on that fact.
He gazed down at you, his ocean-strong eye never failing to make your breath hitch and goosebumps to rise on your skin. You were relieved that he seemed to agree with your words. Aemond’s shoulders had lost much of the tension they held and the start of the sweet smile that was shared only with you played on his lips.
He had to try hard to believe what you had told him. Because here you were, no matter what he did and no matter his lack of conviction, at his side and wrapped around his finger. You were the calming breeze that cooled his heat, you were the shade that gave him relief from the scorching sun and you were the water that flushed the burn from his skin. Aemond was not one to be an emotional man but he knew that he had love for you and your endless, boundless support. And he dreamed of how he would share with you the world that will one day be at his feet.
“I shall share your bed tonight, my love.” Aemond’s words were as they always have been; smooth with honey but laced with venomous promises. You bit back a smile as he pulled you inside, addicted to whatever venom dripped from his words, from his eye, from him. “And that shall serve as all the reminder that I need to be sure I have not been so misguided that I have lost my way to no return.”
When he pressed his nose into the crook of your neck, dragging it along your soft skin, he inhaled deeply. Aemond thought for a moment of how perfect it would be if he could bottle your scent and keep it with him forever. A reminder of the woman for whom he wished he could become a good, honest man.
Your body felt so familiar to him that it made his mind turn quiet and Aemond could only think of having you closer, closer, closer. And it was never close enough, no matter how hard he squeezed at the flesh of your hips to pull you in, no matter how your breath tickled his skin and how your eyelashes fluttered against his hair as he dragged his lips over your shoulder and along the side of your neck.
If there were no roof atop your heads, you would have thought that it rained flames onto the both of you and to relieve the burn of it, you melted into Aemond, pressing yourself further into him and squirming for more as he grabbed at your nightclothes to toss them to the floor.
You tugged hopelessly at the buckles on his tunic, whining. “Get it off, Aemond.”
Aemond didn’t need to be told a second time because hardly a moment later he was as naked as you were, pushing you until the back of your legs hit the edge of your bed and you fell onto it gently. A strained groan fell from his lips as he let you pull him down with you, holding his face in your hands as he held himself above you with an arm beside your head. You gently removed the leather that covered his glimmering sapphire, sighing contently.
Admiring Aemond as he was, bare and honest and beautiful had become your favourite way to see him. Without the need to hide any part of himself from you.
Smirking, he let his lips graze yours softly. It was a stark contrast to the way Aemond’s other hand was roughly grabbing at whatever flesh he could hold, squeezing you and sending shockwaves straight through to your core.
You could barely get the words out of you. “Kiss me–Gods, kiss me.”
And he did kiss you, his lips desperately clashing against yours with a new kind of vigour. Aemond rarely kissed you with such force, such rage and such raw, unfettered need. But as his teeth knocked against yours, catching your lip in between and drawing blood, he entertained the thought that maybe he did regret something. All of the kisses he never had the chance to give you.
The air between you was charged with something sharp and electric, a primal energy that clouded your head and had you gasping Aemond’s name at the way he brushed his knuckle against your core. Normally, he would have taken his time with you. But despite the fact that you had the entire night ahead of you, Aemond was rushed and impatient.
“Always so ready for me,” he murmured, taking in a sharp breath as his fingers rubbed through your slick folds, pulling a soft whine from you. Aemond’s cock twitched at the perfect sound and he ground his hips against the plush of your thigh. He dragged the pads of his fingers teasingly up from the slit of your hole to the hood of your clit, drawing teasing circles so softly you could have been convinced his touch was a figment of your fantasies.
“Aemond, please-”
He shushed you softly. “Patience, my sweet.”
Aemonds lips, wet on your jaw, travelled down the expanse of your neck and over your collarbones. He nibbled at you, amused at the way you arched and squirmed, replacing his fingers with his cock and sliding it against your clit. When his lips met your nipple he sucked harshly with a flick of his tongue, giving your right breast hardly enough attention before turning to the other.
It sent shivers down your spine and you were sure Aemond felt you shudder against him when his lips travelled lower, leaving a wet trail down your skin until he was finally just below your naval. Aemond turned his head, his teeth pinching the flesh of your thigh harshly, just above where your thigh curved into your pelvis. You squealed.
“Hm,” He chuckled darkly, smiling up at you and shaking his head with a deep tsk when your legs instinctively moved to shut. His hands groped at your thighs and pushed them up so that you were folded yet entirely spread in front of him. “I will fuck you with my tongue first. And my fingers. Then I will fuck you with my cock and fill you with my seed, only after I have made you quiver and shake from the pleasure of my mouth on your perfect cunt.”
Aemond’s eye dropped to your sopping cunt and his words coiled in his throat, coming out as a muffled moan. You gasped as he lewdly spat, his head falling downwards in an instant, wave after wave of pleasure stealing the oxygen from your lungs as he sucked on your pussy, tongue weaving across your clit and back down.
All of the loud doubts that plagued his mind turned into whispers of incoherence the moment his mouth met the velvety skin of your womanhood, Aemond’s favourite place to lose himself when his thoughts became unbearable. The tangy, sweet taste of your arousal pulled a deep growl from his chest and when your hips jerked against his face, he wrapped a strong arm over your hips to hold you in place.
As Aemond’s tongue dipped into you, his lips latched on the expanse of your cunt, you let out a cry, your hand falling to his hair and pulling hard. Your body was hot with desire, thighs squeezing your husband’s head as he greedily feasted on the most intimate parts of you. He pulled away for one quick second to catch his breath before burying himself in you once again, the obscene smacking sounds of how he relentlessly sucked and lapped at your slit.
For such vulgar noises, they had become increasingly beautiful.
“I dream of staying here forever,” Aemond’s words were muffled, difficult to hear over your own whimpers and the movement of his lips on your folds had you bucking to follow his mouth. He hid his grin in your wetness. “I can do no wrong with the taste of you on my tongue.”
The pleasure that Aemond always submerged you was almost becoming overwhelming and you lost the ability to form sentences, muttering and mumbling in response. He could decipher his name, falling for your flushed lips so many times, and his eye flickered up to watch how your body climbed to the highest point of satisfaction where such a sinful act became heavenly.
You were always beautiful, Aemond thought. But you were at your most beautiful when you came undone for him, lost in the throes of bliss and grasping at him as if you could not live for another second without his touch. He carried you through your orgasm, unrelenting as he greedily devoured every part of your pussy, looking up at you with his darkened eye and shining sapphire, strands of his hair that had come loose sticking to the wetness on his jaw. Aemond relished in the strangled, melodic sounds that you made for him.
When you jerked away from him with a squeal, so sensitive when the tip of his tongue flicked against your clit that your hips bucked suddenly, Aemond pulled away while chuckling and placing featherlight kisses along your shaking thighs. He watched how your cunt continued to clench around nothing as you came down from your orgasm, the messy mixture of his spit and your arousal glistening under the light from the lamps.
You let yourself relax into the bedsheets and moved to close your legs, tugging Aemond to meet you for a kiss and giggling when he stopped to quickly wipe your slick from his face. But before your knees could come together, he caught them, settling himself in between and you could feel the steady heat from his hardened cock grazing across the outside of your slit.
“I think my pretty wife believes she is going to have a restful night,” Aemond teased against your lips, sliding a hand down between your bodies and spreading your folds once again to make way for his fingers. You shuddered against him with a mewl. “You are mistaken, my love, if you believe I will not have you full of my seed by the time I am done making love to you. I am a man of my word, am I not?”
Rating: M | This is smut! No one under 18, Minors DNI!
Summary: From the age of ten, your heart has belonged to Aemond Targaryen. As the factions of your family wage war, each fighting for the crown, all you want is to love the man you chose. | Ft. "You think I wanted to fall in love with you, of all people?" Requested by @niamh11
Warnings: Targcest, doubt, war, death (mentioned), dragon fire, inaccurate Targaryen marriage rites, PinV, oral (f!receiving), Harrenhal, light drugging (nothing happens while drugged, just sleep; only briefly mentioned). Aemond and Reader are 20.
Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!Targaryen Reader (Daemon's Daughter, Unspecified Mother - not Rhaenyra)
Word Count: 11.5k (I don't know, I blacked out)
HotD Taglist
For weeks, it felt as if every breath was filled with the scent of damp earth, the smoke of dragon fire, the copper tang of blood, or the char of wood and bone. Each was heavier than the last, harder to draw and less likely to fill your lungs, but you continued to fight to catch your breath with every moment that passed.
The stench of war, now hanging heavily over the entirety of the realm, made itself at home in the fabric of your clothes, the strands of your hair, the very pores of your skin. It haunted you in your sleep, lingered just around every corner and refused to allow you a moment of peace. Despite your reluctance to fight, to watch the realm tear itself apart, it slowly consumed every piece of your life. But the stench, while maddening, meant that you were still alive.
For now, anyway.
Once, only a few short moons ago, towns and villages near the Kingsroad found themselves on the verge of prosperity. Their proximity afforded them the coin of travelers, of weary men wandering through the realm for one reason or another and sellswords looking for work - or, more often, debauchery. None were as large as Oldtown or King’s Landing, none quite as prosperous, but it was more than could be said for other villages. There was food to eat, coin to be earned, and fun to be had; just enough for the inhabitants to consider themselves lucky.
Unfortunately, their luck only extended so far.
The all-consuming threat of dragon fire often loomed over the realm. There were many who were raised to fear the ancient beasts - and rightfully so, for their not so distant ancestors perished in flames - but, for many, the threat seemed far off.
Until smoke filled the skies and the threat that once seemed so distant now swallowed them whole.
Blackened land surrounded you at every turn. Fields, once filled with crops, reduced to nothing more than a pile of ash; pastures, once teeming with livestock, a final resting place for cleaned bones; ponds, once a source of water for the bustling village, still bubbling as it boiled. Once great buildings were nothing more than rubble, mere pieces of stone marking where they once stood, and the streets were littered with bodies still smoking.
Though the sight was growing familiar, you could still feel the bile raise in the back of your throat as you stepped across cobblestone paths in search of any survivors. The beat of your heart echoed in your ears, hammering so hard inside your chest you worried it might crack a rib, and you struggled to even your breathing as you gripped your sword.
There was no need to guess who had lain waste to the lands, no need to question those who managed to flee, those who would spend the rest of their lives searching the skies in fear. It was obvious whose work this was and your father had little problem reminding you.
“I suppose your beloved did not deem this attack worth discussion upon your last meeting,” he sneered, toeing at a large piece of melted metal. “Tell me, what is it you see in him; his devotion to senseless violence or his shameless predilection for leaving nothing but death and destruction in his wake? Your devotion to him is… baffling."
For a moment, it felt as if your heart stopped. While he had not spoken of him as anything other than a nuisance, a proverbial thorn in his side, since his refusal to allow you to marry, it was of little surprise to you that your father knew your heart still belonged to him. Most turned blind eyes - some willingly, with no desire to speak aloud your transgression; others simply allowed you to go unnoticed, expecting this behavior from the eldest child of the Rogue Prince - but you should have known there was nothing you could hide from him.
“I have loved him since we were children,” you reminded him, needlessly. “I cannot simply stop. As for what I see in him, I would say that I saw you, father,” you began, voice thick with emotion, “but something like this would require you to sully your own hands.” Despite the knot in your throat and the tears stinging the backs of your eyes, you carried on, hoping he couldn’t hear the shake of your voice. “Aemond’s crimes are his own. Yours are carried out by men who have the misfortune of trusting you.”
Daemon Targaryen had always been noted for his prowess in battle, his cunning, his silver tongue, his enjoyment of Flea Bottom. Rarely was he noted for his even temper or his devotion as a father. He loved you, and your siblings - of this you were almost certain - but you considered it evident when he chose to reach for you, hand clasped in a viselike grip on your throat, rather than his sword the moment the words left your lips.
“Mind your tongue,” he ordered, voice a low rasp as his violet eyes narrowed. “This,” he hissed, gesturing to the carnage you stood amidst, “is the work of a weak, pathetic little boy throwing a fucking tantrum. He wants war, he wants blood, he wants the crown; he knows nothing of the reality. He has chosen to burn his own kingdom for a chance to play king now that his drunken, usurper cunt of a brother has disappeared and were it not for Rhaenyra, for you, I would let him.” Daemon paused, his grip tightening on your throat - earning a sharp gasp, a desperate scrabble of your fingers, nails digging into his forearm - as his gaze burned into yours. “I once saw myself in Aemond,” he confessed, voice softening, “though there is one grand distinction. I would sacrifice the world for Rhaenyra, for our children, for you. Aemond will sacrifice you the moment you no longer serve his purpose."
A single glance around the village, around the dozen other villages you’d flown through on your patrols - on your search for Aemond, for Vhagar, for any sign of an impending Green attack - confirmed that your father spoke the truth. The Aemond you loved was long gone, replaced by a man desperately clawing for the power that now seemed well within his grasp, but you were your father’s daughter.
Dragon rider since ten, skilled with a sword, intelligent, comely gifted with a mind for strategy - it was oft whispered that you were a mirror of Daemon Targaryen. The best, and some of the worst, parts of your father were passed directly to you. And, unfortunately, that included his predilection to stubbornly listen to the thrum of your heart rather than reason.
“You act as if you have the right to shame anyone, as if you have not sacrificed many and more in the name of getting what you want,” you reminded him, nails sinking into his skin and drawing blood. The rasp of your voice was quiet, almost a whisper, but it carried through the hauntingly empty ruins as you searched his face for any hint of understanding. When you found none, you pleaded, “What would you have me do, father? Tell me, please.”
“Return to Harrenhal,” he commanded, releasing his grip on your throat, gaze never once leaving yours. “I will join you on the morrow.” For a moment, you stood toe to toe - jaw working as you contemplated speaking, wondering if you could push words past the sudden dryness of your mouth - before Daemon turned. “That is a command. Go.”
Without sparing you a second glance, Daemon stalked across the field to mount Caraxes before beginning his ascent.
Rather than immediately following the harsh command, one he would almost certainly apologize for in his own way - with an embrace, most likely, or a tale of his youth - you allowed yourself a moment. With little regard for your armor, for your sword, you sank to your knees and pressed your palms into the scorched earth and reflected on how exactly you found yourself with an aching heart.
For much of your life, your heart beat for Aemond Targaryen.
As the eldest daughter of the Rogue Prince, Lords and knights from all parts of the realm - princes from Dorne and the Free Cities - all vied for your hand, once upon a time. With every tourney or feast you attended, you were inundated with glances and introductions. Each conversation included boasts of riches and land, of family titles and pedigrees. Daemon found it intoxicating, waiting for the perfect proposal to be made, while it all mattered none to you.
The idea of marriage was one you disliked, but one you knew would become reality sooner rather than later. As a Targaryen, there were but two possibilities: your marriage would serve as a political alliance, your husband chosen for the connections he could bring the crown, the resources his house could provide; or you would marry another Targaryen, a member of your own house who could ensure your name and bloodline carried on.
Neither was appealing but a political marriage always seemed the most likely option as you viewed it as the only way your father could win favor with his brother. It was an eventuality you were prepared for as your brothers were young, and betrothed, while you knew little and less of your cousins.
Visits to the Red Keep were few and far between, only possible when your father and uncle found themselves in good spirits - or at such odds that a conversation was necessary - and even less frequent upon your father’s marriage to Rhaenyra. Alicent Hightower’s children mattered little to you at first, their existence often forgotten as you followed your father from this exile to that, but everything changed the moment Aemond claimed Vhagar.
Funerals - too many of which you’d witnessed in such a short existence - never sat well with you. They served as a reminder that while House Targaryen sat high atop the Iron Throne and soared through the skies on the backs of ancient beasts, none could escape the Stranger’s eventual embrace.
Mortality felt too heavy a thought for one so young but it was the ever present reality.
On a day that felt so heavy, so sobering, you were surprised to find any joy at all. There was so much anger, so much tension, so much sadness, that you wondered how anyone would carry on at all. But somewhere, amidst the depths of despair, you stood in awe of the timid boy who once had trouble looking you in the eye as he mounted the oldest and fiercest dragon you knew.
Aemond’s joy was almost palpable that night. His relief at having claimed a dragon - the dragon - set you at ease, thrilled you almost more than claiming your own dragon, and you watched happily as he circled Driftmark. Vhagar carried him around the island and their cries, his of triumph, carried on the wind. It filled your chest with a warmth you’d never known, a joy that felt almost suffocating. The sight of him, fearless and finally free of the cruel teasing of his brother and yours, endeared him to you in a way you never bothered to examine.
Upon his return, a split second after his feet hit the sand and your eyes met, you pulled him into your arms. With one embrace, you saw a future, a life of love - of joy, of dragon rides and quiet evenings - and you hoped he might feel the same.
It was fitting, you supposed, for the love story you always wished for to be marked by fire and blood.
The first and only time you hoped that you might marry for love while fulfilling your duty to your house ended in bloodshed. Though you were both but ten years old, you learned an important lesson; hope is not meant for a Targaryen.
Driftmark, in hindsight, began it all - the start of your love story, the seeds of ruin that would someday fell it - but you were nothing, if not stubborn.
Despite the events of that night, despite your father marrying Rhaenyra and the boys becoming your brothers, Aemond knew you shouldered no blame. Though he wanted an apology, an acknowledgement of wrongdoing, he was satisfied; an eye for Vhagar, of all dragons, was a worthwhile price to pay, that much he confided in the first of many letters you shared.
The letters were flowed easily and, though most contained trivial thoughts that mattered little to anyone but the pair of you, they meant the world to you. For the first time in a long time, you felt content - happy, even.
As you grew older, you understood little and less of the rift between your family. Your relationship with Aemond was easy, almost effortless, but everything else seemed so needlessly complicated. There were apologies owed and egos too fragile to repent for past sins; a simple problem with an even simpler solution. However, it seemed as if all were too self-involved to see the simplicity.
Viserys, with his ailing health and reputation as peacetime king, wanted nothing more than for peace amongst his own family.
For all the harsh words and bitter distance, for all the sleepless nights and long fights, for all the accusations and moments of mistrust, Viserys and Daemon truly loved one another. There was nothing, in the end, that could destroy their relationship.
That was why, you supposed, when Viserys suggested it and you insisted, Daemon agreed to send you to ward in King’s Landing.
The gesture was one, both you and Viserys insisted, meant to unite your families. Your willingness to step into a proverbial viper’s den, however, did little to ease the tension that grew so thick you feared it may someday choke you.
In hindsight, you knew the damage was already done. The groundwork for the coming war, the brewing discontent and deep mistrust, was laid long before you entered the picture. Perhaps it was naivety, or a brotherly desire to make up for past mistakes, that lead Viserys to believe the decision would invoke fondness between the halves of your families - or perhaps less bloodshed when the reckoning finally arrived - but a Dreamer he was not.
Most believed disaster loomed over the Red Keep but none could have predicted just how horrifying it would be.
Upon your arrival to the Red Keep, you were reminded of how long it had been since you wandered its halls. Little of your childhood was spent there, visits grew fewer and farther between, but very little remained of image your mind conjured. There was no warmth, no cheer, no comfort. Though autumn had scarcely begun, the bitter cold of winter already enveloped the Keep and its inhabitants.
Viserys himself hailed your arrival as a cause for celebration. Helaena, too, found joy in your presence as you served as her closest friend and confidante. Aegon, now eight-and-ten, all but ignored your presence, as did his mother. And the one you missed the most seemed most outwardly indifferent to your presence.
Aemond spoke less than he did as a child, his words carefully measured, though his confidence had grown with him. He carried himself in a manner befitting a prince, with set shoulders and a keen violet eye scanning his surroundings at every turn. And while his brother spent his days deep in his cups or between the thighs of paid women, Aemond’s days were spent honing his abilities. He trained with Cole in the yard, studied with the maesters in the library, and listened intently to every conversation he could catch regarding matters of the realm.
Though you spoke often through raven, the comfort did not quickly or easily extend to face-to-face interactions.
Despite the initial tension that arrived with you from Dragonstone, Aemond graced you with his presence more often than not. He sat with you in the library, body occupying the seat beside yours despite a handful of empty chairs scattered about the room, and went flying with you as often as you wished. At mealtimes, he sat at your side - his violet eye trained on you, observing but rarely speaking more than a handful of words - and walked the gardens with you after breaking your fast.
There were moments of bitterness, bouts of anger where your tempers flared - particularly in the beginning, and often because of one sibling or another - and more moments spent hurling cruel words at one another.
But with every moon that passed, you settled into a life far different than any you could’ve imagined. And with every moment spent by Aemond’s side, you knew it was love - real and true - you’d found all those years ago. Love lightened your spirit, brought you a warmth and a comfort you never knew existed, and joy found you despite the chill of the Red Keep. Aemond was the one you wanted and, delighted, you learned he felt the same.
Yet, neither of you forgot that hope was more dangerous a beast than any dragon.
Hope abandoned you both as you sought permission to marry. Though Viserys was overjoyed, thrilled by the prospect of uniting the family through the joining of your hands, there were few others who shared his enthusiasm. The factions of your family agreed on little as of late but Alicent and Daemon found themselves in agreement at long last; both would sooner see their children miserable, alone or trapped in loveless marriages, than allow them to marry.
It seemed as if everyone, save Viserys, shared the sentiment. And, as you gathered for what would - unbeknownst to you all - become the last supper, none were shy about sharing it.
Piece by piece, the future you foolishly allowed yourself to imagine shattered into shards that pierced your heart deeper and deeper. With every argument against your betrothal, with every sharp word uttered and eventual punch thrown, you felt the fate you desperately hoped to avoid closing in on you. And as your family disappeared from the Red Keep, eager to return to Dragonstone - with a parting command that you begin preparing to join them - you took to the skies to ruminate.
Naively, perhaps, you imagined you could have won them over.
There were a thousand arguments to be made in support of your marriage to Aemond, the least of which was the love you shared. Though Daemon mistrusted his nephew, he would’ve seen reason - someday, perhaps - that Aemond loved you, that he would never cause you harm. Though your brothers disliked Aemond, the result of childhood animosity fed to you all by adults, you could have shown them how happy Aemond made you. And though Rhaenyra found herself wary, she knew your marriage would provide stability and comfort to Alicent upon her ascension.
If only Viserys had lived just a while longer.
Viserys’ death had long been a matter of when. In the immediate aftermath, you found yourself wondering how things might have changed had Rhaenyra remained at the Keep - if he’d died sooner rather than later, if she’d been the one to share his final moments. But there was little time to dwell when you suddenly found yourself considered an enemy to the crown.
One moment, you were lingering in the Dragonpit - Aemond’s hand on your cheek, his forehead pressed to yours as he assured you there was nothing that could keep you apart - and the next, members of the Kingsguard were dragging you through the Keep to lock you in your room.
For several long hours, there was no explanation. Aemond was kept from you, sent from the Keep in search of his brother, and you were kept under strict guard. Despite the silence, you knew with great certainty that Viserys was dead and your stomach churned with fear of what was to come. And despite yourself, you held desperately to the hope that the great houses would remember their oaths to uphold Rhaenyra as the rightful heir.
Abandon all hope, should you wish to survive.
None knew what Otto Hightower intended to do with you - for it was, most certainly, he who masterminded Aegon’s ascension and he who planted the seeds of mistrust in you as a suitable match for his grandson - but you considered yourself blessed to escape that fate, nonetheless.
A knight of the Kingsguard facilitated your escape, granted you and Rhaenys the freedom necessary to flee King’s Landing. Rhaenys herself facilitated the liberation of your dragons, neither of whom you intended to leave without. And in the blink of an eye, every aspect of your life changed. War was nigh, closer than ever before, and though you escaped the Red Keep, hope held you prisoner.
For a blissful moment, little of your relationship with Aemond changed.
There were ravens - messages written in High Valyrian, now of greater significance than ever before - and meetings arranged in secluded woods. There were longing glances exchanged, fleeting touches and soft kisses, embraces you once refused out of some sense of propriety. Words of love were whispered and promises, bound to be broken, were made. There was even a dream, only spoken under cover of darkness, of finding a septon to marry you in a desperate bid to end the war before it began in earnest. But the storm itself had only just begun.
The question was never when, nor if, blood would be drawn; it was always who would draw it. Most feared it would be Daemon, or perhaps Aegon - both quick to anger, to act, desperate to prove themselves. But it was of little surprise to anyone, save you, that it was Aemond who began the Dance.
Whispers filled the land and the halls of Dragonstone echoed with the title that chipped at the already shattered pieces of your heart; Aemond One-Eye became Aemond the Kinslayer.
Most believed it was a deliberate act, retribution for the eye Lucerys stole as a boy. Others, an act of provocation to draw Rhaenyra out of hiding. Regardless of motive, nearly all found themselves in agreement that Aemond committed the most grievous sin. Though it was a compelling argument, one you found yourself struggling to deny when Jacaerys confronted you, you hoped it was not true.
Aemond longed for an apology, an acknowledgement that he was wronged. That much you knew to be true. But he was not a murderer, not one to cut down a child in cold blood.
Three long months of piecemeal battles followed Lucerys death - Visenya’s death - and, despite the damage done and the fear beginning to grip the realm, there was little to be done to keep you away from Aemond. You continuously found one another, seeking solace where you knew it was guaranteed, and he swore Lucerys’ death was a tragic mistake. He apologized, sincerely, and you believed him.
Love, perhaps, was more dangerous than hope for it could make even the sharpest eye blind.
As you glanced around the village, reduced to nothing - to ash, to rubble, to ruin - you wondered if it was love that blinded you involuntarily or a choice made to protect what remained of your fragile heart.
Every sign that Aemond had changed, that he was no longer the boy you fell in love with but a man grown into a stranger, was there. And as you stood, limbs trembling as you realized an inn had become a graveyard, you wondered if he’d ever been the man you believed him to be.
Perhaps it was hope, a desperate desire for a fairytale you long ago accepted you would never have, or perhaps it was naivety that blinded you. While others saw a waking nightmare, a terror to behold, you saw a man in desperate need of comfort. While others saw a threat, you saw a man who needed a gentle hand to guide him to the light. While others saw a raging storm, threatening to spring forth and destroy everything in its path, you found yourself trapped directly in the ruinous calm of the eye.
Aemond was, you truly believed, good. Somewhere beneath the facade he wore, the bravado that kept his shoulders straight and his lips narrowed into a thin line, was a delicate countenance you’d witnessed. But as you gathered yourself, scrubbed at your cheeks with the hem of your sleeve and swiped ash from your gloved hands on the fabric of your coat, you wondered just how deeply it was buried.
Village after village had been burned, thousands of innocents killed in cold blood, and to what end? There was no question who torched the villages, not pretending the offense was committed at Rhaenyra’s command.
All knew it was Aemond Targaryen, the One-Eyed Prince - Kinslayer, attempted Kingslayer - who singlehandedly destroyed them all.
Death and destruction marked his path, nothing left for you to find other than rubble and ash. It made you sick, turned your stomach and left an acidic burn in the back of your throat, but you couldn’t help wondering why.
As you mounted your dragon to return to Harrenhal, body present but mind far away, little made sense to you. Aegon was gone, still missing after weeks of searching; Alicent and Otto, for all their determination, would never see the realm reduced to ash; and Criston Cole would rather fight, march on with a host of men and a strategy rather than torch villages with little rhyme or reason. There was no plausible explanation for the campaign, no reasonable excuse for the destruction you found awaiting you at every turn.
All that remained was the truth; each and every village burned was a choice Aemond made.
The realization that every heinous act you’d stumbled across in your search for Aemond and Vhagar - for Aegon, for Criston Cole, for a Green army you began to imagine would never materialize - was his froze the very blood in your veins. It made each beat of your heart more painful than the last, each a little too fast and hard enough you feared your ribs might crack, and you fought bitter tears as you flew toward Harrenhal.
Only weeks ago, Aemond pleaded with you. He urged you to abandon your family and give yourself to him - your hand, your body, your dragon - and join his cause, not his brother’s. It was heartfelt, soft, emotional, convincing. He promised that you would rule as his queen, that your family would be forgiven and peace would return to the realm, if you would simply give in to him. And for a long moment, you considered his plea. So strongly did you consider accepting, you gathered your things and crossed through the dilapidated corridors of Harrenhal with every intention of taking flight and joining him.
In fact, you made it to the gate before the little voice in your head gave you pause.
Alys found you in the courtyard, bag tossed to the ground and shoulders shaking with quiet sobs, sat before the Weirwood tree. With a few soft words, she reminded you of your place - of your family, of your fight - and lead you to bed before Daemon could find you.
Briefly, as you soared through the cool, late afternoon air, you wondered if the destruction was your fault. Perhaps your rejection ignited the flame of his temper and sent him on a rampage. But you believed you knew him too well to entertain that train of thought for longer than a moment. Aemond had proven himself to be volatile, dangerous, but there had to be a reason for the destruction he rained.
Whatever it was, it had nothing to do with you and much and more to do with his own campaign for the crown - a campaign none knew existed until the power he so desired fell straight into his hands.
There was little time to dwell on Aemond’s aspirations, however, as the great ruins of Harrenhal entered your sight.
Resting in a field, not far from the charred remnants of the castle, was Vhagar. She slept, unbothered, by the beating wings of your own dragon - a scent she recognized, a scent she knew offered no threat - and you felt your pulse jump as you grounded your own dragon just outside the walls of the once great castle.
Where Vhagar went, Aemond went - a fact all knew. And what Aemond wanted, he got. It was only a matter of time before he came for you, you realized, just as you realized the choice to join him was little more than an illusion. The decision to be his was made long ago, by a lovestruck fool who believed in hope and happy endings. The consequences would be felt by a woman whose sight had been restored.
There was no use in attempting to flee. He’d seen you arrive and would doubtlessly follow, so you steeled yourself and made the short trek to the ruins of the castle courtyard.
With your blade drawn and your ears ringing, heart hammering so loud you feared he might hear over the wind howling around you, you stepped through the gate. Despite the persistent chill in the air, the bile rising in the back of your throat, you felt impossibly warm - burning from within, fear lapping at your skin like the hottest flames of dragon fire.
Aemond didn’t bother turning from the Weirwood, hands remaining folded behind his back as dead earth crunched beneath your boots. “I wondered if Daemon would dare face me himself,” he began, voice soft and carrying on the cold wind, “of if he would be craven and allow his beloved daughter to return to me.”
It was apparent he thought you knew - that Daemon knew - he’d arrived at Harrenhal. And you had no intention of correcting him as you tightened your grip on your sword. Instead, you laughed; a brittle, hollow sound you knew he would see through.
“My father is not afraid of you.” Every step you took, sword clasped in your hands - clutched like a lifeline, as if you had any chance against him in battle - the harder it became to catch your breath. “He does not consider you at all. You are nothing more than a pest to be swatted in his eyes; that is why I am here.” A lie, something you both knew, as Daemon understood exactly who his nephew had become, what kind of man he’d grown to be.
The understanding was one he attempted to share with you, one he begged you to see, but the three of you shared a common weakness; love.
Daemon, for all his gestures and his promises, would never love anyone more than himself as only he could protect his own heart. You would never love anyone more than Aemond, despite his flaws and his mistakes, as he’d captured your heart and refused to set it free. And Aemond? He would never love anyone more than he loved the image of himself wearing a crown.
Seated amidst the ruins of a small village, lingering with the ghosts of lives lost in an awful game, you found that understanding for yourself. Though Aemond professed his love for you - and felt it, of that you were certain, even if it was not the love you dreamt of, not the love you wanted - you knew that a piece of him saw you as a little more than a pawn. The war that raged around you was bigger than you, both pawns to be knocked around a board at the mercy of the gods, but he still fancied himself a player rather than a piece.
Love clouded your judgement, cast a rosy hue over the deep gray of your world, and you almost hated to see it go.
Without it, you saw the blackened hull of Harrenhal and the jaded, empty husk of a man Aemond had become. The man you loved was gone, the heart that beat in time with yours was no more. Instead, stood before you was a man who sent a thrill of fear shooting down the base of your spine.
If Daemon had known the fate that awaited you at Harrenhal, he would’ve sent you to Dragonstone, to the Keep, to the Reach, the Vale, the North - somewhere, anywhere other than into the hands of the man who would destroy you.
Daemon hadn’t known and neither had you. But if you had, you knew you still would’ve flown straight into his trap.
Silence, thick and tense with an energy you’d never before felt, enveloped you both, broken only by the call of your dragon - cries that sank into your heart like knives, plunging deeper and deeper with every beat - before, at long last, Aemond turned to face you.
That searching violet eye fell to your sword, amusement clear in the raise of his brow and the way his mouth twisted into something resembling a smirk. “Look at you,” he declared, gaze sweeping across your armor of red and black. “My beautiful Fierce Princess.” He took a single step forward, huffing a breath that could pass for laughter when you rocked back onto your heel, and hummed. “I always knew that you would be mine."
“I belong to no man.” The declaration escaped as little more than a whisper, leagues away from the confidence you hoped to project, but there was little use in denying him.
Aemond was the one person who knew each and every inch of you. Every detail - no matter how small - had been committed to memory somewhere in the years you’d loved one another. Though you had not yet given yourself to him, he was more familiar with your skin, your mind, your heart than any other could ever hope to be. If anyone were to see through a false act of bravado, it would be him.
“Mm.” He held his laughter, an act to spare your feelings, though his violet eye shimmered with a mirth that seemed rare these days - a mirth you once considered yourself lucky to witness - as he stepped closer. “Sheath your blade,” he commanded, voice soft but firm as he easily brushed past you. “I would not harm you, my love.”
Disregarding the command, you kept your sword in hand as you followed him through the dark, damp corridors. There was little light and less company, something you had yet to grow used to.
Though you knew you would find nothing before you began to search, you could not stop yourself from glancing around. Desperately, you hoped for a glimpse of a familiar face - Simon, his men, Alys - but the pit in your stomach only sank deeper as you entered the empty shell of the dining room.
“If you are searching for the witch, she’s gone. Ser Strong, as well. They all seemed… content to die,” he reveled, tone almost pitying as he reached for the carafe on the table. “Has my uncle treated them so poorly?”
“They’re dead,” you repeated, whisper echoing through the empty halls as he began to fill two glasses.
“Mm. Regretful business,” he sighed, turning to offer you a glass - one you took without thought, the action so natural you might’ve forgotten the setting had it not felt so stifling even amidst the cool breeze floating through the halls. “It is a shame they had to die,” he lamented, lips twisting into a rueful pout, “but between this… dwelling and what is to come, I consider it a merciful alternative.”
“What’s to come?” The question escaped before you could stop it, before you could convince yourself to swing - to end the battle before it began - but Aemond was unsurprised.
“Harrenhal can hold a great host. Whoever controls that host, controls the realm,” he reminded you, pausing only to sip his wine. “My brother was weak,” he continued, a soft hum of disappointment punctuating his words. “He was impulsive and undisciplined, unsuited for the crown. He would not have lasted as king. Perhaps dragon fire was a blessing, a suitable end to his reign.”
“Aemond…” For just a moment, you caught a glimpse of the man you loved as you faltered - as your feet carried you closer, as you sheathed your sword and reached for his cheek. “The villages,” you whispered, “the small folk, Simon, Alys; why?”
Aemond leaned into your touch, warmth of his cheek bleeding into your palm as your thumb brushed the ride of his scar. His violet eye fluttered shut, just for a moment, before he sighed. “I intended only to occupy Daemon, to keep him far from Rhaenyra as she attempted to take the Keep. He has long wanted battle; I chose to give it to him. He now has a cause worth fighting for.”
With a hand on your waist, fingers pressing into the heavy material of your coat, Aemond drew to his full height. “Why go to these lengths for the crown?” A large hand lifted to your cup, nudged it to your mouth, and you took a sip without thought before lamenting, “You could have done much and more without it.”
“You know nothing of being denied,” he whispered, voice as soft as it was cutting. “You have been given everything you could have ever wanted. Princes fought for your hand, lords tripped over themselves to wed you; the word ‘no’ means little and less to you.” He urged you to take another sip of your wine, the bitter taste lingering on your tongue as he tipped his head to meet your eyes. “I suppose I am also to blame as I have never refused you anything, nor will I ever. But the crown has always been meant for me, just as you have."
Another insistent press of his fingers saw you drain your cup, casting it aside the moment the liquid disappeared, and you flinched as it clattered to the ground. “You’re wrong,” you whispered, swallowing a gasp as his thumb brushed a drop of wine from your bottom lip. “The only thing I’ve ever wanted, really and truly, I was denied. I’ve only ever asked for your hand, for your love, for you. But I did not set fire to the realm, to the innocents whose paths the gods deemed unfortunate enough to set in my way. I did not betray my brother, my father, my queen. I tried reason, again and again, and held steadfast to hope that our families might see what we have always known.”
“And what did hope earn you, my love? Your father’s ire, your siblings disappointment, your realm’s division. Hope is for the foolish. You must take what you want and offer no apology,” he insisted, forehead dipping to press to yours. His hair, a cascade of white, curtained you - hid the blurring reality that surrounded you from view - as his nose brushed yours. “Everything I have done, it has been for us.”
The words, a soft declaration that should have filled your frozen limbs with an overwhelming warmth, made little sense as your thoughts began to muddle together. The ground beneath your feet trembled, your limbs suddenly felt boneless, and your tongue began to feel too large for your mouth.
Focus grew more and more difficult, a monumental feat with every breath you inhaled through wind-chapped lips, as you attempted to blink away the haze beginning to cloud your vision.
“I wanted love,” you whispered, voice distorted in your own ears. “But do you think I wanted to fall in love with you, of all people? Hope has earned me nothing, yet I continue to cling to it and hope that the boy I fell in love with will someday return to me.”
“I have never left,” Aemond assured you, though his voice sounded far away. “And I never will. We shall spend the rest of our lives together.”
As the world began to crumble around you, as your vision blurred and your ears rang, as your heart slowed and your breathing grew labored, your legs gave out. Despite Aemond’s grip, your body connected with the floor - your knees pressed hard against the broken concrete, your cheek caught the blunt edge of the table - and in an instant, everything ceased to exist.
For a blissful few moments, there was nothing.
There was no war, no death, no fire or blood or ash. There was no king, no crown, no throne. In the softness of your dreams, in the depths of your mind, there was little more than love. Aemond’s touch against your skin was soft, eager, as he committed your body to memory. His gaze was loving, reverent. The vision was dark but you felt it all so immensely.
When you awoke, you realized that it was no dream at all. Aemond sat at the side of your bed, one calloused hand stroking your skin - fingers careful as they avoided the tender skin of your cheek, the dried blood at your temple, the bruise you knew was beginning to form. “Rest well, my love?”
The dark of the room made it difficult to see and the fog still clouding your mind held tight. Your tongue still felt too large for your mouth, too dry, but you persisted. Hoarsely, you whispered, “This was a trap.”
Aemond shifted, his weight dipping the bed but leaving you undisturbed as he brushed hair from your forehead. He was clad in a shirt and pants - missing his sword, his coat, his eyepatch - and his hair fell across his shoulders. He was beautiful, as ethereal as you’d ever seen him, but the warmth you once felt was now replaced with a feeling of dread as he hummed. “It was,” he admitted, no longer bothering to pretend as his thumb swiped at your bottom lip.
“You… you poisoned me.” There was no venom in your accusation, only confusion as your mind struggled to catch up to the moment at hand. “The wine…”
“I did.” Another easy admission of guilt, this one accompanied by a flicker of his eye to meet yours. “I needed to make arrangements,” he reasoned. “I thought it kinder than locking you in a cell.”
There was no emotion in his eye, no inflection in his tone. He simply stated a fact, but you felt your heart begin to race once more as you struggled to sit upright. “I thought you loved me,” you continued, body aching as you moved.
“I do, more than you shall ever know.” Despite everything, despite yourself, you truly believed him. Of every answer he could have given you, of every explanation - every sharp glance or sharper word - you felt inclined to believe that whatever he’d done could be traced to his love for you. It was untraditional, but as someone who had never felt love, perhaps he did not know better.
Still, you asked, “Then why?”
“Because you are mine.” The answer was simple, easy. It was the same answer he had repeated a dozen times over.
When asked why he agreed to duel a Dornish prince who wanted your hand? You were his, not a prize to be won. When asked why he apologized to his cousins for his ‘Strong’ remarks? You were his; your family was important to you, therefore, they were important to him. When asked why he refused to offer his hand to a Baratheon, despite the crown’s need for their alliance? You were his and he was yours; his hand was already bound.
“Come,” he urged, standing from your bed and offering you a hand.
Slowly, you stood - your limbs weak and your head throbbing, mouth dry and stomach churning - as he reached to steady you. “Where are we going?”
“It is past time we were wed,” he declared, wrapping an arm around your waist to keep you upright.
With muddled thoughts and an overwhelming bout of nausea, you inhaled sharply. “There is no septon,” you reminded him, blinking hard against the sudden warm glow of a torch as you stepped into the hallway. “No one to perform a ceremony.”
“We shall marry as our ancestors did,” he reasoned, waving away the notion as he guided you with ease. “They had no need of a septon; the Old Gods witnessed their union as they shall ours.”
“My father,” you began, blinking desperately to clear the haze from your eyes, “my family.”
“In a period of war, tradition means little,” he reasoned, voice low in the silence of the ruins. “There will be another ceremony later, in view of the entire realm, if you wish. For now, we will join hands and take our place as the rightful king and queen.”
“Aemond…”
The pleading edge to your tone, the shake of your voice, was enough to finally give Aemond pause.
A large hand lifted, cradled your jaw and tipped your head. You met his violet eye with your own and searched for answers to the thousands of questions that rushed at you from every angle. Though you’d longed for nothing more than to marry him, to become one, you now wondered if you had any choice at all. Would he allow you to refuse, to escape Harrenhal and return to your family? If you gave him your hand, would he truly spare your father, your siblings, Rhaenyra? If you ran, would he allow you to survive?
Aemond posed a question before you could. “Have you changed your mind, my love? Do you no longer wish to be my wife?” There was little indication how he meant the question - little indication of his true feelings; whether he was angry or heartbroken at the thought - and you found yourself uncertain which would be worse.
But for a long moment, you considered his question.
The man stood before you was no longer one you recognized, not fully. There was a darkness now ever present, clinging to him in a way it never had before. There was no longer a levity to him, no longer a spark of joy. But for as long as you could remember, Aemond was all you’d ever wanted. And, when you truly stopped to consider, the pieces you missed the most were pieces only you had ever seen.
Vulnerability was given only under cover of darkness, whispered in the depths of the Dragonpit or hidden deep in the godswood. Joy was only shown in fleeting flashes, with red cheeks and swollen lips in stolen moments you dared spend wrapped together. Love was shown in flashes of protection, in moments of compassion. Honesty was only ever granted to you, answers given freely to all questions asked where others received scathing looks and half-truths.
Perhaps your Aemond was just that; yours and yours alone, unsuited for the eyes of outsiders.
Thoughts rushed at you, moving simultaneously too quickly and syrup slow. Everything muddled in the depths of your mind, a confusing mass of emotion and rationality - heart versus head. For the first time, Aemond truly terrified you, though there was a certainty in the back of your mind that there was no safer place for you in the realm than by his side.
Despite the fear that left your hands trembling, you swallowed your doubt. “I have only ever wanted you,” you whispered, not bothering to hide your tears. “I am yours.”
“As I am yours,” he reiterated, dipping his head to press his forehead to yours.
As water dripped around you, as rain fell over the ruins of Harrenhal, you stood in the corridor together. Uncertainty lingered in the pit of your stomach, the question of how you found yourself here plagued you, but the warmth of Aemond’s body pressed to yours did much and more to settle the wild beat of your heart.
Hope, as dangerous as it was, again found you in the ruins as you resumed your journey to the Weirwood tree.
In the courtyard, beneath the bright, full moon and freezing rain, Aemond slipped the Conqueror’s dagger from its sheath. With a steady hand, he nicked your bottom lip and your palm before carefully gathering a bead of blood on his thumb. He then offered the blade to you and though your own hand shook, you reciprocated without sparing it a second thought.
Aemond clasped your hand in his own, your palm stinging, before he leaned in to press his lips to yours. The dagger, forgotten, clattered to the ground as you pressed impossibly closer.
Weeks apart, separated by death and destruction; confusion, desperation, desire, all clouding your ability to think rationally; overwhelming, all-consuming love - the perfect storm of circumstances saw you desperate to give yourself over the flames that certainly awaited you.
There was no longer any way out, no longer any escape. Aemond was your destiny, your lives bound together years ago. The tinge of fear that pricked at your skin each time you imagined the future - each time you questioned whether you had one, whether anyone would - remained, but your fate was sealed. Rather than fight it, rather than run, you gave in.
The moment you parted, crimson staining your lips and chin, Aemond sighed. “Ābrazyrys,” he whispered, violet eye blinking against the harsh rain.
“Valzȳrys,” you replied, grateful the rain masked your tears as Aemond smiled.
“We are one,” he declared, “united as we’ve always wished.” Your hand remained clasped in his, combined blood dripping into the scorched earth as he squeezed gently. “Nothing can part us.”
“Only the gods,” you whispered, though you remained fearful that speaking it aloud might make it so.
As he always had, Aemond dared scoff at the idea. “Even the gods could not part us,” he promised, silver hair clinging to his skin as he leaned closer.
Lightning flashed, illuminating the courtyard - the ghostly ruins of the castle torched by your ancestors, the halls Daemon had begun rebuilding - but your gaze remained fixed on Aemond. Rain drenched you both, chilled you to the bone, but neither of your cared as he began to guide you back to the castle.
There was little inside that remained dry, even less that offered some semblance of comfort, but that was of little consequence to either of you as Aemond closed the door to your room. Every emotion you felt, every ounce of fear and shame and desire and desperation, gnawed at the fraying edges of your nerves and there was nothing that could be done to alleviate your suffering. The choice was made, a pact sealed in blood, and it was clear Aemond intended to further lay his claim to you - as if he did not already own you, body and heart alike.
“I had hoped it would not rain,” he sighed, taking great care to remove your coat, “but this damn place has never been dry, it seems.”
“A curse,” you whispered, reaching on instinct to untie his breeches. “Punishment from the gods.”
“There is no such thing,” he asserted, hand tipping your chin to meet your gaze. “We are Targaryens,” he declared, “we are the gods.”
Dread settled deep in the pit of your stomach, then - a feeling so strong, you feared you might lose the little nerve that remained. Aemond was beyond reasoning, beyond rationality, and you knew there was nothing you could say to remind him of his own mortality, of yours. So, instead, you pulled him into a kiss.
The future grew dimmer, less and less likely to belong to you with every moment that passed, so you resigned yourself to enjoy the moment at hand. It was one you’d dreamt of, one you’d longed for with each rendezvous you shared, and Aemond seemed as eager as you. Now married, he had no qualms about touching you - calloused fingers skating across your damp skin, brushing across your shoulders, knocking the straps of your gown out of his path.
Aemond’s breath fanned across your cheek, a source of warmth in the chill of the ruins, and you leaned into it. Your nose brushed his, your lips ghosted over his cheek, his chin, his jaw as he nudged wet fabric out of his path.
“My beautiful wife,” he whispered, soft voice little more than a rasp in your ear. “I’ve oft dreamt of this moment. In only the sweetest of those dreams, you were mine to do with as I pleased. I believe this will be even sweeter.”
Heavy fabric fell from your shoulders, away from your body with every button Aemond found. A pool of red rested at your feet, the color of your house abandoned for the love of your husband. But you were not allowed long to dwell on the matter as deft fingers fell to your rain slick skin.
With steady hands, Aemond peeled your small clothes from your body - violet eye remaining on your face the entire time - before he reached for his own. Your hands, meanwhile, tangled in the dripping strands of his hair.
“You are so beautiful,” you whispered, gaze roving the sharp lines of his face. “A true sight to behold.”
Aemond came alive with your praise, a light flickering behind his eye that reminded you of the man you loved so dearly, and you were glad for it as you stood bare before him. The weight of his searching stare felt lighter, more bearable, as he finally allowed himself a moment to savor the sight of you. It felt as if he meant to commit the sight to memory, to savor the chance he was afforded, and you chose to do the same as you traced the line of his jaw with your fingertips.
Slowly, Aemond pressed you back, pausing only when you reached the foot of the bed. It was low, easy to settle upon, and he seized the opportunity to press you into the mattress. “Lie back for me,” he commanded as he began to sink to his knees, “my queen.”
Warm, calloused hands found your calves, touch so light you couldn’t be certain you hadn’t imagined it as he leaned into you.
Before you, the vision of Aemond clad in the translucent white of his shirt and unlaced breeches, his hair falling free and his sapphire eye uncovered chipped at the fragile remains of your heart. Hope reared its ugly head, gave you reason to believe this would be your forever - the sight of your husband, gazing at you with a reverence you’d never before known - when you knew that forever was far from guaranteed. The moments you shared were stolen, unearned, and if the Stranger did not separate you, your father surely would.
But every thought, every worry, every doubt - each ceased to exist the moment Aemond’s lips pressed to your skin.
Every ounce of tension, of fear, of trepidation, of doubt left your body in a soft sigh as his warm mouth pressed to your ankle. He began softly, slowly, and blazed a path across your skin. Fire burned in his wake, the impression of his mouth seared into your skin, and your breath caught in your throat the higher he inched.
“Tell me,” he urged, fingers pressing into the soft flesh of your thigh, “is this what you wanted, what you hoped for all those nights we spent in the Dragonpit, in the library?”
The request was not one meant to stroke his ego, not one meant to serve as an admission of desire. It was not an idle thought, whispered in the heat of the moment. Aemond desired reassurance, acknowledgement that you thought of him as often as he thought of you, that you longed for him the way he’d always longed for you. It was a request for your love, for your commitment, for your comfort. And you long ago lost the ability to deny him much of anything.
“Yes,” you whispered, hand reaching for his - fingers twining together, grip stronger than you intended as you tethered yourself to him. “I always wished you would take me, make me wholly yours. I dreamt of sharing your bed, of seeing you like this. You always wanted to honor me, refusing to steal my maidenhead, but you cannot steal that which belongs to you.”
“Perhaps, if I had taken you then, we might’ve wed years ago,” he ruminated. “But I intend to make up for lost time.”
Aemond repeated his path, his lips pressing to your skin as he used his grip on your thigh to pull you closer to the edge of the bed. You could feel his breath fan across your skin, warming you from within, and you clasped his hand tighter as he nosed as the juncture of your thigh.
Part of you imagined he would make you beg, eager for proof of your desire - of your need - but before your lips could part to utter his name, he surged forward.
Between your thighs, it was as if he was a man starved. Your immediate gasp, your fingers tangling in his hair, earned a soft groan from him as he lapped at your folds with the flat of his tongue. His shoulders kept your thighs parted as his hand slipped between them, calloused fingers gathering the combination of your slick and his saliva before pressing to the bundle of nerves hidden there.
With every jolt of your body, eager for something - to run from the pleasure or sink into it, you remained uncertain - Aemond shifted closer. He alternated between broad licks, the flat of his tongue savoring the taste of you, and kitten licks, reveling in the way your hips chased each flick of his tongue. Every noise you made was met with a hum of satisfaction, a palpable relief that he could please you in a way no one had ever been allowed, and you all but gasped his name as his fingers began to explore your slick folds.
The swipe of his fingers was foreign, the brush of his thumb over your clit caused you to jolt in his grasp, and you could feel Aemond’s lips curve into a smirk as he pressed his mouth to your mound.
“Ābrazyrys,” he whispered, breath fanning across your skin as he rested his chin on your thigh, “tell me how it feels.”
Words failed you as his lips wrapped around your clit and his fingers pressed into you - slowly, carefully, tenderly - and your breathing grew labored as he worked to prepare you. The only word your mind could recall was his name. “Aemond,” you gasped, fingers tugging at the silver locks drying in the curls he hid. “Gods, Aemond.”
Warmth filled your veins, your chest, the pit of your stomach, as he pressed himself closer. That violet gaze weighed heavy on your skin, able to see through the most carefully crafted facade, and each swipe of his fingers through your slick, each press of his tongue, chipped away at another piece of you. Bit by bit, Aemond worked to break you apart, to dismantle you completely, and you knew it was only a matter of time before you shattered.
And as his fingers pressed, filling you in a way you’d never experienced, you could only hope that he would piece you together again.
“Let go,” he whispered, voice a rasp in the dim light of the room. “Take your pleasure.”
Each sensation felt like too much, too fast, but you gave in to him. You melted into the uncomfortable bedding and focused solely on his attention. The warmth of his skin pressed to yours, the silk of his hair between your fingers, the soft noises he made as he devoured you; it all overwhelmed you in the most beautiful way.
The fire in the pit of your stomach grew hotter, lapping at your skin from within, and with each breath you attempted to draw, the more eager Aemond became to hear you cry his name. And as the edges of your vision began to white, as your fingers held too tightly to him, you gave him what he wanted.
With a cry of his name, loud enough to echo through the abandoned corridors, you came.
Fire, passionate and all-consuming, flickered in Aemond’s eye as he lifted himself. He stood tall, proud, and reveled in the lust openly displayed in your gaze as he finally shucked his own wet clothing. His tunic and breeches joined your own garments; green leather and red velvet, discarded for a union that neither side would consider sacred, but you knew the time to repent had passed.
Rather than dwell, you openly gazed upon the man you’d wanted for so long.
Aemond was perfect - beautiful, ethereal in a way that made your chest ache. There was an allure to him that called to you, a draw that pulled you in and refused to grant you leave. The angle of his jaw, the curve of his lips, the slope of his nose; he bared himself fully, no ounce of his soul hidden, and you swallowed harshly as you hoped the gods would forgive you for accepting it all.
“Make me yours,” you whispered, no longer able to remember why you’d ever considered resisting. “There is nothing left but us.”
One of the most feared men in the realm, quick with a blade and quicker with dragon fire, bent to your will. With an even stride and steady hands, he pressed you further up the bed before climbing in to join you. He settled above you, his hair falling - a curtain to shield you both from the world around you - and studied your face for a long moment.
There were tears lining your lashes, a product of the storm of emotion raging in the back of your mind, and Aemond was quick to bring a thumb to your cheek. “This is not the life you hoped for,” he declared, certain, “but I shall spend the rest of mine devoted to you.”
Little remained certain in your mind but you knew Aemond meant every word.
“I know,” you assured him, lifting your own hand to carefully brush at the jagged edge of his scar. “Hope is foolish,” you whispered, urging him closer, “it has caused heartache at every turn, but it lead me to you and for that, I am grateful.”
Without allowing him a moment to speak, you pressed your lips to his. The sting of the nick reminded you of where you were, of what had taken place, but you cared little for anything other than the weight of Aemond’s body pressed to yours. His warm hands held tight to the plush of your hip, fingers pressing into the skin so deeply you feared there might be bruises come morning, as he kissed you.
Emotion - fear, doubt, anger, resentment, longing, love - filled the kiss, a clash of lips and teeth and tongue that tasted of copper, but it was all you could do to keep yourself tethered to reality as Aemond traced the leaking tip of cock through the slick of your folds.
The first time hurt - so the few friends you’d made at court declared, giggled about when your father’s back was turned and your siblings wandered away - but you emerge beyond caring. And as he pressed forward, sheathing himself inside you, you found that the slight pinch, the sting of him, cleared the fog of your thoughts and brought the world around you back into focus.
As fearsome as he’d become, Aemond’s heart beat for you. The heavy thunder of it beneath your palm, the thrum of it beneath your lips as you pressed them to the pale skin of his throat, was a reminder that there was no other choice - there never had been.
With every press of Aemond’s hips, with every breath of pleasure, every whispered Valyrian praise, the truth grew clearer.
Hope was a mirage, affording you a fantasy that never existed. The life you lead was always destined to be one of fire and blood. The blood of the dragon coursed through your veins, dripped from the slit in your lip and your palm and spilled from between your thighs as Aemond claimed the last piece of you - a piece you knew had never been yours at all.
Every bit of you, every moment of your life, belonged to someone else; your father, your uncle, your siblings, Aemond. Now, there was nothing left.
A sob escaped your lips, a broken noise that saw Aemond pause. His head lifted, violet eye immediately meeting your own, as his hand lifted to your cheek. “Did I hurt you?” His concern was evident, proven as he stilled and searched for any hint of pain.
To lie would have been easy, as mindless a breathing, but the truth weighed heavy on your chest. “No,” you whispered, swallowing hard, “but I… you were right, this isn’t the life I hoped for. I do not want to continue fighting, to see more good people die. I’ve lost one brother, I cannot bear the thought of losing another. But I know that this, lying here with you, will drive them away. And you, Aemond.” Tears clouded your vision, hiding him from your view, as you admitted, “I just want you. I do not want to be queen, nor do I want to share my husband with the realm. All I want is to be happy, to be loved. I want to be free.”
Aemond frowned, eye rapidly blinking as he attempted to make sense of the words spilling from your lips, but you shook your head. “I’ve given my family my loyalty, my father my devotion, you my heart. I have nothing left to offer,” you whispered.
“Then let me fight,” he countered, tipping his head to meet your eye. “Let me end this war and give you peace. No more will die and when I claim the throne, I will never leave your side again.”
“A beautiful thought,” you nodded, “to be sure. But you can’t promise that, no more than I can promise we shall see morning. I do not want false promises or grand fantasies. I do not want a king or a warrior. All I want, all I have ever wanted, was you.”
Silence settled then, thick and suffocating, but you could see the emotion flickering in the depth of his violet eye.
Neither of you imagined this would be your reality, neither of you ever could have dreamed you would find yourselves fighting your own kin for a crown - a throne. Neither of you imagined a life outside of one another and now, faced with the realization that loving one another was not enough, you were at a loss.
“I cannot surrender,” Aemond finally whispered, gaze fierce - pleading - as he searched for an understanding. “And you are right, I cannot promise a long future. But I can promise that I will do much and more to return to you all that you have given me. You will be my queen and you will be beloved, kind and fierce in equal measure. And your family, your father, will not perish at my hand. There is no other path to be trod.”
“Our lives are bound,” you whispered, though a fresh wave of tears tracked down your cheeks. “Your path is mine.”
Aemond leaned in, then, and pressed his mouth to yours once more. This kiss was desperate, the kiss of a man seeking reassurance, and you offered it to him. There was nothing left for you to give; no more fire, no more blood. Now, you simply took the brunt of his desperation as he pressed closer to you.
“I love you,” he whispered, voice rough in your ear as his hips began to move once more. “I can promise that I will love you for the rest of my life.”
“And I you,” you reassured him, your own hand lifting to his cheek as his eye fluttered shut.
As Aemond’s end approached, his hips snapping quicker and his breath growing heavier, he repeated promises in High Valyrian; a promise to spend the rest of his life loving you, a promise to do whatever it took to make you happy, a promise to make right the wrongs that drove you so far apart. And though they were all grand, you knew he took each word to heart.
At his peak, he cried your name - a declaration of love following - before he collapsed into you. His head pressed to your chest, his thigh draped over yours, he held you tight and you allowed him. Your fingers combed through the curling strands of his hair, over the line of his jaw, as you stared up at the crumbling ceiling.
“This war will end,” he finally whispered, voice carrying on the cool night wind, “and we shall begin anew.”
Though hope abandoned you at Harrenhal, finally freeing you of its cruel embrace, Aemond found it. In the rubble and ash, surrounded by the ruins created by your ancestors, he vowed to give you what no other ever had; the love you’d always dreamt of, the life you’d always hoped for.
Hope was a dangerous thing, but nothing was more dangerous than Aemond Targaryen.
Showing - House Of The Dragon
Staring - Aemond Targaryen X Targaryen Reader (Wife)
Rating - 15 (Mentions of Injuries / Scars / Mentions of Traumatic Injuries / Mentions of Attacks)
Reading Time - 7 min 5 sec (919)
The suite was silent, so silent that the intense wind of the storm currently attacking King’s Landing could be heard loud and clear as it echoed in the vast halls of the Red Keep. Most occupants of the castle had hunkered down in their suites, with tables full of food, fire roaring and all they would need until the storm passed. Every so often, thunder rumbled through the castle, along with the constantly pattering of raindrops on stone.
Aemond was no different in this regard; his suite deep in the castle was dimly lit, with no windows to the outside chaos, and only very few candles lighting the utter essentials. The round bed sat in the centre, ghosted with the deep green curtains of fine silk. There were a few other furnishings, two chairs by the fire and a table littered with maps and markers; anything else was used only to display the endless weapons that would make the armoury feel lacking. But there was a small dining table in the corner, set only with two chairs, a large roasted bird sitting there half-picked at, along with wine and smaller side dishes. The fire was kept low, without the need to roar and roast, but with a stockpile of logs beside it. Not a single servant was within the chamber, since he had banished them all from his one-eyed sight.
He himself sat in his favoured chair beside the fire. His long silver hair proudly flowed down, with only the front twisted into small braids and pulled back. His eye patch sat on the table, bearing his glimmering sapphire left in his socket. He wore his usual leather attire of deep forest green, but it was unlaced and unbuckled enough to reveal the tunic shirt below. In his hand, he held his goblet, occasionally sipping on the warm spiced wine.
But he was not alone; the other chair was too occupied. By his bride, Rhayella. She was barefoot, dressed in a soft green gown with golden trim, her own silver hair flowing down in a long braid. She also wore a thick golden necklace that covered much of her neck and throat. In her hands, she held her Valyrian books on history and ancient magic. She caught his eye, noticing him looking at her, so she faintly and silently smiled.
A smile crawled across his lips. He set down his wine and tapped his thigh.
She stood, keeping her book open as she crossed the room and sat happily on his thigh and went back to her book.
He smirked softly, his hand sliding up her back and over her shoulder, brushing a strand of hair from her eye and tucking it behind her ear.
She smiled, turning her head to give his cheek a small peck before she returned to her book,
“Skoro syt gaomagon ao ruaragon? (Why do you hide?)” He whispered, brushing the tip of his nose against the curve of her ear,
She raised a brow and met his eyes, “Humm?”
“Skoro syt gaomagon ao ruaragon ziry hen nyke? (Why do you hide it from me?)” He asked, pressing tender little kisses to her ear and jaw,
She did not answer,
“Nyke ȳdra daor hae ziry skori ao ruaragon ziry hen nyke. (I don't like it when you hide it from me)” He cooed as he pressed a trail down her jaw, “Iksan hae iksan lēda ao. Jaelan naejot ūndegon ao hae iksā, skori iksā lēda nyke (I am as I am with you… I want to see you as you are, when you are with me).” He told her, “Kessa? (Yes?)”
She nodded, with a gentle shiver.
But Aemond smiled, his lips moving down to brush over the thick golden necklace that concealed her neck and throat. As he kissed along the edge, he moved his hand up and unclasped the back of it, slowly peeling the thick and heavy gold from around her, baring her skin.
It was paler, of course, since it never saw the sun, much like how the space around his sapphire was always paler than the rest of his face. Across her neck were the long healed scars of dragon’s flame, causing her skin to be slightly strange in texture, and then right across her throat, the scar, it was jagged and asymmetrical from the sharp bites of dragon teeth that had left shreds of flesh, and then the maesters' sewing needle had sealed it, but never left it the same.
He knew she hated having other people see it, the scar of her horrific incident. “Sīr gevie (So Beautiful).” he cooed, gently kissing her scar,
“Ugly,” she wheezed, her voice weak and broken where it never really healed right, “Broken-”
“Perfect,” he told her, “You and I are scared and stronger for it.”
“No stronger,” she whimpered,
“Much stronger. You survived a dragon attack while still in the cradle. You are the strongest I have ever met.”
“You survive. Stronger,” she said, her hand cradling his cheek,
He scoffed, “I survived an attack from a foolish, jealous child. You defeated a violent dragon. You are far stronger than I.” He explained, taking her hand and kissing it, “With me, you don’t need to hide it.”
She faintly smiled and kissed his lips softly and tenderly,
He kissed back and cradled her on his lap, putting her book on the table beside them, “We are perfect, never for a moment doubt it.” He whispered,
“Imperfectly Perfect.”
“Imperfectly Perfect,” he agreed, before leaning in for another kiss.
