Could you please write HC's for Aemond, where his new wife has a cat that just loves him. He eventually warms up to the cat.
This idea is so cute, nonnie! ⚞^. .^⚟₊˚⊹ᰔ
• Aemond views the cat as an inconvenience.
• Aemond has a dragon after all, so he views domestic pets as useless.
• It sheds on his black tunics, winds around his boots, getting in his way while he’s trying to leave his chambers.
• Somehow the cat always chooses his chair to lounge on, despite belonging to his wife. He insists the creature has no sense of discipline.
• The cat, unfortunately for him, becomes completely enamored with Aemond.
• It follow him around the castle. Whenever he sits to read, it appears within minutes, hopping into his lap.
•“Remove your beast,” he’d mutter without looking up from his book. His wife quickly notices that despite his complaints, he never moves the cat himself.
• On a partially cold night, his wife finds him in the library with the cat curled against his chest beneath his cloak. He claims the room was drafty and the animal would have frozen.
• Aemond eventually begins speaking to the cat when no one else is around.
• Small observations about court politics or complaints about his brother. “You possess more dignity than half the men at court.”
• The cat ends up taking solace on Aemond’s side of the bed.At first he has servants remove it. Eventually, he simply adjusts where he lies so as not to wake it.
• Though he’d never admit affection aloud, the cat becomes part of his nightly routine.
-ˋˏsummary: The maimed one-eyed prince marries the most beautiful woman on earth. She is dutiful, beautiful and perfect, but Aemond can't stand when someone, specially his uncle, look with desire at what it is his.
✧Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Tully!Original Female Character
✧word count: 3.1k
✧Warnings: : MDNI 18+, p in v sex, dom/sub undertones, face slapping, spitting on the mouth, degradation kink, possesive Aemond, Aemond is WHIPPED by his wife.
Every time his grandsire and his mother spoke of a Lady of great beauty coming to King’s landing, he rolled his eye.
Even when they present a small portrait, small to fit his palm, he does not seem impressed. Perhaps it is too small, perhaps it is too pretentious. Either the painter exaggerated your features or he couldn’t properly paint a small portrait. But he was curious, after all. Named the most beautiful woman on earth, blessed by the Gods.
He doesn’t doubt that Lady Tully was beautiful. Perhaps she was truly a beautiful woman, with her long red hair, ‘like fire’ said the letter. But being called The Maiden on Earth seems exaggerated to him.
His grandsire had told them about the implications of his betrothal, about how important it was to have secured the Riverlands, since Grover Tully was an old lord, and will not understand reason. To have his most beloved granddaughter as a princess, was the only way to win his approval, and support.
Aemond finally meets her on the little garden near the Weirwood tree. They had been serving little cakes, as some lords and ladies talked nearby, not even half of court was here, and he liked the quietness. That made him less self-conscious.
She was near the table, her hand hovering above all the treats she could get, smiling as she watches them with interest. She is expressive, he realises. He hasn’t seen her face, only her back and the day her hand moves and her head is tilted, curious about the southern gastronomy.
“My lady” Aemond says softly.
She turns so gracefully, and she is surprised to see him. Her hand still extended, and she quickly moves it to grab her skirts, and do a courtesy to him. She has a sweet smile, and she speaks.
“My prince” she says, a bit surprised. “I… I didn’t expect you.”
“I must admit I came a bit earlier than agreed…” he murmurs, looking behind him and then back to her.
The most beautiful maiden on earth fell short to her. She was… something else, in the best way possible. She had that curiosity, that life in her eyes, as she smiles at him, her lips are perfect, and he could see that her maids probably used those Myrish lip taints, for they were a very natural red colour, almost matching with her hair. Her dress was magnificent, wearing the colour of her house, red and blue decorating everything. Even her eyes, blue like the opaque blue rivers in the Riverlands, and her hair, red like flames, matched with her house colours. She wore fish details, her earrings and in her dress pattern. But she was wearing a collar with a seven pointed star in it, and he sighed at her beauty. She was breathtaking.
“Oh, well, so it seems…” she says as she smiles a bit sheepishly, looking at him. “It’s a fine castle, my prince. It does have its own beauty.”
Aemond has never thought of the red Keep as something beautiful, at all. He always wanted to live in Dragonstone, but his wish was not granted. But, if she says so, it must be true, and with good reason.
“You think so?”
She grabs a lemon cake, and eats it carefully as she nods. “Yes! And you also have a Weirwood tree here. When we made our trip here, we passed through Raventree, and their Weirwood was a bit… depressing…” she says, smiling sweetly. “But here it’s very beautiful. More… alive”
As she talks, he watches her closely. Even when his mother, his sickly father and his siblings arrive, when his mother gives him a scolding look for arriving earlier, he sort of watches you in silence, his chest swelling with an air of mystery.
“You are not what I expected” he admits, quietly between the two of them as their parents talked about the betrothal.
“No?” She asks smiling, licking her finger from the cream of the lemon cakes. “You’ll see I’m a little box full of surprises”
That’s the beginning.
A ceremony on the Sept, as she stood next to him, reciting vows and the cloak with dragon sigils is on her shoulders, left behind the fish one. Aemond has never looked so smug and proud. The bedding ceremony was… traditional. Having a crowd was awkward for both, surely, but Aemond made it all more comfortable for her, covering her body with his, and not exposing her, at his own expense.
“Just focus on me” He murmurs closely to her face, as she looks at him with wide eyes. He was between her open legs, and he insisted for her to keep her chemise on, while he had no problem in nudity “Your septa and mother could have told you…”
“Not much” She whispers back.
“Not much” he repeats, moving a strand of hair out other face, tenderly watching her face for discomfort. “But I will be gentle, and… we’ll learn together. Yes?”
“Yes. Thank you…, husband” she says, and he feels a prideful pressure on his chest. He was her husband. The most beautiful woman’s husband.
And she was always thankful for his patience and gentleness towards her, and she stuck to him to all times, even when she was in court, charming everyone around. Her arm was always interlocked with his, and referred to him as ‘her sweet husband’.
Love came quieter than expected, as they laughed on their bed at nights, having picnics in the gardens or going to the Riverlands in Vhagar together, swimming on Riverrun’s rivers, and just… enjoying each other. It was more than love when they had their first son, a lovely and happy baby, mismatched eyes, with both purple and a deep blue. Aemond adored his son, his little Daerion, and he adored you more.
“Black looks well on you” Aemond comments.
Daerion’s blabbing was a way to agree with Aemond’s statement as the maid finished putting on her headband, the same tone of her dress. Her orange hair is in braids, two simple ones with some gold details on them, and some dragon earrings that he gifted her. She was gorgeous, and all his.
“Your wardrobe hasn’t changed” she states looking at him. “Went from velvet black to dark black”
Aemond walks over to his wife, watching her being just so beautiful like that, sitting, waiting peacefully like a porcelain doll.
“Mhm... As if changing colours would make everything amicable…” Aemond murmurs, taking Daerion in his arms, and he allows him to play with his hair. “Does father know it’s useless? Rhaenyra wearing green won’t change anything, nor will my mother wearing black. HIs voice comes as a grunt as he bounces their baby.
“It’s foolish when you put it that way” her voice is tender, sweet, and somewhat like velvet. He is still besotted by her, as maidens do with knights. He watches the shape of her breasts on that dress, how the cleavage is so delightful for his eyes and the roundness of her tits that make the fabric around stretch a bit. As if the tailor always got the measurement of her chest wrong on purpose, which he won’t complain about.
Her bright red hair contrasts with how the black makes her skin look paler, and her eye colour deeper.
“They shouldn’t call you the Maiden herself anymore” Aemond murmurs softly, walking closer to her, still holding Daerion in his arms. “You are like the mother herself. Like the Goddess Syrax of Old Valyria. Beautiful, strong… so alluring…”
“You never seem to run out of compliments” her hands move to grab her rings, and the one he likes the most is the sapphire one, just to symbolise her marriage to him.
“Never, more so if a goddess like you is my wife. All mine…”
“My prince, my lady.” It’s a Kings guard who interrupts. “Supper is ready, and Queen Alicent asks for you both to arrive earlier…”
“Hm” Aemond says, leaving Daerion in the wet nurse’s arms.
“Thank you, ser Willis” the knight smiles at his wife before walking to wait outside the door.
He rolls his eye as he leans to kiss his son’s forehead, caressing his chubby cheek and he smiles fondly at his sight. The little freckles he has that he inherited from his mother, something that Aemond loved. Yet remembering how unnecessary kind his wife is… annoys him.
Kindness and sweetness only helped to enhance her beauty and popularity, and he also loved that. She was beautiful, perfect in any way, tied to a One-Eyed maimed monster, like him. All he could offer to you, that it was worthy, was the luxuries of the royalty, all the kids you want and his unconditional love. He was at your mercy.
He has one eye, but he is not blind. Any man here on the keep, would pull their breeches down if his wife asked so. They would even cut their own throats for her mere delight, and Aemond would be one of them.
“Goodbye, my sweet love” the sweet motherly tone makes little Daerion squeal happily, extending his little arms for his mother. She kisses both his hands, later to wave to him as they leave the room, arms interlocked.
Aemond always bites his tongue when his lady wife is kind to men. He hates it, yet he knows she does it for the kindness of her heart, and not any ulterior motives.
He was smitten for her, moving the chair for her to sit, and helping her, her dress not getting stuck anywhere or her headpiece, and only then, he sat on his own seat at peace.
“I heard they might have some goose” she murmurs to him, as the room fills. Her fingers caress his arm, and he hears her every word. “I’d eat it all if I could, you know” she teases.
“Mhm.” Aemond murmurs. Even if he is besotted, his facade is still the same; stoic, cold, distant. Yet to her, his gaze was always loving.
“I would only share it with you” she states proudly, leaning to give him a peck on the lips, before standing up once the King is brought to the room.
As he stands, he doesn’t miss how his uncle watches her. Aemond might not know the man personally, but he knew the look of desire in a man’s face. Much more when they looked at her
The supper is mostly… tense, and awkward. But Lady Tully is charming to everyone and even toasts as well for Baela and Rhaena in their betrothal, congratulating them and speaking nothing but wonders about her own married life, making Aemond wear the slightest, yet most smug smirk on his face.
“Amazing” she says, with her mouth full as she eats the goose, and Aemond nods, a hand rubbing her back so she doesn’t choke for eating so quickly. “Here, my love” she says, extending the fork with a bit of the goose that she adores so much.
Aemond eats shamelessly, enjoying the taste as he nods softly, approving, which makes her smile. His hand resting on the back of her chair, as he drank his wine quietly, watching his sister and nephew go to dance together. He is highly unaware of the prying eyes that watch them both.
Helaena and Jacaerys’ giggles and the movement of her dress is enough for lady Tully to watch curiously. Her husband was not one for dances, as he had not a good perception of objects with one eye. She never pressured him, and accepted the fact.
She always would say how Daerion once he would be tall enough to walk, she’d dance with her son all the songs and dances, and Aemond approved that idea.
“Lady Tully” It was Daemon Targaryen’s deep voice, and she looks at him a bit surprised, leaving her fork on the table as she covers her mouth, her hand unconsciously fetching wine, which Aemond hands her his.
“Prince Daemon” her melodic voice is a bit confused, and more so when the uncle of her husband extends his hand. The green fabrics from his suit are deep, yet he still wore dragon details on it, and he looked smug about it.
She turns to watch Aemond, his jaw tensing as he looks at Daemon. And he has to physically stop himself from cutting his uncle’s throat when his wife walks with him to join Helaena and the bastard. Aegon and he share a look, both upset and annoyed, as their wives are so freely dancing with other men.
Aemond watches her beautiful face, frowning as Daemon talks about something, whispering it closely so no one else hears it. His grip on the edge of his seat is strong; knuckles’ turning white as his jaw is tense, not looking pleased at all. And then, he hears her warm laugh, giggling at what he said, as her whole face brightened up.
Once they serve the pig in front of him and hear the little bastard giggles, it is enough to send him through a fit of rage.
He literally drags his wife by the arm after everything went downhill, after saying that stupid toast, after the Velaryon’s boys attempt to defend themselves (very badly) and both her husband and her good brother humiliate them.
“Dancing with him” Aemond murmurs, walking to their shared chambers, not minding seeing the servants stop and look at them both. “Accepting it, and giggling to his jokes as he shamelessly flirts with you”
“It was politeness...” her voice is weak when protesting.
“Did he mocked me for having only one eye?” He asks roughly. “Did he told you how beautiful your are and how full your breasts are?”
She opens her mouth a bit taken aback by his lewds remarks. “I am dutiful to what it’s expected of me. I wouldn't have allowed him to mock you”
“You should…”
“My family’s words are Family. Duty. Honour. And you know I care for that very deeply.” she says as she tries to keep up with his long steps “And I did just what was asked…”
“You are mine” he states, walking inside his chambers as his grip does nothing but become stronger. “My wife and you are… putting yourself in display for my uncle, laughing at his flirting. I know your family words are important for you, but this is… beyond that”
Perhaps it was her confused eyes or her angelic face, but he loosened up his grip yet he kept talking.
“He wanted you! To have you below him and fuck you like a… wench or… or some kind of…”
“I know”
Aemond turns drastically, eye twitching at his wife's words.
“You knew?”
“It was being cordial. It was duty. To amend broken ties…”
“I will break and burn and turn into ashes any ties from you to him” he says exasperated, insane with jealousy. His eye is wide, twitching in rage as he cannot believe this. She was his wife.
Seeing Daemon’s hand grip on her hip, almost groping her, made him insane. Because he knew that Lady Tully, beautiful as the Maiden, a beloved goddess amongst the poor and rich, could do so much better than him. Yet, she still chooses him.
“Get naked” he says simply.
“What?”
“You heard me just right. Get. Naked.” He says again, not wanting a negative.
Her whine is endearing, as she starts taking off little by little. Her gown, the diminutive buttons at the back, her collar, and her hellish headpiece.
“Let me” he grumbles as he helps her take off the headpiece, tossing it aside more carefully.
She is possibly the most beautiful when she is naked. Round breasts, even fuller thanks to lactating, and her body was tempting enough to anyone.
“Undress me” he says instead. He took delight when she was the one serving him, in this way. He loved to see her desperation, her eagerness for him. His jerkin is out in no time, and she kneels to undo his breeches.
Because she had an angelic face, but it was only he who knew how obsessed she was with his cock. She could spend hours lying on the bed, sucking his cock as she rested her head on his abdomen as Aemond read. She wouldn’t even suck him off properly, his wife would only suck the tip, give kitten licks, and lazily press some kisses. During hours and hours.
“I forbid you to speak to any one of them. Ever again”
Confused eyes turned up to look at him, as the careful hands undid his breeches, almost a bit eagerly. “Forbid?”
“Hm. It’s what I said, is it not?” He says, narrowing his eye as if asking to be defied.
“But it’s mad” she protests, frowning. “I promised Jace and Baela a tour in the gardens, and it would be impolite if I didn’t spoke-”
“Too bad” his voice cuts the conversation, and he is not leaving it up for conversation.
“You are being irrational...”
“And you are being a fucking brat” he spats, grabbing her chin as he bites his lower lip. “I’ll show you how irrational I can get”
Her eyes watched him, almost too innocent for her own good. It made him hard; he could feel his cock stirring on his untied breeches.
“Fucking slut, giving yourself to other men” his tone is harsh, but by the way her knees move, to accommodate the weight as he grips her chin, he knows that she is aroused. So is he.
Lady Tully was beautiful, and a box of surprises with everything, he realised with time. He had everyone trapped under her charms, and kept her secrets very private. And he loved it.
“Whore.” His hand leaves her chin, only to move it to slap her across the face.
She gasps, her face turned. It wasn’t harsh, yet the sting was burning on her skin, as she placed a hand on her cheek. To foreign eyes, he just slapped his wife. But he has done it before, to her request. Aemond knew that if his wife was enraged by that, he would have been beaten over and over, because she was kind, but didn’t stand for people dishonouring her.
Aemond, more gently places his hand back on her chin, pulling it so she can look at him. “You will learn your place” Aemond says, as she looks up at him, with those meek eyes of hers. He loved her eyes. “Open your mouth”
He leaned down, his mouth opening over hers, so near that she could feel his hot breath. His hand goes to wrap the bright red hair of hers, and his firm grip got her head secured.
Perhaps Aemond would kiss those perfect lips, yet he pulled back and released a strand of saliva directly into her waiting mouth. Aemond’s fingers tightened the grip in her hair, as his other hand came up to wipe away the excess of spit.
“There is my good girl” he murmurs, looking at her. “Mhm. I’m going to teach you a lesson”
Aemond lifts his wife to her feet as if she weighs nothing, his grip on her hair almost dragging her to the bed, forcefully as he heard her little whines. He had a moment or two to decide which position suited best, for then to grab her hips and guide her to be on her hands and knees. He grabs the long red hair once again, angling her head to the side, because Aemond needed to see her face the same way he needed air.
She was soaking wet, and that is a satisfaction for her husband. Aemond accommodated behind her, watching her body as he positioned his cock at her entrance.
“Such a sweet little cunt” he growls, his eye flashing with lust and desire as he thrusts into her from behind, in one swift motion.
Her whimpers and pants are loud, as she grips on the sheets as her back is arched. She was desperate to be filled and fucked, not something unusual. The unusual thing was that… nothing happened.
“Aemond” She whines, moving her head to watch him from above her shoulder. She had that desperate, pitiful appearance that he loved.
“Yes, my love?” He asks almost nonchalantly, watching her ass, and how his cock is fully sank inside her
She can barely think straight as his dick is deep inside her, throbbing in her walls as she just needs him to start fucking her. “Eh… move?”
“I don’t think so” he murmurs, his hand moving to caress her ass to his liking. “You’ll have to fuck yourself on my cock” His wife opens her mouth, confused as her eyebrows frown in hesitation. “Show me how much you need me” he says simply, he was fucking teasing her. “How much you need my cock”
Feeling the thick length of Aemond’s cock inside her, she accommodates on her hands, slowly moving away just to sink down onto his cock again. Her slick walls gripping him tightly as she impales herself on his thick cock.
“Aemond… Fu-uck, you feel… oh, yes…” She whimpers, and her voice is filled with pleasure as her pussy starts getting pounded as she liked so much. If Lady Tully liked something in life, was probably getting fucked until her mind is mush.
Her hips start moving on their own accord, as she grips on the sheets, trying to keep a stable posture to move her hips better, as her moans are obscenely loud, trying to get his cock deeper and deeper. Aemond leaves a groan, watching how she sinks down on his cock, and it is an image that would make any man cum in seconds. He truly was the luckiest man ever.
He feels the fire in his stomach tighten, as her moans grew more and more delighted to the feeling of his cock pounding into her. At first, she had thought of it as promiscuous, and asked the maiden for forgiveness, but gods damn her if it wasn’t the best thing in life to get a good fuck from the love of her life.
“So responsive when getting a cock in your needy pussy” Aemond mutters, as one of his hands raises to spank her ass, the sharp slap only serves for the sounds coming out of her mouth to increase, and he spanks her again, and again, and again, to his own amusement and delight.
“Please, Aemond…”
“You just love misbehaving with me, because you know I will put you in your place” he says, moving forward to her body to grip his hair with his right hand, his left goes right next to her hand gripping the sheets to hold his weight. “Because you are a needy whore” he states, gripping her hair as she nods forcefully.
“Yes” she says, in that whiny tone of hers. He knows her reactions yet every time they aroused him even more. “Yes, please”
The grip on her hair only serves to help him push her back against his cock, his hips now making the effort to start properly pounding into her cunt as she loved; hard, rough and at a deliciously good pace. Her body is practically numb as he starts to use her body for his own pleasure, just as she loved.
Who would have said that the most beautiful woman on earth loved being used by her husband? Definitely not him. She was the most perfect creature, in any way. Smart, funny, pretty, a good wife and mother. And yet she always craved his cock, like the filthiest whores of Flea Bottom.
“Let those bastards hear you, hm?” He asks, as he leans to speak lowly near her ear. “How it’s your husband who pleases you. Perhaps my uncle will get the notion that you are mine. Only mine. Fucking mine. That fucking dodderer will die by my hand if he ever dares to lay his eyes on you”
The mere thought infuriates him, making his hips slam into her harder and more feral. Rutting into her cunt in an animalistic pace as he has to clench his jaw in rage. His hand on her hair and the other on her waist, he groans at the feeling of her soaking cunt.
The sobs he hears as his cock keeps on pounding into her sweet spot, makes him smug enough, and even more aroused. His sweet lady wife, so prone to cry when she had too much pleasure when she got overwhelmed with lust.
“Please, please…” the round of pleas comes up with her tears, and Aemond moans, shamelessly, as he was so close. “I can’t t-take i-it… anymo-ore”
“Oh, you will” he says through gritted teeth as he lets go of her hair, only for his other hand to go to her shoulder to help her get his dick deeper. “I will breed you. Cum so deep that my seed takes root, and everyone will know who you belong to.”
Her nods between sobs, pleas and trembling legs help him pound in feral thrusts into her, feeling her cunt already milking him, inner walls attempting to squeeze his dick inside and never let it go.
“Cum for me, my love” he murmurs, still fucking her deep and nice how she likes it. “My beautiful wife” he murmurs, besotted by her as she cries, her tears rolling down her rosy cheeks with little freckles that he adored.
The little spasms of her body, her wails and the way her cunt squeezes him, it’s enough to drive him to the edge, holding her body down into his cock as he moans loudly, rolling his eye back in pleasure as he cums hard. She whimpers, whining a bit as his seed just keeps on filling her, his balls tensing up as his grip will probably leave her delicate skin with red marks.
He is caring afterwards, as he cleans her with a towel, or when he places her in bed and covers her, lying by her side each time as she snuggles to him.
“You have to know–” she says softly, her fingers tracing circles on his chest. “You are hot when jealous”
Aemond huffs, grumbling about it a bit as he seems reluctant. It amuses her.
“You always find me hot, I could be… Killing a chicken and you would be leaking”
“Get on my place for a moment, please, just imagine how your muscles would flex” she says dead serious and he rolls his eye amused, as the corners of his lips gives him away.
The fixation on his hair would be a problem if he didn’t love her so much. Aemond allows his lady Tully to braid it as they talk in bed.
“I didn’t really mean it” he says softly.
“Hm?” She asks curious, her fingers working on a single small braid on his hair.
“You can talk to them” he says through gritted teeth. “Just-... not too much”
Her little laugh warms his heart. “Very well” she says amused. “For each sentence I say to them, I will suck you”
“I retract myself, talk to them very much, all you like” he says, and it has her giggling. “You know I love you…” he says; as it comes into his view her concentrated face, her tongue coming out of her pink lips as she was focused. He could see the freckles that he so adored, and her pretty eyes. How he loved her.
“You know I love you more…” she says fixing his braid to stick to his hair. Her mouth forms a pleased smile as she sits, as she inspects her work. “Yes. Seems pretty nice”
He could feel the hair strand tight, and he moved his hand to touch his head. “What in the Seven Hells you did to my hair, woman?”
She looks very pleased as she giggles, her body accommodating against his chest as she shrugs innocently, as he keeps on playfully trying to decipher what his wife did to his hair.
Summary: Aemond wonders whether his pretty new wife is as shy in her sleep as she is awake, and intends to find out | Word Count: 1.6~k | Warnings: somnophilia, dubcon, oral (f receiving), feelings of shame
Thank you to @targaryen-dynasty for organising the event! <3 Make sure to check out the others!
The early dawn light filtered through the gossamer curtains, casting a soft glow across the spacious chamber. Aemond stood at the edge of their grand bed. His gaze softened as it fell upon his wife, a gentle and shy creature, who seemed out of place amidst the grandeur of a Targaryen prince's bedchamber.
They had been married but a few weeks, and her timidity was still evident in her every movement. She lay there, her breaths even and soft, her face relaxed in sleep. Aemond's heart swelled with a mixture of affection and protectiveness. He knew she struggled with the expectations placed upon her as his wife, especially when it came to intimacy.
He thought back to their wedding night. She had blushed deeply, her cheeks a rosy hue as she avoided meeting his gaze. Her hands had trembled slightly as she undressed, her shyness palpable. Aemond had taken her hands in his, his touch gentle, hoping to reassure her, but with a deep desire to claim her as his. Her skin had been warm, and he could feel the rapid beat of her pulse under his fingers. He had moved slowly, each touch deliberate, wanting to make her feel safe and cherished. Despite his efforts, she had remained tentative, her actions hesitant and reserved.
Many at court whispered that she was ill-suited for the intensity that came with being bound to a man like Aemond. They said she lacked the fire needed to stand beside him. Aemond had often wondered if there was another side to her, one hidden beneath layers of gentleness and timidity. A side that perhaps only he could reach, given time and patience.
This morning, he found himself wondering again. As she lay there, serene in sleep, he considered the possibility that in her dreams, she might be free from the constraints of her waking shyness. Perhaps, he thought, he could gently coax that hidden side of her into the light.
The sheets framed her form in his plush bed, her hair in somewhat disarray, a few pieces having escaped her careful and perfect braiding the night before. It had been hot in King’s Landing since their wedding night, and so as his eye drifted over her, he could see the gentle rise of her chest, and her perk nipples forming peaks against the near-translucent cotton bedding. A shy thing she was, but most certainly not without allure.
Aemond's breath caught at the sight, a primal part of him stirred by her unintentional seduction. The stark contrast between her modesty and the sensual image she presented tugged at some place usually kept hidden. She was a puzzle he was determined to solve, a delicate flower he was eager to nurture.
Before he knew it, his fingers bunched the sheets in his grasp, watching with deep satisfaction at the way her body was slowly revealed to him, inch by perfect inch. A map of unmarked territory he was determined to explore. The fabric slid against her skin with such ease, as if she were made of water and they were simply a ripple in her perfection, until eventually, once she was bared to him and she gave a quick breath-like shudder, he was able to take his time in forming his plan.
Aemond leaned closer, his breath hot against her skin. His lips pressed gentle, reverent kisses along the smooth expanse of her stomach, moving lower with each caress. Her body trembled slightly beneath his touch, her breath hitching in her sleep, as if her dreams were becoming more vivid and enticing.
When he finally reached the apex of her thighs, he paused, glancing up at her face. Her eyes were still closed, her lips parted slightly, a soft sigh escaping her. Taking a deep breath, Aemond pressed a tender kiss against her inner thigh, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath his lips.
His tongue flicked out, tasting her, a heady mix of sweetness and desire. She stirred, a soft moan escaping her lips as her body responded to his touch. Encouraged, Aemond continued his ministrations, his tongue moving with careful thought, exploring every inch of her glistening slit with the precision he afforded everything else in his life.
Her hips shifted slightly, a subconscious response to the pleasure building within her. Aemond's hands gently gripped her thighs, holding her in place as he deepened his efforts, his tongue moving in slow, deliberate strokes. Each moan, each soft gasp she made was a testament to the pleasure he was giving her.
There was a deep, primal part that glimmered in his eye at the way she responded, her subconscious sounds and movements a stark contrast to her demeanour when she was awake. Her slumber seemed to lower her carefully built walls, imprisoning her sexuality inside. Her hands gripped the sheets the same way he gripped her thighs, the warm muscle of his tongue dragging over her sex up towards her bud, enclosing his lips around it, the smirk he wore hidden in his actions.
The sounds were so sweet to his ears he could stay between her plush thighs all day. A part of him was surprised she hadn’t woken yet with the way her hips were chasing his lips and tongue, and her fingers carding through his loose hair and pulling lightly at the roots to ground herself. Her movements were by no means erratic, enough for him to know without looking that she was still in whatever sleep-addled bliss she imagined, but it appeared his little wife was more and more an exciting enigma with every passing day.
Her breathing grew a fraction more erratic, her stomach clenching and unclenching with the warm, numbing climax that was steadily rising. She would blush and apologise profusely if she could see the way she was acting right at this moment, moaning and writhing with her cunt on his mouth. Aemond worked in rhythmic, intoxicating strokes, taking everything she was giving to him, the tartness of her arousal was addictive in a way he had never imagined.
His little wife’s body arched only slightly off the bed, her grip tightening and thighs trembling, her release washing over her in powerful waves. The only sound she gave was a breathy, elongated moan, too sweet for the carnal, forbidden act he was performing on her sleeping form. Aemond watched with satisfaction as she slowly relaxed, her breathing returning to a more even pace. He placed a final, tender kiss against her sensitive skin before drawing back, his eyes lingering on her peaceful, contented expression.
He found it almost comical that his wife hadn’t woken to her husband devouring her sweet cunt, but that she had woken to the feeling of the mattress dipping as Aemond righted himself, looking down at her bare form, her chest shimmering with a dew of sweat.
Her eyelids fluttered open, and she blinked up at him, her gaze initially hazy with sleep. As her awareness sharpened, she noticed her state of undress and the lingering warmth between her thighs. Her cheeks flushed a deep crimson, a mix of surprise and realisation dawning on her features.
"Aemond," she whispered, her voice trembling with both shyness and residual pleasure.
He wiped his face, a victorious, cat-like smirk on his features, as if to emphasise her embarrassment. “Good morning, my love.”
She averted her gaze, her hands moving to cover herself instinctively, but Aemond's firm yet gentle touch stopped her.
"There is no need for that," he said softly, his smirk fading into a more tender expression.
She looked up at him, her eyes wide with a mixture of emotions, embarrassment, curiosity, and a budding sense of trust. "Did I... did I embarrass myself?" she asked hesitantly.
Aemond chuckled, a deep, satisfied sound that made her cheeks flush even more. "Not at all," he replied, his voice filled with genuine amusement and pleasure. "You were perfect, and it was a delight to see you respond so…unabashedly"
Her blush deepened, but she managed to meet his gaze, her curiosity overcoming her shyness. "I did not wake up," she murmured, almost to herself. “I thought it was a dream.”
"A dream, perhaps," he said, brushing his fingers gently along her jawline. "But one that I was more than happy to make real."
Feeling her cheeks burn at his brazen behaviour, she tugged the sheets to her chest to cover herself, her expression pleasured but shy. “Such actions will not result in a child.”
"No, it will not," he agreed. "But there are many ways to show my desire. Not all of them are about creating heirs."
“Well I know that.”
His expression took on a predatory gleam, moving swiftly to hold her wrists down to the bed with ease. “You might know,” he murmured, “but you will feel it, every day and every night.”
Her breath hitched, a mixture of fear and excitement. The hardness in his gaze tempered by the affection she saw there. Something shifted in her eyes, a spark of defiance and curiosity he hadn't seen before. She reached up, slipping from his hold, her fingers trailing lightly over his chest, her touch both hesitant and bold. Her lips curved into a small, sweet smile that almost dared him to do more.
His innocent little wife had a hidden fire, one that both intrigued and excited him. He felt his desire flare even stronger, spurred on by the need to explore this new side of her, to see just how far she would go.
“And I intend to make certain you never forget.”
General Taglist: @1lluminaticonfirmed @aemondsfavouritebastard @bellstwd @blackswxnn @blairfox04
Synopsis: Aemond returns to the Red Keep after the battle of Rook’s Rest with a newfound vigor for his wife.
Themes & Warnings: 18+ (minors DNI!), POV first person (Aemond’s & reader’s), s2x04,05 inspired, enemies to lovers trope, smut, violence, blood, dark/possessive Aemond, breeding kink, swearing, mentions of rape, high valyrian, fingering, multiple orgasms, p in v, doggystyle, creampie, rough sex, hair pulling, choking
Song: Hide and Seek ~ Klergy, Mindy Jones
Latest oneshot: A Dragon's Lullaby
Masterlist | Add yourself to my taglist | Playlist | Ao3
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Enjoy the read!
[gif @aemondstark ]
AEMOND
Smoke. Dragon fire. Blood.
It clung to me, acrid and sweet, like a perverse cloak of victory.
A primal urge, raw and unbidden, erupted within me, a hunger that transcended the battle’s end. It devoured my senses. It vibrated within my bones. It consumed my very being.
My adrenaline ebbed, leaving a hollowness in its wake. The battle was over. Victory was ours. Gleaming armor was storming the castle. But that victory hung hollow, a meaningless echo in the carnage. My flesh seared with defeat. A strange fire, unsatiated, stirred beneath my skin.
I needed something more. Something I could sink my teeth into, as Vhagar had. Something warm and living.
From the air, I watched the smoke curl skyward, soldiers scattering like startled ants, and Meleys red corpse lay vanquished beneath brick and dust.
The warmth of my kill was still writhing. It was a fresh, living ember, demanding to be tended.
The impact of my brother’s fall had torn the wood asunder, set the ground ablaze, smoke and cinders rising steadily towards the heavens. My gaze settled on the inferno, and I urged Vhagar, my reflection in scales and fire, towards it, my mighty beast beating the wind like thunder as we circled twice around the barrenness of the forest, before she heeded my command.
“Qubemagon, Vhagar.” (Descend)
I dismounted her and trod a path towards the inferno, my sword materializing in my grasp with a practiced turn of my wrist. Shades of red marred my vision. The air shimmered, thick with smoke and the metallic tang of blood.
Adrenaline trickled into my bloodstream.
Never had I been so close to my birthright, so close to erasing the past. My grip tightened around the hilt. Images swam up before me. A lifetime of humiliations, each one a searing brand in my retina. My brother getting what he wasn’t fit for, presented to him on a silver platter. But no longer. No more would he be the architect of my suffering.
But as a tremor shook the ground, a low rumble heralding the broken form of the golden dragon, a monument of smoke, blood, dirt, and ashes, none of it seemed to matter.
As I crested a rise, the world snapped into sharp focus. My gaze landed on him - my brother; melted into a nightmarish tableau of steel, flesh, and bone, encircled by his dragon’s golden body.
Resolution, cold and heavy, settled in my chest. Killing him would be fruitless. The Stranger had already requested an audience.
I had achieved what needed to be done. As I lifted the edge of my sword to its sheath, a voice echoed through the forest.
“Aemond!” Cole cried my name like a desperate warning. I glanced back, my weapon disappearing into its sheath with a final rasp.
I looked down at my sacrifice. The damage was raw, excessive. The damage that was wanton. A pang of unease twisted in my gut.
A glint of metal caught my eye, and I dropped to my haunches to retrieve the Conqueror’s Valyrian steel dagger from the bloodied earth. The dagger that was once Aegon’s. It was mine now.
Ser Criston’s rustling armor announced his approach. “Where is His Grace?” he asked, voice quivering.
I didn’t respond. Instead, I tilted my chin, allowing the glistening steel guide his gaze toward the grotesque sculpture of my melted brother encircled by golden scales.
Ser Criston crumpled to his knees without a word, as I rose to my feet.
A cold knot of regret twisted in my chest as I regarded my tribute. But it was fleeting, replaced by the icy fire of my ambition.
There was much to be done, and I needed to proceed if I were to achieve it. I turned on my heel and left Cole and my broken brother behind.
The battlefield and the devastation shrank beneath me as Vhagar’s powerful wings propelled us skyward.
A sharp thrill prickled my skin that was naught from the velocity, but rather that of my impending regency.
_
Upon returning to King’s Landing, I made my way to the small council chamber, ascending the stairs with slow deliberate steps. The air was thick with tension. The council was in disarray, engrossed in a heated discussion, but fell silent as the doors swung open. Eyes turned to me.
“My Lords,” I announced, my voice cutting through the sudden hush. I rounded the council table. “Mother,” I said, offering a curt nod of acknowledgement as I passed Alicent’s chair.
“Aemond,” she demanded, steel in her voice. “Where is Aegon?”
A heavy pause hung in the air before I met her gaze.
“Aegon has fallen,” I said.
The council erupted in uproar.
Cries of outrage and accusations.
Obscenities.
Scandal.
“How could this be allowed to happen?”
“What is the meaning of this?”
“We are doomed!”
The disapproval of the Lords sullied the chambers. This council was surely in lack of discipline. I already had my eyes on who I were to replace.
“The King is dead!”
“The King is not dead,” I countered, my voice calm and mellifluous, soothing the council members like warm milk. Voices dipped and eyes turned to me, an invisible shudder surging through the air. “He has merely sustained grave injuries and is being brought back to the Red Keep for treatment as we speak.” I began to pace around the table, hands slotted behind my back. “The King fought bravely,” I continued. “Landing mortal injuries to the Pretender’s cause. But the Red Queen cast him out of the sky before I could get to him.”
My pacing had brought me to the head of the council table, where I ceased my step. My hand reached out to allow my fingers to trace the chair frame, its iron vibrating with the power I so craved.
It was palpable.
It was mine for the taking.
I looked up at the members of the small council, my eye piercing each and every one of them until they quivered in their chairs.
“And in the coils of torment,” I spoke. “My brother, King Aegon, named me Prince Regent.”
A tremor vibrated the room, weary eyes glanced at each other, bodies twisting uncomfortably in creaking chairs.
“If anyone should be named regent, surely it should be me, his mother,” voiced Alicent.
I cast my gaze on her.
“Aemond is next in line,” came voices from the small council.
“Yes, but the King still lives!” Alicent implored.
“Who am I to contest the wishes of the King?” I said softly, casting her a look of pure innocence.
Alicent’s eyes welled like a tide of despair, her head dipping to the table with defeat. If Alicent could conjure words that had not been uttered to serve her own ends, why could I not?
“Aemond…” she started, her voice a gentle tremble. “Could we at least discuss this?”
“As prince regent, I vow to serve this realm, my Lords, and guide our path to victory against the Whore of Dragonstone.”
My gaze drifted to the platform in the center of the table, settling on the cold polished marble that remained. The King’s marble. I reached for it, and as my fingers closed around its smooth surface, I met Alicent’s eyes. A flicker of desperate plea danced within them, and I held it with a cold response. She exhaled with defeat as I seated myself in the King’s chair, placing the marble in its rocky nest.
“All hail Aemond, Prince Regent and Protector of the Realm,” Lord Tyland Lannister’s voice came, and the words echoed across the table.
A smirk played on my lips. “My Lords,” I began, splaying my hands atop the table. “Let us commence.”
YOU
Mutters. Whispers. Gossip.
The news, carried on frantic breaths, was a tangled mess.
One moment, the King was dead, the next, grievously wounded. Some murmured of a crippled monarch, others of his mighty dragon slain.
It buzzed in my ears as I made my way towards the throne room.
Fear, a cold serpent, coiled in my gut.
The throne room pulsed with tense energy. Hundreds of courtiers jostled for position, their faces etched with a mixture of morbid curiosity and nervous anticipation. I descended the cold stone steps, the weight of each step echoing the growing dread in my heart.
The Iron Throne loomed before me, an empty monument of jagged steel. Its cruel beauty, forged from a thousand fallen enemies, held a chilling glint in the flickering torchlight. I observed it over the shoulder of the woman in front of me, the precariousness of my position suddenly amplified.
A shiver ran down my spine. Sometimes, I believed it was cursed. Promising to cast whoever graced it to a terrible fate.
My fingers, restless with apprehension, turned my rings about my fingers, pulling them off and on in a nervous dance. A prickling sensation spread through me as I felt countless eyes burning into my back. Disapproval mingled with a strange reverence. The room thrummed with unspoken questions, and I, too, yearned for answers, desperately seeking a foothold in the swirling vortex of uncertainty.
A ripple of anticipation surged through the crowd as a figure emerged. I turned to witness the gleaming silver armor of the King’s Guard announcing Ser Criston Cole, the newly appointed Hand of the King. Hundreds of eyes swiveled in his wake as he strode towards the Iron Throne, which seemed to gnash its serrated teeth at his approach.
My mind churned in chaotic disarray. Ser Criston had marched on Rook’s Rest, prompting Aemond’s hurried departure. Where my husband was now, remained a mystery. Perhaps still at Rook’s Rest, tending to the fallen King, or perhaps continuing on to Harrenhal, a destination he oft mentioned.
None of it mattered.
My marriage to Aemond had been a political maneuver, as cold and sterile as a septa’s cell. He held no affection for me, nor I for him. He was the absent, aloof prince I’d always imagined him to be. Carrying a frozen heart of a killer. Our union was no more than an alliance. Though I was hardly complaining. Married life granted me freedoms I scarcely thought possible for a highborn lady. But I would jest if I said I did not long for something more. Something warm. Something living. But in Aemond, either would be the last place I’d find.
Ser Criston swept a steely gaze across the court, his face unreadable. He chewed the inside of his cheeks curiously, the motion ceasing abruptly when his eyes met mine. Cold and dark. I met his stare head-on, until an odd feeling took root in my gut.
Unanswered questions swirled in my mind.
Ser Criston tore his gaze from me, his eyes flitting across the room. Then, with a voice laced with authority, he boomed, “I address this court as Hand to inform you that the King has been grievously wounded in battle!”
A collective gasp ripped through the court. Whispers, like startled birds, rose in a flurry.
Ser Criston continued, a steely edge creeping into his voice, “Rhaenyra the Cruel will believe she won a great victory this day. May believe we will cower and offer her the throne like whipped dogs. But the False Queen is sorely mistaken. For the throne will not remain empty.”
Whispers escalated into a commotion. An unsettling prickle danced across my skin. My mind darted to the dowager Queen Alicent. Surely, in Aegon’s absence, they would elevate her to the throne. But after usurping Rhaenyra, would they truly place another woman in her stead?
My thoughts, apparently, mirrored those of the court, for Alicent’s name drifted around me like a persistent echo.
Ser Criston’s voice rose to a commanding pitch, reverberating through the throne room, “I present to you…” The heavy oak doors of the throne room ground open, drawing every eye in unison.
My breath caught in my throat as a figure materialized at the stairs.
It wasn’t Alicent.
A frame, draped in dark green leather that shimmered with silver accents, emerged from the groaning doors. The Conqueror’s crown, a heavy circle of iron, sat upon their silver head, casting a long shadow across a face half-obscured by an eyepatch.
“Prince Regent, Aemond Targaryen,” Ser Criston declared, his voice thick with forced authority. “Rider of Vhagar.”
Aemond descended the steps.
“Slayer of the queen who never was.”
Aemond’s footsteps, muffled by polished leather boots and the collective murmurs of the courtiers, made a predator’s approach as he stalked toward the Iron Throne. Two King’s Guard flanked him with stoic expressions.
“And Protector of the Realm.”
He ascended the iron steps with a chilling grace, finally settling upon the throne. A hush fell over the court, thick and heavy. Silence stretched as he molded himself into the seat, his lethal hands caressing the equally lethal rests, a small smirk playing on his lips. His voice, a honeyed drawl laced with a hint of steel, echoed in the sudden silence.
“My Lords and Ladies,” he began, the menacing glint in his blue eye accentuated by the play of shadows on his face. “His Grace, the King, has been wounded at the battle of Rook’s Rest, and will be incapable to rule.”
There was a power in his presence, an unspoken threat that left the court speechless. Not a cough, not a rustle of fabric dared to break the silence.
“Therefore,” he continued, his gaze sweeping over the frozen faces, “I, will act as your sovereign.”
Unease prickled at my skin. Something about Aemond’s demeanor, the unnatural sheen on his face, sent a tremor of suspicion through me.
Had this all been a carefully orchestrated play? What truly transpired at Rook’s Rest?
My eyes darted to the ornate dagger resting at his hip, the ancestral blade of Aegon the Conqueror. It was the same dagger I’d last seen clutched in the hand of his brother.
As Aemond spoke on, a knot of apprehension tightened in my gut.
“The tide has turned,” he declared, his voice ringing through the stunned silence. “Rhaenys Targaryen is slain, along with her dragon.” A small smile tugged at his lips, a low hum escaping them. “The largest serving the Pretender’s cause.” He said it like it was a jest. “Rook’s Rest has been claimed, leaving Dragonstone vulnerable.” His fingers tapped across the blades. “This is a victory for us.”
Scattered heads nodded in agreement.
Then, his gaze snapped to me, a rapacious glint in his single blue eye. It seemed to bore into my very soul, stripping away any pretense.
“It’s all going according to plan,” he murmured, his voice a silken threat, and for a moment, an eerie feeling within told me he was addressing me alone. The fire that danced within his eye flickered a touch too bright, and it felt like he could see every thought swirling in my mind, every flicker of doubt, every spark of fear.
It felt like he was about to eat me alive.
A violent terror surged through me, icy fingers gripping my heart. Adrenaline tapped into my veins, a primal urge to flee.
_
Frantic energy fueled my movements. I shoved dresses, jewelry, all of my belongings, into overflowing wooden trunks. Their straining hinges mocked my desperation. My handmaid, silent but swift, followed my frenzied instructions. I knew then, with a chilling certainty, that I owed her my life after this escape.
Aemond’s chambers, once a familiar haven, felt cold and sterile now, stripped bare of my belongings. Rain lashed against the open windows, mirroring the frantic rhythm of my heart. The journey ahead would be long and treacherous. Circumstances weren’t optimal, but there was no other choice at my disposal.
My husband was a murderer and a kinslayer twice over. And my intuition told me it would soon be thrice. He wasn’t just ruthless; there was an unsettling hollowness behind his actions, a chilling absence of remorse. He was a walking blight, a storm that devoured everything in its path. And I refused to be struck down by its lightning.
The apartment doors shuddered open, shattering me into distraught. My flight instincts flared, but I refused to cower. My hand instinctively shot out, grasping my maid’s hand tightly. We held our breath as a large, porcelain hand reached out and pushed the door wider.
Aemond entered, leaving the door ajar. His gaze, unwavering and cold, locked with mine. “Leave us,” he commanded, his voice a smooth, cold current.
My handmaid curtsied, her grip faltering as she pried my fingers loose. With a hurried glance back, she scurried out, the heavy door slamming shut behind her.
An oppressive silence descended, broken only by the frantic pounding of my heart against my ribs.
Escape seemed impossible; the air thick with a chilling dread.
“You sent for me, wife?” Aemond’s voice, a silken caress laced with steel, echoed in the cavernous chamber. He approached with a predative grace, each deliberate step shrinking the distance between us.
Confusion slammed into me. I hadn’t summoned him. This was, by far, the most he’d spoken to me since our loveless union.
“You are mistaken,” I stammered, my voice barely above a whisper. My feet, traitors that they were, retreated with each of his advances. Then, it dawned on me, that it might have been his intention to put me in a state of dubiety, making me more malleable. A cutthroat, not only lethal, but cunning.
He stopped beside my overflowing trunk, a flicker of amusement playing on his lips.
“Travelling somewhere?” His single blue eye, unnervingly perceptive, held me captive.
Panic clawed at my throat. I clenched my trembling hands into fists, slotting them behind my back, forcing my lips into a gentle smile.
“I wish to visit my family,” I said. “With war looming, I wish for us to be together.”
Aemond took another measured step closer. “Ao issi aerēbas mirriot daor,” (You’re not going anywhere), he murmured, the High Valyrian rolling off his tongue like a sinister threat.
A furrow etched between my brows as I attempted to comprehend his words. My grasp of the ancient tongue was limited, and whether he intended me to understand was a cruel game. Perhaps, it was yet another tool to exert his dominance. But based on his relentless pursuit, I gathered me leaving wasn’t an option he entertained.
“I am of no use to you, Aemond,” I pleaded, maintaining a safe distance. “Me staying serves no purpose.”
“On the contrary,” he purred, his voice dripping with a dark promise. His head tilted covetously, venom flashing in his eye.
“We barely exist to each other,” I continued. “What difference would it make if I was half a world away?”
“It would make all the difference.” The warmth in his voice vanished, replaced by a glacial edge. “There’s the matter of heirs.”
Seven Hells.
Anguish twisted my gut. Intuition, a primal scream, roared to life. Images flashed behind my eyelids – Aemond sitting the throne, and Aegon reduced to ash.
Had this been his plan all along? Was he the reason for the King’s lethal end?
The pieces slammed together in my mind, a horrifying mosaic.
I gasped, my back hitting the cold stone wall. Aemond’s ambition stretched far beyond my naïve expectations. Loyalty to his house, to his brother, had been a carefully constructed facade. Beneath it, he schemed, a shrewd predator stalking his ultimate prize. The crown.
And the crown needed heirs.
He towered over me, his presence overwhelming. He was much taller than I recalled, every inch radiating a rapacious tension. A hand braced itself against the wall, inches from my head.
“What have you done?” My thoughts materialized into shaky words, laced with an enmity that surprised even me. My gaze raked over him, revulsion twisting my features. The green leather seemed to pulse, an illusion fueled by my churning stomach.
A flicker, a hint of something akin to uncertainty, crossed his single eye. It darted across my face, as if truly seeing me for the first time. Perhaps he was. In this desperate flight, we’d never been closer. Close enough to be enveloped by his scent, a foreign musk that did little to quell my churning nausea.
“Skoros iksin bēvilagon.” (What was necessary)
I frowned again, aggravated that he took to High Valyrian as an attempt to shut me out of his thoughts. My jaw clenched, frustration a bitter taste on my tongue.
Malevolence rose like a flood as I leaned forward, so close that our noses nearly touched, “I would not have your child in a million years, kinslayer,” I spat, my voice trembling with contained fury. I lunged forward, aiming to push past him, to escape his suffocating presence. But his other hand shot out, slamming against the wall beside me, effectively caging me in.
A venomous glint flickered in his eye as he narrowed it at me through his lashes. A twitch played on his lips, a cat batting at a cornered mouse. “Be that as it may,” he said mellowly. “But even a bad wife must obey her king.”
A scoff escaped my lips, my eyes sizing him up and down. “You are no king,” I hissed, defiance lacing my voice. “You are not even a man.”
His reaction was swift and brutal.
One hand shot out and grabbed my face, forcing my head against the cold stone. Pain erupted at the impact, but quickly subsided as he leaned in, his hot breath fanning against my lips.
“Speak such treason again, and I’ll show you what I really am.”
“What will you do?” I spat back, my voice trembling with a mix of fear and insurgence. “Cripple me, like you did your brother? Force yourself on me?”
“Don’t tempt me,” he growled, his voice simmering with barely contained violence.
A tense silence ensued, the air crackling with his restrained fury.
My suspicions, already simmering, solidified into a horrifying certainty. He’d orchestrated his brother’s downfall on purpose.
“Have you no honor?” I whispered, the words a ragged plea.
The silence stretched, broken only by our ragged breaths. His hold on my face loosened gradually, his hand falling away. But his gaze remained fixed on me, a storm brewing within its depths.
“You cannot stop me, Aemond,” I said, my voice shrinking. “I will leave this place, one way or another. You can play king in my absence, but it will be a hollow crown.”
“Kesan arghugon ao naejot se mōris hen tegon.” (I will hunt you to the end of the earth)
“Speak plainly,” I snapped, my patience with his cryptic pronouncements wearing thin.
A chilling smile, devoid of warmth, stretched across his lips. He pushed himself away from the wall, backing away, creating my long-desired distance between us.
“You may go,” he drawled, the amusement in his voice laced with a dangerous edge, that sardonic smile still plastered on his lips.
Acrimony filled my gut. What little I knew of this man, I feared greatly, but also told me this was a trick. He wouldn’t relinquish control so easily. He’d allow me to make my “escape”, only to have me snatched back by the King’s Guard, now under his control, a public display of his authority. There was no true freedom with him.
Maegor’s tunnels, a potential escape route, loomed tantalizingly behind me. If only I were alone, a simple push against the wall would send me tumbling into its dark embrace. But escape without a plan or supplies was a fool’s errand.
My mind spun, each possibility twisting the knife of despair deeper. Even if I reached my family, what awaited me there? Shame would be their welcome. Aemond, no doubt, would make sure of it.
The rain continued its relentless assault on the outside world, punctuated by the booming symphony of thunder. A flash of lightning illuminated the apartments, casting Aemond in a grotesque, menacing silhouette.
Exhaustion overwhelmed me. I slumped to the floor, seeking solace in the meager comfort of my arms wrapped around my knees. Here I was, a prisoner in this gilded cage, condemned to bear the children of a traitor until flames consumed us all.
Aemond crouched before me, his wrists resting on his knees. He regarded me with an intensity that bordered on scientific curiosity. A flicker of something, perhaps disappointment, played at his edges.
“I’d take you for many things, wife,” he cooed, the endearment dripping with veiled malice. “But weak was not one of them.” His words landed like a body blow. “If I’d known you’d crumble so easily, I would never have wed you in the first place.”
I sniffed and looked up at him, exhaustion a heavy cloak on my lids. “You did not have much of a say in the matter,” I countered.
A wicked smile twisted his lips and his head tilted to the side. “No,” he said softly. A sudden chill iced his demeanor. “And neither do you.”
He rose to his feet with predacious grace, leaving me pleated on the floor. He sauntered to his chair and seated himself, one leg propped up on his knee, his leather splaying atop the arm rests.
I watched him. His face was turned to the violent storm outside, immersed in contemplation, lightning whipping across his features. A vision of menace. A weapon poised to strike.
“So, what is your scheme, Aemond?” I started; my voice hoarse. His head turned slowly, his gaze locking onto mine with the piercing intensity of Valyrian steel. “Do you envision a period of mourning for the King, followed by a convenient acclamation in your favor? Or will you hurry along the succession and carry out the deed yourself before anyone suspects?”
A single corner of his mouth quirked into a cruel smile. “Suppose I have not yet decided.” His voice was like liquid.
Defiance flickered within me. “The court will never agree to this once they find out what you’ve done.”
Aemond hummed, a deep sound in the bottom of his chest. “Dragons don’t concern themselves with the opinions of sheep.” He leaned forward, resting his arms across his knees. “I am next in line to the throne,” he drawled. “None is better suited than I.”
I staggered to my feet and went to sit beside him. “With a legitimate heir,” I said carefully. “Your claim would be uncontested.”
He smirked, as though I’d read his mind. He leaned back, his eyes gleaming with dangerous delight.
“A woman’s pleasure is,” he began, a slow, suggestive smile playing on his lips. His blue eye drifted down my form in a way that made my skin crawl. “Of as much importance as the seed itself.”
A hot flush crept up my cheeks at his implication.
“Which is why submission must be a willing act,” he finished, his voice dropping to a husky murmur.
I swallowed, provocation crackling through me. Did he truly believe I would succumb to his advances? He seemed to think he could manipulate anyone to his will, whether through seduction or brutality, though I had yet to see the former.
“And if I refuse?” I challenged, my voice surprisingly steady despite the tremor in my hands.
A low growl vibrated in his chest, his face soft. “Then you’ll find yourself counted amongst the sheep,” he drawled.
Deflating, I sighed and dipped my head. The only path forward seemed excruciatingly clear. Raising my eyes to meet his, I lifted an eyebrow in rebellion.
“Consider me sheep then.” With that, I rose from the settee and strode towards the apartment doors, the cold of the metal handle stealing the warmth from my fingers as I heaved it open.
It shut then, with a loud thud, and I jumped, a sudden heat radiating behind me. Aemond’s fingers splayed on the oak door above my head. My pulse drummed in my ears, Aemond’s lips grazing my lobe, urging it to pick up the pace.
“Jaelā naejot mazverdagon nyke jorarghutan ao, ābrazȳrys?” (You want to make me chase you, wife?) His voice rumbled into me, a low growl as potent as the thunderstorm.
The rolling, guttural words sent a strange warmth through my core. His air consumed me. A rich mixture of smoke, leather, and dragon, infiltrated my senses, intoxicating and unsettling in equal measure.
“I can’t understand you,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. I felt him smiling against my ear, a low chuckle reverberating into it, sending goosebumps erupting across my skin.
“You won't need to,” he said softly. His hand drifted away from the door and closed around my throat, surprisingly gentle, yet the warmth of his fingers felt like embers branding my skin. They snaked around the back of my neck, the pressure tightening as he turned me to face him. His single eye, a bottomless well of intricacy, held mine captive.
My gaze flickered down to his lips. They were curved into a wicked grin.
His scent became a suffocating presence. The heat radiating from his body, fervid as a dragon, made sweat bead on my forehead. My entire being screamed I was at his mercy. He could crush my life out with a mere squeeze, or worse, with his single eye, he could strip me bare without ever laying a hand on me.
But a strange fire flickered within me, a rebellion against his dominion. My hands, fueled by a desperate need for control, reached out and began loosening his doublet, my fingers slow and deliberate.
Aemond stilled, his eye falling to my movements. He watched, transfixed, as I unfastened the green leather halfway down his chest, then trailed my fingers lower. His gaze darkened and his breath grew uneven, as the bulge beneath his belt pressed against my touch.
A visceral desire flared within me, a response I couldn’t fully comprehend. My pulse hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs, slowly drifting between my thighs at the sight of his desire.
His grip softened at my nape, and with a surge of defiance, I ripped myself free from his hold, and landed a heavy blow to his stomach. But a wave of terror washed over me when Aemond barely flinched.
Panic clawed at my throat.
Taking advantage of his momentary surprise, I flung open the chamber doors and fled, the sound of my pounding heart echoing in my ears.
AEMOND
The aftershock of her blow lingered, a dull ache radiating from my gut, while I allowed her to make her escape. Fury, a familiar companion, usually surged through me, promising retribution, suggesting to make her death appear an accident. This time, however, a different heat consumed me, a mix of surprise and… arousal.
Rarely did I misjudge a person. Yet, the meek mouse I’d wed had transformed into a daring she-wolf before my very eyes. This escape attempt, fueled by defiance, was a revelation. It made my dick hard.
A rapacious glint flickered in my eye. A grudging respect, laced with something far more primal, coiled in my gut. I had underestimated her, and the unexpected turn of events had ignited a spark within me.
A smirk twisted my lips, and I hummed with satisfaction, the thrill of the hunt coursing through me.
“Jaelā naejot tymagon?” (You want to play?) I murmured, the challenge laced with amusement. “Kesi tymagon.” (Let’s play.)
I started into the storm-ridden castle.
YOU
Immediate regret shot through me with a pang, a cold fist squeezing my breath.
To toy with a dragon was like asking to get burned.
My lungs screamed in protest, my legs burning with each step down the Red Keep’s slick stone steps. Blood, metallic and sharp, left traces in my mouth as I hoisted my cumbersome gown to avoid tripping. The castle shuddered from the storm, which groaned and wailed its onslaught. Guards stood stoic at their posts, their expressions unreadable underneath silver helms. Appealing to them was a fool’s errand.
None dared defy the one-eyed prince.
Driven by blind instinct, I found myself pushing through the massive doors of the throne room.
The Iron Throne, a monstrous silhouette of twisted blades, dominated the chamber, its edges flashing white-hot under the lightning’s fury. I stumbled towards it, chest heaving, gasping for air.
If it truly was cursed, could touching it offer some strange absolution, a release from the gilded cage that was my life? Surely, it couldn’t be worse than the fate that awaited me back in his clutches.
Ascension. My trembling legs carried me up the steps, each one a monumental effort. Reaching the top, I lingered to sit, an action so simple, yet it loomed so immensely in my mind.
“Waiting to make your peace with the gods?” came a voice, and I turned with a gasp.
Aemond stood in the middle of the room, arms slotted behind his back, approaching with slow, menacing steps, like a predator savoring the hunt. Thunder boomed overhead.
“No,” I countered, spite flaring hot in my chest. “Waiting for you to catch up so I can meet them myself,” I said, descending the steps.
“Once more, so quick to admit defeat,” he taunted, venom dripping from his words like the rain outside.
I studied his sharp features, while the burden of my reality settled like a weight in my chest. “There is no escaping you,” I gritted out, holding his heavy gaze.
His violence loomed heavy, and depravity flickered in his gaze. “Your perception waxes,” he conceded, and suddenly, the world tilted on its axis as he scooped me up and tossed me effortlessly over his broad shoulder.
The journey back to his chambers was a furious ballet of resistance. My limbs flailed wildly, desperate for purchase, and obscenities, laced with an untenable fear, ripped from my throat.
A sharp slap landed on my behind, eliciting a yelp of surprised pain.
“The more you struggle,” he growled, the sound a low rumble in his chest, “the worse it will be.”
A part of me recognized the truth in his words, yet a bestial defiance warred within, refusing to yield. Fueled by a surge of adrenaline, I lunged for his silver hair, grabbing a fistful and yanking with all my might.
He hissed through his teeth, followed by a guttural sound echoing deep within him. “Ilībōños,” (Bitch/Bastard) he cursed.
The apartment door slammed shut behind us as he entered, his movements purposeful. With a rough toss, I landed unceremoniously on the bed, the air whooshing out of my lungs on impact. Fury, a searing inferno, consumed me, each cell screaming in protest, my claws unsheathing. I wanted to hurt him.
Anything within reach became a potential weapon. Pillows, a discarded jeweled comb – I hurled them all at him, each item a silent scream of rebellion. But his movements were swift, each projectile dodged with practiced ease.
Frustration mounted, morphing into a desperate rage. I lunged at him, a clumsy attempt to push him back. But he remained immovable, an unyielding mountain. Undeterred, I pushed again, and again, fueled by a futile contempt.
Finally, as I drew back for another pointless shove, his hands shot out, lightning fast, pinning my arms to my sides. He moved swiftly, his body caging mine in a steely embrace.
“Lykirī,” he hummed, the word a low thrum against my ear.
“Fuck you,” I spat, my chest heaving from my ambush.
Did he mistake me for his winged beast that he could command to his will?
My attempt to wiggle out of his hold was a pointless endeavour. Rage crackled in my veins, but it flickered under his touch. My breath hitched as he leaned closer, the heat of his body searing through my gown. The scent of him, smoke and leather, filled my senses. And the undeniable press of his erection against my stomach sent a jolt through me.
This perverted man was enjoying my defiance. His grip tightened, a teasing hold that both frustrated and excited me. My body, traitor that it was, started to soften against him, a spark igniting beneath the embers of anger.
“Have you had your fill of my company?” he whispered, his voice husky against my ear. His hands trailed down my arms, sending shivers skittering across my skin.
Every rational part of me screamed to break free, to run for the tunnels, to fight back. But the intoxication of his touch, the heat radiating from him, the suggestive murmur against my ear – they all conspired to trap me.
Before I could think, my head slowly turned from one side to the other.
He hummed deeply. “Say it.”
Frustration warred with a strange vulnerability within me. My cheeks burned, and I clenched my jaw hard enough to taste blood.
“I haven't.”
“You haven't what?”
Fury flickered back to life, fueled by his smug grin and the realization of how easily he’d manipulated me.
“I haven't had enough,” I gritted out, the words a reluctant surrender.
A growl of satisfaction escaped him before he grasped me by my throat, pushed me back against the wall, and tasted my next breath on his tongue.
His lips, hot and demanding, devoured mine like a beggar, silencing the gasp that threatened to escape. Heat, a wildfire erupting at the junction of our bodies threatened to consume me. Fury, a simmering ember, still flickered within. I shoved against his chest and stomped on his feet; futile attempts against his unyielding form.
“Gaomagon vīlībagon nyke daor,” (Do not fight me) he said roughly against my lips, nipping at the bottom one. “Kesā botagon daor.” (You would not survive)
I didn’t understand him, and it urged on my fury. I opened my mouth with a quip in mind, but he used that opportunity to slide his tongue inside, hot and wet. The anger threatened to drown the blossoming desire, creating a tempestuous war within. I panted, torn between resistance and a strange, unfamiliar need, a fever writhing and pulsing inside my veins. My hands clenched in the rough leather of his doublet, a desperate attempt to maintain some sort of control.
I closed my teeth on his bottom lip, and he hissed sharply, encircling my throat with his hand, pushing me against the stone.
“Kelītīs,” (Stop) he growled.
The question of whether he even realized he was speaking High Valyrian was a fleeting thought. I melted into his rough hold, to his wicked mouth crashing against mine again and again, getting lost in the hot glide of his tongue. His rough kisses, the frantic press of his body, all contrived to unravel my carefully constructed defenses. A soft moan escaped my lips as my nipples brushed against his chest, sending sparks lower. He groaned low in his throat, sucking my bottom lip between his teeth.
With practiced ease, he untied the strings of my dress, letting the fabric pool around my ankles. I stood there in only my kirtle, breathless under his heated gaze. A dark groan rumbled from his chest as he slipped his hands beneath my thighs, effortlessly lifting me. My legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. His grip tightened on my bare flesh, a touch too rough, and I retaliated with another yank on his silver hair. An angry sound erupted in his throat as he attempted to shake off my grip.
He carried us to the bed, the world tilting on its axis as he settled me on top of him. Our mouths met in a frantic clash, a tangle of tongues and heated breaths. We tore away from each other briefly, just long enough for him to pull my kirtle over my head.
Naked and exposed, I felt a shiver dance across my skin under the intensity of his gaze. Something dark moved through his eye, and my skin prickled with goosebumps.
He gripped the swell of my hips, his palms sliding upward, a slow exploration that sent sparks igniting in my blood. The fight drained from me, replaced by a heavy languor. His fingers, surprisingly gentle for a cold-blooded killer, traced patterns across my skin, before cupping my breasts into a rough grip. A soft moan escaped my lips as his thumb brushed a nipple, and pleasure rushed to my core. He leaned in and closed his mouth over a peak, drawing it in with a slow, gentle suck. My head fell back, a groan escaping my throat. My hands filtered into his thick silver, my fingers impulsively easing off the leather tie that kept it out of his face, and it went cascading around his features like spills of moonlight.
Awe mingled with desire as I watched him continue to explore my body, his mouth leaving a trail of wet heat across my skin. I cupped his sharp face in my hands, the rational, caged side of me screaming to tear him off me. I made weak, pitiful attempts to do so, but Aemond growled his disapproval and sucked my nipple hard. The wet heat of his mouth tugged between my legs as he moved to the other, flames curling low in my stomach. I ground down on him, my wet entrance dampening the dark leather of his breeches, the friction sending a delicious heat through my core. A moan ripped from his lips.
I was on fire, a confusing mix of desire and desperation clawing at me. I needed something more, something to push me over the edge. My body moved of its own accord, grinding harder, seeking that elusive release.
He released my nipple with a graze of teeth that sent a jolt of white heat through me, and looked up at me with his eye dark like the storm.
“Skoros gaomagon jaelā?” (What do you crave?), he rumbled.
Exhaustion gnawed at me, but a visceral need pulsed deep within. “Please,” I pleaded, the word a ragged whisper escaping my lips, the frustration of the language barrier a dull ache compared to the firestorm raging in my core. “More,” I begged, grinding against his erection with desperate mewlings.
When his hand lowered to palm my pussy, my skin caught on fire, burning me from scalp to toes. Desire inflated in my throat when he ran his hand up my neck, into my hair, grabbing a fistful and using it to arch my head back, his touch both possessive and arousing.
“Is this what you desire?” he rasped against my throat, his voice husky with restrained passion. His calloused thumb began drawing circles on my clit, a slow, deliberate exploration that sent frustration battling with a rising tide of pleasure.
I nodded desperately. “Yes,” I gasped.
He slipped two fingers into my wetness, and I arched my back, groaning in pleasure and a little pain, his fingers filling me up to the brim. My hands found purchase in his hair, anchoring myself as he moved his digits, flames of pleasure licking at my walls.
Ecstasy unfurled in my veins like milk of the poppy, mind-numbing, delirious, as he slid his thick fingers in and out of me, rubbing a sensitive spot deep within. Hot pressure expanded, and my eyes rolled back in my head. A throaty moan escaped my lips with every thrust of his fingers and a delicious rumble rolled in his chest.
His grip around my hair suddenly vanished and his thumb began rubbing circles on my clit as he fingered me. I cried out, the intensity overwhelming, and I braced myself on his leather-covered shoulders, a cold sweat starting beneath my skin.
“Sholīze,” (You’re so wet), he groaned against my skin, the word a brand that sent shivers lancing through me, the heat beneath the surface threatening to erupt. I rolled my hips on his fingers, and a satisfied growl escaped his mouth, his eye dropping to witness me riding his hand as my pleasure ran down his wrist, my leg and onto his lap.
“Shkelagon zhēdys,” (You’re making a mess), he whispered into my mouth, swallowing my desperate cries.
A third finger, bold and intrusive, slid inside, the added pressure sending me over the edge. My vision swam, black dots exploding at the edges. My heart pounded to the fire searing through every nerve in my body. Throaty moans tore from my lips over and over, as I clenched around his moving fingers. He groaned with dark satisfaction, encircling my waist, pressing me against him as I rode out my orgasm.
The storm within me subsided slowly. His fingers, once urgent, now moved slowly in and out of me while I caught my breath and the ringing in my ears faded. He didn’t withdraw until he’d coaxed out the very last tremor of pleasure from my body.
A languorous warmth, a deep sense of satiation unlike anything I’d ever known, bloomed within me.
Lost in the afterglow, I trailed kisses up his neck, small noises of contentment escaping my lips.
“Gevie,” he panted, slipping his fingers out of me.
I knew that word.
Beautiful.
AEMOND
I never thought the act of making an heir would be this… riveting.
So much pure heat, flame and pleasure, fueled not just by my own desire, but by the sight of her pleasure burgeoning under my touch. It was a new prospect entirely. I could have reached my own release simply from witnessing hers.
But this was not going to make an heir, after all.
She ran her fingers over my erection, her lips and teeth teasing a line down my neck as she came down from her high. My hand, forearm and lap were slick from her sweet desire.
She settled back into my lap, a vision of post-orgasmic bliss. Her eyes, usually bright and defiant, were now hooded with languid satisfaction, her cheeks flushed a becoming crimson. Her lips, slightly parted, breathed shallowly. I pushed my thumb between them, and she met the intrusion with a beckoning glide of her tongue, the wet heat settling in my groin. I pulled my thumb free, wiping the evidence of her touch across her lips.
This woman, this force of nature, was mine. My wife.
Lightning played across her features like she was its master. Like she embodied the raw power of the storm.
Untamed, fierce, fuckable.
She was molded just for me.
Her fingers, tracing a familiar path down my doublet, encountered the bulge straining against the fabric, my dick throbbing at her faintest touch.
“Take it off,” she said, working on the buckle. I reached my hands up my neck, loosening the doublet from my frame.
“Do not attempt any strikes this time,” I drawled, a playful challenge in my voice. I relished the smile that spread across her lips.
“You have my word,” she said softly.
The leather of my arms whispered down, discarded on the floor like a shed skin. Her eyes ignited with raw desire, a flickering flame that mirrored the inferno that had been building within me. Her fingers, hesitant at first, traced a path down my chest, my abs, further, until her hand slipped beneath my breeches and over the length of my dick.
I hissed through my teeth. The heat, a branding iron searing flesh, intensified as her hand, unsure but determined, wrapped around my erection, heat curling at the base of my spine. Her hesitant touch grew more confident as she stroked me from base to head with smooth, gentle motions, sending a low groan rumbling from my chest.
I grabbed her face and grazed her chin with my teeth, making her stroke me harder. “I’ll fill you with my seed, wife,” I growled, the words rough against her skin. A promise, a threat, a declaration of possession – all rolled into one.
Her sigh held a hint of resignation, contrasting the fire in her eyes. “As long as you’ll leave me alone once you’re done,” she mumbled, the words laced with quiet defiance.
Fury, a red-hot ember, flared within me.
I threw her down on her knees on the bed and yanked her head back by her hair until her head rested against my shoulder. The vulnerability in her exposed throat fueled a dark avarice within me. My erection pressed against the heat of her ass, restraint becoming an impossible enemy.
“You’re bound to me now,” I growled in her ear, the words a possessive vow. “You’re not going anywhere.”
A ghost of a smile played on her lips, a silent challenge that both frustrated and excited me. I leaned in, whispering a single word against her ear, “Ñuhon.” (Mine) I nipped her earlobe, making her hiss.
When I released her, she sagged forward, head hanging low. Her shoulders slumped, and she lowered herself onto her hands, the curve of her backside a sight that ignited a fresh wave of heat within me.
I discarded my breeches, the urgency a physical ache in my core. Kneeling behind her, I pushed two fingers inside of her. She clenched down on me so tightly. I groaned and pulled my fingers free. As I rubbed the head of my cock against her wet opening, the heat of it almost burned me. A tremble coasted throat her, and her fingers gripped the sheets, bracing herself.
I eased into her, and, gods spare me, she was so fucking tense, to the point she nearly resisted me entirely. I caressed her ass, her hips, running my hand up and down her back, attempting to relax her, uttering words I scarcely knew were the Common Tongue or High Valyrian.
“Vīrȳn (take it), you’re so fucking wet, gūrogon mirre yno (take all of me).”
Until her walls softened and I watched myself slide into her, until I was as deep as I could go.
Seven Hells.
The feeling was overwhelming. The way she clutched me like a wet fist. Every cell in me ached for more, to fuck her hard, relentlessly, but I gave her a moment to adjust, squeezing her, running my hands all over her.
Soon, she was rocking back against me, and I gave her what she wanted, pulling out all the way before slowly pushing back in, every inch of me vanishing. She groaned and dropped her face to the bed, fisting the sheets in her hands. I gripped the swell of her hips, guiding her warm, wet pussy onto my throbbing dick over and over, watching their salacious union, my sight darkening at the squelching sounds that ensued. A deep hum erupted from my chest.
She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes hooded with lust, settling on each lazy thrust.
“Iksis ao bisa ijiōrtan?” (Is this pleasing you?) I rasped, but before she could answer, I fucked her a little harder. It occurred to me that she probably could not have understood what I’d been saying half the time.
Her head fell forward, and the sight of her biting down on her hand to quiet her moans sent a heady rush to my head, lighting me on fire.
Thunder rolled overhead.
I was completely lost in the heat of her, taking her hard, watching her ass bounce against me with every thrust. I wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her back against my chest.
She was panting, fucked into soft compliancy.
“To whom do you belong?” I growled in her ear.
She didn’t resist any of my advances this time. “You,” she breathed.
“Say my name.”
“Aemond.”
“And who is your King?”
“Aemond.”
My grip snaked and tightened around her neck as I fucked her.
“Say it.”
“You’re the King, Your Grace,” she whined. “The first of your name.”
It set me on fire.
I pushed her back down and fucked her through her second orgasm, holding her hips up when her legs gave out. She shuddered and clenched around me, the pressure sending licking fires down my back, threatening to erupt. I gritted my teeth as I came inside of her, a white, hot fire shooting through me so hard, my vision went black.
My muscles shook from the aftershock.
I doubled over her, letting my forehead rest on her back as we came down.
When I pulled out of her, I watched my seed leak out of her entrance like white tears. I plugged it with my fingers, burrowing deep inside of her, and she gasped.
“Dragonseed is precious,” I rumbled into her ear. “Would not want it to go to waste.” I kissed her temple.
“Tepagon aōha dārys iā dārilaros, dōna ābrazȳrys.” (Give your king an heir, sweet wife)
Hello, I would like to make an obscene request. Yandere King Aemond Targaryen x Reader's niece. She is the youngest daughter of Helena and Aegon, though very beautiful, a Helen of Troy. The reader replaces Jaehaera. She is vegetarian, an animal rights activist, an art lover, and very feminine. Her personality is similar to that of the Grey Ghost dragon. When the war broke out, she was sent to Oldtown along with her dragon, Grey Ghost (it's Grey Ghost but with a different name). Although when the Greens won the war and Aemond became king, he had to marry his niece. When he went to find her, he was amazed by her beauty.
Nothing is too obscene. I hope you like this one. I really tried on getting everything right.
The Ghost of the Hightower
The High Tower of Oldtown did not feel like a sanctuary; it felt like a gilded cage built to hold a myth.
For three long years, while the rest of Westeros drowned in a deluge of fire and fratricide, your world had been measured by the steady, rhythmic striking of the Citadel’s noon-bells and the salt-scented winds drifting off the Whispering Sound. You had been sent away from King’s Landing when the first cracks in the dynasty began to bleed, smuggled out of the Red Keep like a priceless tapestry before Rhaenyra’s forces could descend.
They called you the youngest daughter of Aegon and Helaena, but you had never shared the loud, destructive appetites of your siblings. While Jaehaerys and Maelor had been raised on the fierce lore of conquest, you were solitary. A creature of quiet rooms, charcoal dust, and damp linen. Your days were spent in the highest solars of the Hightower, painting the jagged cliffs of the Reach, nursing the broken wings of gulls brought to you by sympathetic pages, and utterly refusing to touch the heavy, roasted meats that dripped grease onto the high table—much to the clinical confusion of the Citadel’s grand maesters.
"A princess must eat to ensure her blood remains thick and fertile," Maester Norren had chided you just days prior, offering a plate of blood-rare venison.
You had pushed it away with trembling fingers, looking instead at the window where the sky met the sea. "The deer did nothing to deserve the arrow, Maester. I will take the almond paste and the winter pears, if it pleases you."
Your only true companion was Silverwing’s Shadow, a dragon the smallfolk had taken to calling the Ghost of the Reach. She was a mirror of your own spirit: a shy, elusive beast of pale slate-grey and morning-mist white, who chose to nest in the damp sea-caves rather than the volcanic pits. She fed exclusively on the schools of silver fish she plucked silently from the crests of the waves, never once burning a farmer's sheep or scorching a village's thatch.
You were content to be forgotten. You prayed the world would simply leave you to fade into the fog.
But the war was over. The Greens had won. And the victor was coming to claim the remnants of his house.
The heavy oak doors of your solar did not merely open; they groaned under the sudden, suffocating weight of an apex predator’s presence.
You did not look up immediately. You were hunched over a sheet of thick, imported parchment, carefully blending a wash of crushed lapis lazuli and distilled rainwater, trying to capture the exact, fleeting shade of the Oldtown sea before a storm. Your fingertips were permanently stained a faint, artistic blue.
"They told me you spent your days hiding in the clouds," a voice purred from the threshold. It was a low, resonant rasp, carrying the distinct, metallic undertone of Valyrian steel. "I see they did not exaggerate."
You froze. The tip of your camel-hair brush hovered a mere millimeter above the paper, a single drop of blue water trembling on the bristles. Slowly, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, you raised your head.
Aemond Targaryen stood in the doorway.
He was no longer the fierce, shadowed prince you remembered from the gardens of your childhood. He wore the heavy, dark velvet of the crown, the black scales of his riding leathers peeking out beneath a cloak pinned with the conqueror’s rubies. His silver hair fell loose and wild over his broad shoulders, framing the sharp, cruel angles of a face hardened by years of slaughter. But it was his eye—the single, violet eye that remained—that pinned you to your high-backed chair. It burned with a terrifying, absolute intensity.
You stood up so hastily that your thigh caught the edge of the low table, knocking a ceramic jar of rinsing water onto the floor. It shattered, a dark puddle spreading across the ancient wood, but neither of you looked down.
You curtseyed, your voice barely a whisper against the vast silence of the room. "Your Grace. King Aemond."
Aemond did not speak. He stepped into the solar, kicking the door shut behind him with a soft, definitive click of the latch. He moved with a terrifying grace, the steady thud of his riding boots sounding like a death knell. As he closed the distance between you, his single eye swept over your form, and you saw the exact moment the air left his lungs.
The rumors had traveled along the Roseroad to King’s Landing that Helaena’s youngest had grown into a beauty that rivaled the maidens of old song. But Aemond had expected a traditional Targaryen princess—vibrant, arrogant, demanding.
Instead, he found a Helen of Troy carved from pale marble and morning frost. Your skin was flawless, your features possessing a devastating, ethereal symmetry that made you look less like a mortal woman and more like a goddess of the deep woods. You wore a simple, flowing gown of pale sage silk, devoid of the harsh armor or heavy gold filigree your family favored.
"By the Seven," Aemond breathed, a dark, breathless smile curving his lips. He stopped just inches from you, the scent of leather, bitter winter wind, and dragon-smoke washing over your senses. "My brother Aegon was a fool. He had the finest treasure in the realm tucked away in his own nursery, and he never had the wits to look at you."
"I am... I am honored by your presence, Uncle," you stammered, taking a cautious step backward, your heels pressing against the edge of your painting desk.
He instantly closed the gap, his hand shooting out to grip your jawline. His leather glove was rough, but his touch was surprisingly gentle—yet the underlying strength was absolute. He tilted your face upward, forcing your gaze to lock with his single, blazing eye.
"Not Uncle," Aemond whispered, his thumb brushing over the soft curve of your lower lip, tracing the shape of your mouth with an obsessive reverence. "Husband. The realm is mine, sweet niece. And you are to be my Queen."
That evening, a grand feast was thrown in the Great Hall of the Hightower to celebrate the King’s victory. But for you, it was a waking nightmare of noise and blood.
The air was thick with the smell of roasted meats, spilled ale, and the sweat of victorious lords. Aemond sat at the apex of the high table, his arm possessively draped over the back of your chair, his long fingers occasionally twisting through the silver strands of your hair. Every time a southern lord attempted to offer you a toast or look too closely at your face, Aemond’s grip on your shoulder would tighten, his sapphire eye flashing a silent, lethal warning that made the men quickly lower their gazes. He did not want them seeing you. He wanted to hoard your beauty in the dark.
When a massive platter of roasted wild boar, its skin crackling and dripping with fat, was placed directly before you, you quietly pushed the plate away. Your stomach churned at the sight. You reached instead for a modest wooden bowl filled with fresh figs, walnuts, and a loaf of barley bread.
Aemond noticed the movement instantly. His brow furrowed, a shadow passing over his sharp features. Using his dagger, he carved a thick, bloody piece of meat from his own platter and dropped it onto your bread.
"You need strength if you are to return to the capital and bear my heirs, wife," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Eat."
You stared at the meat, your chest tightening. You thought of the boars you had seen in the woods of the Reach—living, breathing, wild. "I do not eat flesh, Your Grace," you said softly, your voice trembling but entirely resolute. "I cannot."
Aemond’s eye narrowed, the dangerous glint returning. The lords sitting nearby went silent, sensing the sudden drop in temperature at the head table. "A dragon does not eat grass, Y/N," he said coldly.
"I am not a dragon," you whispered, keeping your eyes trained on your lap. "And my beast does not hunt the smallfolk’s flocks either. We prefer the quiet. We prefer to take nothing that wishes to live."
Aemond stared at you for a long, agonizing moment. The court held its collective breath, expecting the King's infamous, volatile temper to flare and take the room. Instead, a low, dark chuckle rumbled in his chest. It was a sound of profound amusement—and terrifying fascination.
He reached over, taking the plate of meat away himself and tossing it to the hounds on the floor. He replaced it with a basket of fresh winter fruits.
"A gentle dove," Aemond murmured, leaning so close that his silver hair brushed against your cheek. His breath was hot against your ear. "How exquisite. You weep for the beasts of the field, yet you do not realize you have stepped into the cage of a monster who will never let you go. I will ensure the Red Keep’s kitchens never serve you slaughter again, my love. But in return, those beautiful eyes must look only at me."
Days bled into one another, and with each passing hour, the true nature of Aemond's victory became clear. He did not rule Westeros; he ruled you. The court whispered that the King spent more time in the west tower than he did consulting with the maesters or his Hand.
One afternoon, he found you in the library, tracing the delicate illumination of an old Valyrian text. He didn't announce himself. He simply materialized at your shoulder, his hands dropping onto the back of your chair, trapping you.
"You draw beautifully," he remarked, his eye fixed on the charcoal sketch you had made of a small sparrow nesting in the masonry. "But you draw things that fade. Birds die. Flowers rot."
"That is what makes them precious, Your Grace," you said softly, keeping your posture rigid. "Their time is brief, so they must be appreciated while they are here."
Aemond reached down, his fingers brushing against your stained fingertips, tracing the blue ink. "A flawed philosophy. I prefer things that endure. Power. Valyrian steel. And you." He picked up your charcoal piece, staring at the small bird, before slowly crushing the parchment in his fist, reducing the delicate drawing to a crumpled ball. "You will not draw birds anymore. You will draw me. You will paint my likeness, look upon my face until it is the only thing your mind can conceive."
"You are cruel," you whispered, looking at the ruined art.
"I am a king," Aemond corrected, his voice dropping to a dangerous, velvety register. "And a king takes what is his. Your grief for a piece of paper is pathetic, Y/N. Save your tears for something that matters. Like when I take you from this tower.
The next morning, before the sun could fully break through the gloom, you sought refuge where you always did: the high, jagged cliffs overlooking the breaking waves, where Silverwing’s Shadow rested.
The grey dragon blended perfectly into the morning mist, her pale, pearl-like scales shimmering against the dark stone. When she saw you approaching, she let out a low, mournful click, burying her massive, elegant snout into the palm of your small hand. You closed your eyes, leaning your forehead against her warm hide, finding solace in the only creature who understood your desire to remain invisible to the world.
"She is a strange beast," a voice called out through the fog.
You snapped your eyes open. Walking up the rocky, steep path was Aemond. He wore no crown today, only his black leathers, looking more like an executioner than a king. And behind him, looming like a mountain of ancient bronze and rotten emerald, was Vhagar. The grandmother of all dragons let out a low, vibrating growl that made the very pebbles beneath your feet rattle.
Your dragon instantly panicked. Silverwing’s Shadow hissed softly, her wings flaring as she retreated into the thicker banks of sea-fog, trying to shield herself from the massive predator.
You stepped in front of your beast protectively, your hands balled into fists as you faced Aemond. "Do not frighten her!" you cried out, a rare, fierce spark of defiance cutting through your usual timidity. "She does not like conflict. She is peaceful!"
"Peaceful," Aemond scoffed gently, continuing his advance until he stood directly in your space, his imposing frame blocking out the light of the rising sun. He looked past you, trying to pierce the fog where the elusive grey dragon hid. "A dragon is meant for war, Y/N. For fire, blood, and dominion. Yet you have turned her into a ghost. Just as you try to turn yourself into one."
He reached out, his bare hand tangling firmly in your silver-gold hair, pulling you forward until your body was pressed flat against his chest. You could feel the frantic, heavy thudding of his heart—it beat with the frantic energy of a man possessed.
"But I see you," Aemond whispered, his voice thick with a sudden, suffocating obsession. He looked down at your face, your unmatched beauty radiant even in the dreary morning light. "You think you can hide from me in your paintings, or behind your walls of silence. But I will build a new world just for you. No one will look at you. No one will speak your name. You will be my secret, beautiful queen, hidden away where the world cannot taint you."
"Aemond..." you gasped, genuinely terrified by the sheer fanaticism in his eye. "Please. I want to stay here. In Oldtown. With the sea and the quiet. I am not fit for King's Landing."
"No," Aemond growled softly, his lips pressing hard against your forehead, then your cheek, tracing a path down to your jawline with a desperate, starving hunger. "You belong to the Iron Throne now. You belong to me. I have burned kingdoms to ash and slaughtered my own blood to secure my rule, Y/N. Do you truly think I would leave the most beautiful thing in Westeros behind?"
He pulled back just enough to look into your tear-filled eyes, his hand moving down to rest over your throat, feeling the rapid, terrified flutter of your pulse beneath his palm.
"Your dragon will follow us to the capital, or she will be brought down by Vhagar," he stated, his voice flat, devoid of any cruelty—just a simple, unyielding fact. "And you will sit beside me. You will wear my colors, you will eat what I provide, and you will give me children with eyes that match my own."
You shook your head against his chest, tears finally spilling over your lashes. "I will never love you if you force me."
Aemond’s smile was the most terrifying thing you had ever seen. It was devoid of anger, filled only with an absolute, possessive certainty. He leaned down, his lips brushing against yours, stealing your breath away before you could protest.
"I do not need your love, sweet niece," he murmured against your mouth, his grip tightening until you couldn't move. "I only need your presence. You are my ghost now, Y/N. And a ghost never leaves its master."
The departure from Oldtown was not a royal procession; it was an abduction wrapped in the silk of statecraft.
The maesters of the Citadel stood in long, solemn rows of grey wool, their chains clinking like distant shackles in the morning breeze as they watched the King’s retinue prepare. They had grown fond of your quiet presence in their dusty archives, but not a single man of learning dared raise a voice against the sovereign who had mounted Vhagar and remade the realm in his own violent image.
You stood on the lower docks, wrapped in a heavy cloak of dark emerald velvet—a gift from Aemond that felt less like a garment and more like a shroud. The fabric was heavy, weighted down with silver thread at the hem to ensure the sea wind could not lift it, keeping you modest, keeping you hidden.
"You look back as if you expect the stones to weep for you," Aemond’s voice cut through the sound of the crashing waves. He stepped up behind you, his hands coming to rest flat against your stomach, pulling your spine flush against his chest. He rested his chin on your shoulder, his single eye tracking your gaze toward the high cliffs.
"They are the only things that ever let me be," you whispered, your voice cracking. "The stones do not demand anything of me."
"Because they are dead," Aemond murmured, his lips brushing the sensitive skin beneath your ear, making you shudder. "I am alive. You are alive. And life is a matter of taking, Y/N. Look at your beast. Even she understands the natural order now."
High above the mist-shrouded jagged rocks, Silverwing’s Shadow circled. She did not roar. She did not challenge the sky. She flew in erratic, anxious patterns, her pale slate-grey wings cutting through the fog like a lost memory. Below her, casting a shadow that swallowed the entire harbor, was Vhagar. The ancient queen of the sky kept a lazy, menacing orbit around your dragon, a silent sentinel ensuring the younger, gentler beast did not attempt to flee back into the deep sea-caves of the Reach.
"She will fly with us to King's Landing," Aemond stated, his grip tightening around your waist until it was difficult to breathe. "And when we arrive, she will be given a specific paddock in the Dragonpit. Far from the others. Where no one can see her but you. And where she cannot escape him."
"You speak of her as if she is a prisoner," you said, turning your head slightly, only to find his mouth inches from yours.
"She is a reflection of her rider," Aemond smiled, a dark, devastating expression that showed too many teeth. "And her rider belongs in my bed."
Before you could reply, he lifted you effortlessly into his arms. You gasped, instinctively clutching at his shoulders, your blue-stained fingers digging into the black leather of his brigandine. He carried you up the gangplank of the royal flagship not like a bride, but like a conqueror bearing a sacred relic from a sacked city.
The Red Keep had been scrubbed of Rhaenyra’s blood, but the scent of ash still lingered in the lower courtyards.
When you arrived in the capital, there were no grand pageants for the smallfolk to gaze upon their new Queen. Aemond had given strict orders: you were to be brought through the subterranean tunnels of the Red Keep, bypassing the throne room entirely. He did not want the lords of the court to see the way the sunlight caught your silver-gold hair. He did not want the foreign ambassadors to write home about the devastating, ethereal beauty of Aegon's youngest daughter.
Your new chambers were located in the highest tier of Maegor’s Holdfast. The rooms were vast, draped in the richest Myrish rugs and filled with fresh canvases, finest charcoals, and pigments imported from Essos. But the windows were heavily barred with intricate, forged ironwork shaped like thorns and vines. Beautiful, yet entirely impassable.
On your third night in the capital, you sat by the hearth, a plate of fresh bread, almond milk, and roasted roots sitting untouched on the table beside you. You were working on a canvas, painting from memory the quiet, tide-washed caves of Oldtown.
The heavy iron door unlocked with a deafening rattle.
Aemond entered, stripped of his crown and his heavy armor. He wore only a loose linen shirt and dark trousers, looking less like a king and more like the boy who had once taken a dragon through sheer, terrifying willpower. He looked exhausted, the dark circles under his single eye telling of long hours spent executing treacherous lords and restructuring the city’s watch.
Yet, the moment his eye found you, the fatigue vanished, replaced by that same, hyper-fixated hunger.
"You have not eaten," he noted, walking over to the table. He picked up a piece of the bread, breaking it between his fingers. "The cooks swore to me on their lives that no beast was harmed to prepare this meal. Why do you starve yourself, Y/N?"
"I have no appetite in a prison, Your Grace," you said quietly, refusing to look away from your canvas.
Aemond didn't rage. He didn't shout. The war had burned away his childish tantrums, leaving behind something far more dangerous: a cold, unyielding certainty. He walked up behind you, his hand reaching out to grab the brush from your hand. He didn't drop it; he merely held it, his fingers covering yours, forcing you to paint a harsh, dark streak of black charcoal across the beautiful, pale blue sea you had been rendering.
You let out a small, horrified gasp. "Why did you do that? It took me hours—"
"Because you are looking backward again," Aemond hissed softly, his chest pressing against your back. He leaned down, his breath sweeping across your neck. "Oldtown is gone for you. The caves are gone. This is your world now. This room. This castle. Me."
"You cannot force my mind to forget," you said, tears of frustration pricking your eyes. "You can chain my body, Aemond, but you cannot chain my thoughts. When I close my eyes, I am still on the cliffs. I am still free."
Aemond gripped your chin, twisting your face around so violently that your breath hitched. His sapphire eye was wide, glittering with a manic, yandere devotion that made your blood run cold.
"Then I will make myself so inescapable that even when you close your eyes, you see nothing but my face," he whispered, his voice trembling with a terrifying fervor. "I will haunt your dreams, Y/N. I will fill your womb with my children until your body forgets it ever belonged to anyone else. You think you are a ghost? I am the stranger who commands the dead."
He dropped the paintbrush, his hands moving down to trace the collarbone of your dress, his touch hovering somewhere between a caress and a chokehold.
"Tomorrow, the High Septon will bind us in the sight of the gods," Aemond whispered against your lips, his composure returning like a mask of ice. "There will be no court present. No lords to stare at you. Only the silent sisters and the flame. And when it is done, I will lock this door, and the world will never see you again."
You looked into his single, burning eye, seeing the absolute ruin of your quiet life reflected in the violet depths. You realized then that there was no rescue coming. No dragon could fly fast enough to escape Vhagar; no mist was thick enough to hide from a king who had rewritten the laws of the realm just to possess a phantom.
"Eat your bread, my sweet ghost," Aemond murmured, his lips finally descending onto yours, tasting of copper and ash, sealing your fate in the dark. "You will need your strength for the night to come."
The wedding did not take place in the Great Sept of Baelor, nor before the glittering assembly of the surviving houses of Westeros. Aemond would not allow it. He would not permit the desperate, lingering gazes of the southern lords to trace the line of your collarbone, nor would he give the rumor-mongers of King’s Landing the satisfaction of whispering about the ethereal, pale queen he had brought back from the south.
Instead, you were wed in the subterranean gloom of the Red Keep’s private sept—a cold, cavernous room of black stone where the statues of the Seven looked less like divine guardians and more like silent jailers.
The air smelled of old tallow, cold damp, and the bitter tang of crushed incense. The only witnesses were three silent sisters, their faces hidden behind heavy grey veils, and the High Septon, whose trembling hands nearly dropped the ceremonial ribbons as he looked upon the King.
Aemond stood beside you, a towering pillar of obsidian and silver. He wore a heavy tunic of Targaryen black, the chest embroidered with a three-headed dragon in scales of dark charcoal and jet. His crown of Valyrian steel rested low on his brow, the ancient rubies gleaming like fresh drops of blood in the flickering candlelight.
You wore white—not the pristine, joyful cream of a maiden bride, but a gown of pale, heavy silk that felt like winter shroud-linen. It was cut high to your throat and reached down to your wrists, covering every inch of your skin, save for your hands and your face. Aemond had inspected the garment himself before you were permitted to don it, ensuring that your beauty remained entirely his own secret.
"Repeat the words, Y/N," Aemond murmured, his voice cutting through the hollow silence of the sept. His hand was wrapped around yours, his fingers squeezing so tightly that your bones clicked beneath the pressure. His leather glove had been discarded; his bare skin was burning hot against your icy fingers.
You looked up at the statue of the Mother, her stone face worn smooth by centuries of weeping. Your voice was a thread of silk drifting through a tomb. "I am yours. From this day until my last day."
"With this kiss, I pledge my faith," Aemond countered, his voice deep, resonant, and entirely devoid of the standard matrimonial gentleness. He did not wait for the High Septon to finish the blessing. He turned you toward him, his large hand coming up to cup the back of your head, his fingers tangling roughly in your silver-gold hair.
When his lips met yours, it was not a promise; it was an execution of your past life. He drank from your mouth with a starving, frantic desperation, his chest heaving against your own until you were forced to lean into him simply to remain upright. The silent sisters did not turn away; they merely watched with dead eyes as the King claimed his prize before the gods.
When he finally pulled back, a thin strand of your silver hair was caught in the heavy clasp of his cloak. He did not untangle it. He reached up with his dagger and severed the strand, folding the silk-soft hair carefully and placing it into the pouch at his belt, directly over his heart.
"Now," Aemond whispered, his sapphire eye dilated so widely it looked completely black. "The world is dead to you. And you are born to me."
The months that followed the silent sacrament were defined by a profound, suffocating stillness.
The realm believed the new Queen was frail, perhaps touched by the same gentle madness that had afflicted her mother, Helaena. The smallfolk whispered that she was a creature of mist who could not bear the harsh sunlight of the capital. They did not know that the Queen was whole, that her mind was sharp, and that her beauty had only deepened in the isolation of Maegor’s Holdfast.
They only knew what Aemond permitted them to know. And Aemond permitted nothing.
Your days became a rhythmic routine of quiet creation and absolute confinement. The King had filled your solar with every luxury imaginable: mountains of fine, unspun wool for weaving, charcoal from the deepest forests of the Reach, and oils distilled from flowers that had never seen the smog of King's Landing. He even sent for rare, exotic birds from the Summer Isles—brilliant, multi-colored creatures that lived in massive, gilded cages within your chambers.
You spent hours beside those cages, your fingers sliding through the bronze bars to stroke the soft feathers of the parakeets. "You shouldn't be here," you whispered to a small, emerald-winged bird one afternoon. "You belong to the canopy. You belong where the sky has no ceiling."
"They belong where they are safe," Aemond’s voice intervened from the doorway.
He had entered without the guards announcing him—they never did. He walked with a light, predatory step now, his long cloak trailing behind him like smoke. He stopped behind you, his hands dropping onto your shoulders, his thumbs rubbing the base of your neck where your pulse beat like a trapped sparrow.
"They would die in the wild, Y/N," he said, his voice dropping into that low, reasonable register he used only when he was trying to justify his ownership of you. "The hawks would tear them apart. The crows would peck out their eyes. Here, they have fruit. They have water. They have you."
"They have no sky, Aemond," you said, keeping your gaze fixed on the emerald bird, which had shied away to the back of the cage at the sound of his voice. "Just as I have no sky."
Aemond leaned down, his silver hair spilling over your shoulder, blocking out the light from the barred window. "You have me. Am I not sky enough for you?"
He reached around your waist, pulling you back against his hip, his hand sliding up the silk of your bodice to press firmly against your heart. "Your beast is well-fed. She nests in the lower pits, away from the other dragons. She does not fight, she does not bleed. Vhagar watches her from the cliffs every hour of the day. If she is content to be ruled, why are you not?"
"She is not content," you said, your voice rising with a rare, desperate edge. "She is dying, Aemond. Slowly. Her scales are losing their sheen because she cannot fly through the sea mists. She is fading into a true ghost."
Aemond’s grip tightened, his fingers digging into your ribs with enough force to bruise. His single eye flared with a dark, dangerous volatility. "Then let her fade! Let everything fade until there is nothing left in your mind but the memory of my touch!"
He spun you around, pinning your back against the heavy bronze wires of the birdcage. The birds inside erupted into a frantic, fluttering panic, their wings beating against the metal as Aemond leaned his full weight into you. His face was inches from yours, his features contorted by a terrifying, absolute devotion.
"I see the way you look at the horizon when you think I am asleep," he hissed, his thumb pressing hard into your lower lip until it flattened against your teeth. "You think of the Roseroad. You think of the High Tower. You think of a world where I cannot reach you. But there is no such place, Y/N. If you fled to the ends of the earth, I would burn every city between here and the sunset to bring you back to this room."
"You are mad," you whimpered, the wires of the cage digging into your back through your dress.
"I am a man who found his soul in the wreckage of a dynasty," Aemond whispered, his rage suddenly dissolving into a desperate, pleading tenderness that was far more terrifying. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. "Do not look away from me. Do not look at the windows. Look at me, Y/N. Tell me you see me."
You closed your eyes, but the dark shape of his single eye remained burned into the backs of your eyelids, an inescapable brand. "I see you, Aemond," you whispered into the empty room. "I see nothing else."
As the winter deepened, your solar became a gallery of a single subject.
True to his word, Aemond had forbidden the depiction of landscapes. The maesters who brought your supplies were strictly instructed to inspect your canvases before they were removed from the room. Any sketch of a bird, a cliff, or a distant ship was summarily tossed into the hearth before your eyes.
And so, you painted the King.
You painted him in charcoal, capturing the harsh, jagged line of his jaw and the hollow structure of his cheekbones. You painted him in oils, using the finest black pigments to render the smooth, unforgiving surface of his leather eye-patch. You painted him by candlelight, when the single violet eye looked less like a jewel and more like a dying star.
One night, during a fierce winter storm that rattled the iron bars of your window, Aemond sat on the low velvet chaise across from your easel. He was stripped to his smallclothes, his pale chest marred by the old scars of the dance—the long, jagged pale lines left by Lucerys's blade, the burn marks from the fires of the Riverlands.
You worked in silence, the only sound the scratching of your charcoal against the rough grain of the canvas.
"What do you see when you look at me now?" Aemond asked quietly, his eye fixed on your face. He had been watching you for hours, his gaze never wavering, tracking the movement of your hand with the intensity of a hawk watching its prey.
You paused, your charcoal hovering over the rendering of his throat. "I see a man who has won everything," you said softly. "And a man who is terrified of the dark."
Aemond’s jaw tightened. He rose from the chaise, moving across the room with that silent, fluid grace that always made you feel like an animal being stalked in the high grass. He stood beside the easel, looking down at the portrait.
You had drawn him accurately—too accurately. The likeness was striking, but there was a profound sadness in the lines around his mouth, a hollow, ravenous look in his single eye that made him appear more like a phantom than a living king.
"You have made me look like a monster," he murmured, his fingers trailing down the edge of the wood frame.
"You are a monster, Aemond," you said, your voice entirely calm, entirely deadened by the months of isolation. "But you are a beautiful one. That is why I cannot look away."
Aemond let out a long, shuddering breath. The dark, possessive anger that usually defined him seemed to crack for a brief, fleeting second, revealing the gaping, hollow wound beneath. He dropped to his knees before your chair, his large hands coming to rest on your knees, his silver head leaning forward until his forehead pressed against your lap.
"Then keep me," he whispered, his voice cracking with the weight of his obsession. "Keep me in your room. Keep me in your drawings. Do not let me go back to the throne room, Y/N. The lords are vipers. The crown is heavy. Only here... only with you, is there any peace."
You looked down at the King of Westeros, the man who had laid waste to kingdoms and slaughtered his own blood, now reduced to a supplicant at your feet. You felt no pity for him, nor did you feel the spark of love he so desperately craved. You felt only the heavy, numbing weight of your mutual captivity.
Slowly, your blue-stained fingers rose and rested on his silver hair, twisting through the strands with a slow, hypnotic rhythm.
"We are both in the cage, Aemond," you whispered as the wind howled against the iron bars outside. "And the door is locked from the inside."
He did not reply. He merely closed his single eye, his grip on your skirts tightening until the silk groaned, content to be a ghost in the kingdom he had built for you.
The final winter of the Dance did not bring ice; it brought a strange, suffocating fog that rolled off the Blackwater and swallowed King’s Landing whole. From the barred windows of Maegor’s Holdfast, the world below disappeared. The city, the docks, and the Great Sept were wiped clean from the earth, leaving only your high tower floating in an endless sea of white.
Aemond had stopped leaving the chambers entirely.
The Hand of the King ruled the small council below, signing decrees and collecting taxes in the name of a sovereign who had effectively vanished into his own castle. Aemond’s obsession had reached its absolute apex; he could no longer tolerate the hours required to sit upon the Iron Throne, because every moment spent in the Great Hall was a moment his single eye was not fixed upon your face.
The solar had become a sanctuary of silence. The exotic birds from the Summer Isles had fallen quiet weeks ago, their brilliant feathers dropping one by one into the dust of their gilded cages until they simply huddled together, mute and shivering.
You sat at your grand easel, your fingers so thin the blue ink stains looked like bruises beneath your pale skin. You were no longer painting his face. You were painting his eye—just the eye—enlarged to a monstrous scale on a massive canvas of pure white.
Aemond lay across your lap, his long, heavy frame draped over you like a fallen statue. His silver hair was tangled in the folds of your pale sage gown, his face buried deep against your thigh. One of his large hands was clamped around your ankle, even in his shallow, restless sleep, ensuring you could not slide away from him without waking the beast.
"Aemond," you whispered, your voice carrying the flat, hollow timbre of someone who had forgotten the sound of their own laughter. "The maesters are knocking at the door. They say the lords of the West demand an audience."
His grip on your ankle tightened instantly, his knuckles turning white through his skin. He did not open his eye. "Let them demand," he rasped, his voice rough with sleep and a deep, chronic exhaustion. "The West can burn to ash. Let the smallfolk eat the dirt. I have my kingdom here."
"You are the King," you said, your thumb absentmindedly smoothing a stray strand of silver hair from his forehead. "A king cannot hide in a solar forever."
Aemond sat up slowly, the movement fluid and menacing. He rose until he hovered over your chair, his single violet eye wild and bloodshot, fixed on your face with that familiar, terrifying fanaticism. He reached out, his hand wrapping around your throat—not to choke you, but to feel the heavy, rhythmic thudding of your life beneath his palm.
"I am not hiding," he whispered, his lips brushing against yours, smelling of bitter wine and old ink. "I am ruling the only territory that matters. You think those fools downstairs understand what it means to possess something perfect? They want land. They want gold. I want this."
He leaned his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with your own. "Tell me you will not leave this room, Y/N. Tell me."
"Where would I go, Aemond?" you asked softly, looking past him to the barred window where the fog pressed thick against the glass. "The world is gone. There is only the white."
That night, the fog lifted just enough for the moon to cut through the dark, casting long, barred shadows across the stone floor.
Aemond slept heavily beside you, his arm thrown possessively over your waist, anchoring you to the mattress. But in the deep, quiet hours before dawn, a sound broke through the silence of Maegor’s Holdfast.
It was not a roar. It was a low, mournful, clicking sound—a vibration that rattled the glass in the windows and echoed in the very marrow of your bones.
Silverwing’s Shadow.
Your heart leaped, a sudden, violent spark of life flaring in your chest for the first time in years. Gently, with the practiced caution of a prisoner who knew the exact weight of her chains, you slid out from beneath Aemond’s heavy arm. He stirred, groaning softly in his sleep, his hand sweeping across the empty sheet searching for you. You quickly replaced your body with a heavy velvet pillow, and his fingers clamped around it, satisfied by the illusion of your presence.
You walked barefoot to the window, pressing your face against the cold iron bars.
Down in the misty courtyard, silhouetted against the pale moonlight, your grey dragon stood. She looked thin, her slate scales dull and coated in the soot of the capital, but her eyes—wide, pale, and wild—were locked onto your window. She let out another soft, urgent click, her wings flaring as if begging you to jump.
Behind her, casting a shadow that seemed to blot out the moon itself, Vhagar loomed on the outer wall. The ancient dragon’s great green head was lowered, her single, milky eye tracking your beast’s movements with a lazy, lethal curiosity. Vhagar didn't attack; she was simply waiting for the command to kill.
"You cannot leave," a voice whispered from the dark of the bed.
You didn't turn around. You kept your forehead pressed against the iron bars. "She is calling for me, Aemond. She wants to go home."
Aemond stepped up behind you, his bare chest cold against your back. He didn't grab you roughly this time. Instead, his arms wrapped around your waist, his hands resting flat over your stomach, pulling you back into his heat. He looked out the window, his single eye taking in the two dragons in the courtyard below.
"There is no home to go to," Aemond murmured, his voice surprisingly gentle, filled with a terrible, absolute grief. "Oldtown has forgotten you. Your mother is dead. Your brother is gone. There is only the tower, Y/N. There is only the cage."
"Then let me fly with her one last time," you begged, tears finally breaking past your lashes, wetting the cold iron of the bars. "Just into the clouds. Just to feel the wind before I die in this room."
Aemond stared at the side of your face, his expression completely unreadable in the moonlight. For a single, fleeting second, you saw the boy who had once been lonely, the boy who had ridden Vhagar simply to prove he belonged to the blood of the dragon. He understood the hunger for the sky. He knew the agony of being small and hated.
But then, the King returned. The yandere obsession settled back into his features like a mask of iron.
"No," he whispered, his lips pressing a hard, desperate kiss into the hollow beneath your ear. "If I let you into the sky, you will become a true ghost. You will dissolve into the mist, and I will be left here alone with the crown."
He reached past you, his long fingers wrapping around the heavy velvet curtains, and with a single, violent pull, he shut out the moonlight. The courtyard, the dragons, and the sky vanished, plunging the room into absolute, suffocating darkness.
"Come back to bed, my sweet phantom," Aemond commanded softly, his hand finding your wrist in the dark, his grip unyielding as he pulled you away from the window. "The morning is coming, and we must begin your next portrait."
You didn't fight him. You let him lead you back into the dark, your bare feet dragging across the cold stone, realizing with a final, numbing certainty that you would never see the sea again. You were his ghost now, bound to the stranger, locked in a beautiful vault where the fire never went out, and the fog never lifted.
Ten years passed, though time inside the high solar of Maegor’s Holdfast was not measured by seasons. It was measured by the gradual depletion of charcoal sticks, the slow yellowing of unwashed canvas, and the steady, quiet rhythm of a queen who had forgotten how to speak in anything louder than a whisper.
Westeros had grown accustomed to its invisible sovereign. The smallfolk in the streets below no longer looked up at the high, barred windows expecting to catch a glimpse of the silver-gold hair of Helaena’s youngest. To the realm, you were an abstraction—a beautiful, tragic myth whispered about in taverns, the "Ghost Queen" who lived only in the shadows of the King’s fiercely guarded privacy.
The lords who came to court learned never to mention your name. A single inquiry regarding the Queen's health from a well-meaning Tyrell lord had once resulted in Aemond’s sapphire eye turning so cold, and his hand dropping so deliberately to the hilt of Dark Sister, that the lord had fled the capital before nightfall.
Aemond had built his kingdom exactly as he had promised: a fortress of absolute exclusion around your existence.
"Look at me, Y/N," Aemond murmured one autumn afternoon, his voice deeper now, carrying the heavy weight of a man who spent his nights executing traitors and his days guarding a relic.
He sat upon a raised wooden dais in the center of your solar. He wore his full royal regalia—the Valyrian steel crown, the heavy velvet doublet pinned with the conqueror’s rubies, his long black cloak spilling like spilled oil across the floorboards. Yet, despite the terrifying majesty of his posture, his single eye was fixed on you with the exact same, ravenous, desperate hunger of the boy who had broken into your solar in Oldtown a decade ago.
You did not look at him directly. Instead, your gaze was fixed on the massive canvas before you. Your fingers, permanently stained with the charcoal of his likeness, moved with a slow, hypnotic precision.
"I am looking, Your Grace," you lied softly, your brush tracing the sharp, unforgiving line of his jawline.
In truth, you were looking through him. You were looking at the memory of the salt-spray on the cliffs of the Reach. You were looking at the phantom image of Silverwing’s Shadow, who had long since ceased her restless clicking in the courtyard below. Years ago, your gentle dragon had simply laid her great, slate-grey head upon the stones of the Dragonpit and refused to open her eyes again, fading into the dark just as you had.
Aemond rose from the dais, the heavy silk of his cloak rustling against the stone. He walked across the room, his boots making no sound against the thick, plush Myrish carpets he had laid down to ensure the castle never echoed with your footsteps.
He stopped behind your chair, his large, scarred hands coming to rest flat against your shoulders. He leaned down, burying his face into the side of your neck, inhaling the scent of your skin—a scent of lavender, dried ink, and cold linen.
"You have captured it perfectly," he whispered, his eye scanning the finished painting.
The canvas did not show a king. It showed a specter. You had painted Aemond standing in a field of pure, stark white, his crown looking like a jagged crown of thorns, his single eye wide and filled with a profound, terrifying loneliness. It was a masterpiece of absolute captivity.
"It is exactly as it should be," Aemond murmured, his lips pressing a dry, reverent kiss against the pulse point of your throat. His hand slid down your arm, his long fingers tangling with your own, his grip tightening until the blue charcoal dust on your skin rubbed off onto his pale flesh.
"You are mine, sweet niece," he promised into the quiet room, his voice a low, victorious vow that echoed off the barred windows. "The world outside has burned, the dragons are gone, and the crown is heavy. But here, in the dark, you will always be my queen. And I will never let you fade."
You closed your eyes, letting your head fall back against his shoulder, the heavy weight of his velvet cloak wrapping around you like a shroud. You did not cry. You did not fight. You simply allowed the darkness of his possession to swallow you whole, content to be the ghost in the kingdom he had built for no one but you.
Your marriage to the One-Eyed Prince is not as romantic as you hoped. The wedding night is beyond awkward and confusing, and afterward, your husband seems more than content to ignore you. But you keep finding yourself drawn to him, and the strange way he makes you feel. And though you don't know it, he is drawn to you as well.
Warnings: SMUT, p in v sex, masturbation (m and f) bad sex (these kids have no idea what they're doing), Aegon saying Aegon things, all the awkwardness in the world
Part I - Part II - Part III - Part IV - Part V - Part VI
Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x niece!reader
Warnings: Canon typical incest, dubious consent with allusions to no consent, smut.
Word count: ~4.6k
Summary: When Rhaenyra returns to King's Landing to petition Lucerys's claim to Driftmark, Aemond is eager for revenge for the loss of his eye. However, what he does not anticipate is the object of his ire becoming his niece instead of his nephew.
Author's note: No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.
Aemond sits in his chambers, beside the fireplace, one leg crossed over the other. His eyepatch is discarded on the table in front of him, his index finger absentmindedly running the length of the scar that ravages the left side of his face.
It had itched incessantly since he had learned the news that his half sister, Rhaenyra, and her family would be arriving in King’s Landing to defend Lucerys’s claim to Driftmark. His scar always grew irritated at the mention of Luke, a reminder of the boy who had permanently disfigured him and left him without an eye. It was a crime for which Luke had never been reprimanded, and so Aemond had spent almost a decade allowing his anger and resentment to fester, thinking of all of the ways he would seek revenge should he ever see him again.
He knows exactly when they have arrived the next day as he spars in the training yard with Cole; he spots the two dark haired boys circling, and takes a moment to lean against the table of weapons before him, steeling himself. He imagines grabbing a blade and carving out one of his nephew’s eyes in exchange for his. Luke had taken his left, perhaps he’d take his right, a fair exchange.
Snapped out of his reverie by Cole beckoning him forward, he picks up his blade and advances towards him. He knows that Jace and Luke will be watching, and so he works hard to put on a display that will show he’s no longer the sullen, little boy they used to torment. He is a man grown, a warrior that they should respect and fear. He ducks and weaves against Cole’s morningstar, throwing away his shield as it splinters under impact, until finally he seizes the advantage, the point of his blade directed towards his opponent’s neck.
“Well met, my prince,” Ser Criston tells him, “you will be winning tourneys in no time.”
“I do not give a shit about tourneys,” he utters, turning to face the two dark haired boys who stare up at him in shock. “Nephews, have you come to train?”
He is unable to stop the malevolent smirk that tugs at his lips, seeing fear in their eyes as they gaze at him. There is revenge enough in knowing that while he has advanced in training with the sword, transformed himself into a foe which any man would find themselves unlucky to cross blades with upon a battlefield, they have remained frightened, sniveling little boys that still cling to their mother’s skirts for protection. It is not enough to satisfy him though. Not yet.
Having bathed and changed, he joins his family in the throne room, as the court gathers to hear the petitions for the succession of Driftmark. He stands tall and proud beside his brother, sister and mother, as his grandsire sits the throne in his father’s stead.
His eye sweeps the hall, seeing Vaemond Velaryon, Rhaenys Targaryen and her granddaughter, Baela, standing to one side. On the other is Rhaenyra, Luke, Jace, Joffrey, his uncle, Daemon, and his daughter, Rhaena. And then he spots her.
Aemond had utterly forgotten of her existence; born a year after Jace, and a year before Luke, his niece. She is as tall as her mother now, and has her father’s hair - her real father’s hair - long, dark curls that, despite being half pinned up, fall almost to her waist. She is soft featured, with Rhaenyra’s striking blue eyes. It baffles him that a Strong bastard could be so pleasing to look upon, and he purses his lips in disgust, forcing himself to look away as he reflects back upon what she had been like as a child.
She never joined in with the relentless teasing that Aegon, Jacaerys and Lucerys had subjected him to. She had spent all of her time with Helaena, from what he can remember, the two of them sat side by side, Helaena holding up insects and describing them to her, as she flicked through the pages of books trying to see if records of them already existed, so that they could learn more about them.
The night that he had lost his eye, she had remained next to his sister, looking on with concern as he had his wound stitched closed. He remembered thinking it odd at the time that she was not with Luke and Jace, but his mind was so addled from the effects of milk of the poppy that nothing is clear, beyond the image of her mother bursting into the hall of Driftmark and tugging her away, back to her own family.
As the petitions are heard, even when his own father arrives unexpectedly, announcing he will sit the throne today, he finds his attention drawn to her, unable to focus on anything else. She appears to be a meek little thing, keeping her eyes downcast, seeming ashamed of her own presence in the room. A trait that all Strong bastards ought to possess, in his opinion. Yet as the moments pass by and she does not look up, he finds himself growing increasingly irritated that she won’t look at him, despite how desperately he wills her to.
“Her children are bastards!” Shouts Vaemond, before turning to Rhaenyra, his voice lowering, “and she is a whore.”
Elation spreads like a warm glow through Aemond’s body, his attention finally pulled away from his niece to look upon the horrified expressions of his nephews and half sister. Serves them right. Finally someone is saying it out loud.
When he casts his gaze back upon his niece, her eyes are still fixed upon the floor. However, he sees the subtlety with which her bottom lip trembles, the light flush of her cheeks. She is about to cry.
Look at me.
The room falls silent as Daemon’s sword slices through Vaemond’s head, and it is only then that her head snaps up, her eyes tear filled and wide with shock, meeting Aemond’s. He finds himself smirking again, a quiet victory. Not only had the legitimacy of Rhaenyra’s children been brought loudly into question once more, but now he had the attention of his niece. He had forgotten her in the passing of so many years, but now she is within reach again, he will ensure she certainly never forgets him. The next time tears fill her pretty eyes he wants to be the cause of them.
Aemond groans when his mother informs him that the following evening they are to dine as a family, a request from his father to unite them all, having reestablished Luke’s inheritance. He resents the idea of breaking bread with people he does not like, that do not like him, to have to sit at the same table and make pleasantries with the boy who half blinded him.
But she would be there. He wonders where she is now. Her mother had been swift to hurry her from the throne room after the decapitation of Vaemond Velaryon, and he is unsure of which apartments within the Keep she now occupies.
He finds himself stalking the corridors of the usually unoccupied quarters of Maegor’s Holdfast, his eye scanning every closed door, wondering which is the room that she occupies. He pulls to a stop at the top of a staircase as he sees familiar long, dark curls flowing down slender shoulders, disappearing into a doorway before it closes behind her.
Her chambers are unguarded, and before he has a chance to stop himself, his feet carry him down the steps towards them, his knuckles rapping at the wooden door. It’s only when he hears the rustle of movement from the other side that his mind begins to race.
What if she is not alone?
What did he even intend to do if she was unattended?
He briefly considers turning on his heel and leaving, however, no sooner has the thought occurred to him than his niece is opening the door, startling at the sight of him, lips parting in shock. She is even prettier up close, despite her reddened eyes and tear stained cheeks.
“Aemond?”
Despite the confusion that laces her voice, it is soft and dulcet toned. He wants to hear her say his name a hundred times over, for it has never sounded sweeter than coming from her lips.
He inhales deeply through his nose, preparing himself to speak. “You are understandably upset by that business with our uncle and Vaemond. I have come to check on you, to make sure you are alright.”
Her eyebrows raise for a moment, blinking a few times as she regards him carefully. “Oh…that is…kind of you. My mother has said I ought to rest.”
“Perhaps you might welcome some company?” He offers. “It would be unwise for you to be alone after witnessing something so bloody.”
She draws back a little at the suggestion, her mouth opening to speak before closing again, her brow furrowing.
Aemond fights the urge to smile at her hesitation. Reaching forward, he crooks a finger beneath her chin. “Do I frighten you so much you cannot bear to be in the same room as me?”
Gasping, she shakes her head fervently as his hand drops away. “N–no! It is just…it has been such a long time, and the last time I saw you, you…my brother…your eye…”
He cocks his head, pushing down the resentment that bubbles to the surface at the mention of what had happened to him. “But have you not heard? My father is hosting a dinner for us all tomorrow, to unite our families once more. There is no need for you to be so cautious, allow yourself to be reacquainted with your uncle.”
Her gaze lowers for a moment, as she appears to consider his offer. “Yes, I suppose that would be nice,” she finally says, looking back up at him.
She steps to the side, allowing him to enter.
Too easy, he thinks to himself as he steps inside. There would be almost no sport in this if the fight she means to put up is so feeble.
He strides into the room, hands clasped behind his back, noting the lack of personal effects within the space, a reminder that she is a visitor. This is his home, not hers. He has the upper hand.
“Apologies, Uncle,” she utters nervously, shifting from foot to foot as she fidgets restlessly with her fingers. “I had not anticipated your visit, this room is ill equipped for guests. I have no chair to offer you.”
“That is quite alright,” he tells her amicably, forcing a soft smile before sitting upon the edge of the bed. “We are family, are we not? Such formalities are not necessary.”
He pats the space beside him. “Come, join me, we have much to catch up on.”
She hesitates a moment, before sitting next to him. There is something about the feeling of the dip in the mattress beside him, combined with the floral scent of her filling his nostrils that sends the thrill of a shiver through his body, and he turns to look at her, eyeing her much like a cat would a mouse.
Such a pretty little thing.
“I am truly sorry, for what Luke did to you,” she begins, “I—”
He waves a hand dismissively, forcing down the anger that threatens to burst forth. “Let us speak no more of it. It is in the past. Tell me, how is life upon Dragonstone treating you?”
She chews her lip, hesitating a moment before she speaks. “Truthfully, it is lonely. I miss King’s Landing. Jace and Luke have one another, and mother is preoccupied with her pregnancy and Joffrey and the babes. Daemon pays me no mind, and while I am grateful for Rhaena’s company, I can tell she misses her sister. I am a poor substitute for Baela.”
He hums with faux concern, allowing a moment of silence to present his next words as thoughtful. “You could never be a poor substitute for anything. And I expect you will soon be away from there anyway. I can imagine you have no end of suitors all vying for your hand.”
The hint of a blush turns her cheeks pink as she casts her gaze downward. “No, not yet. I have overheard Rhaenys talking with my mother. They wish to betroth Baela and Rhaena to Jace and Luke. There are no such plans for me. What about you? Are you to be married?”
“Not yet,” he says softly, meeting her eye as she looks up at him. “I have been waiting for the right woman to capture my interest. Perhaps it is fortuitous that we both find ourselves unattached?”
“What do you mean, uncle?” She asks, her brow furrowing slightly.
“Baela and Jace, Rhaena and Luke,” he shifts his hand across the bed, entwining his fingers with hers. “You and I.”
She gasps softly, though she does not wrench her hand away as he had anticipated. “Is this some sort of trick, Aemond?”
“Not at all,” he reassures her, moving closer. “What better way to unite our family once more?”
“We hardly know each other,” she utters softly.
“And yet you have scarce left my thoughts all these years,” he lies. “Let me kiss you.”
Before she has a chance to respond, he is pressing his lips to hers. She stiffens at first, taken aback by his forwardness, but soon responds, her supple mouth moving against his. He brings his hand up to her cheek, cupping it softly, the skin soft as peach fuzz beneath his calloused fingertips.
She sighs softly as he deepens the gesture, her inexperience showing as her tongue retreats from his as it slips into her mouth. It serves only to stoke the fire that rages within, tightening his breeches as the sensation of her saliva causes his cock to swell.
Pulling away from her mouth, he moves his hand from her cheek, sinking it into her silky curls, anchoring her in place as he places hot, open mouthed kisses to her jaw and neck, making his way down towards her clavicle, relishing the way her head tips back slightly and her eyes flutter closed.
Tugging down the neckline of her bodice, he fights to suppress a groan of desire at the sight of her bared breasts, the hardened peaks ruddy and inviting. She is putting up so little resistance that it emboldens him to press forward, capturing a rosy bud between his lips and suckling as his tongue flicks against it, causing her to arch and mewl.
A whore, just like her mother, he thinks, shifting his attention to the other and repeating the same motion. His blood feels like liquid fire in his veins as her breaths turn to soft pants. One hand massages the breast that he is currently not latched upon, while the other creeps beneath her skirts.
It is only when his fingertips ghost upon the top of her stocking that she suddenly pulls free of him, eyes wide and breaths ragged as she hurriedly readjusts her dress.
“We should not have…forgive me, I…” she stumbles over her words, flustered and looking on the verge of tears again, before hurrying from the room, leaving Aemond alone on the bed.
He growls in frustration, smacking his hand down upon the edge of the mattress. “Ilibītsos,” he mutters angrily. Little slut.
When he returns to his own chambers, he comes harder than he ever has before, such is the force with which he fists his cock, imagining the entire time that his niece is splayed beneath him, sighing softly with pleasure as she had for him earlier that day.
As his pleasure induced haze wears off, a feeling of shame settles over him. He does not quite understand how his infatuation with her has taken hold so quickly, but now that it is, he is unable to shake it. Worse still, when she ran from her bedchamber, what if she had gone straight to her mother and told her of what he had done to her? It would be a disgrace from which he would never recover if his own mother were to be privy to such information.
He hides himself away the next day, embarrassed to face any of his family for fear they will know of his transgressions, until finally he is summoned to the feast that he has been dreading.
Much to his surprise, the entire day has passed without angry confrontation or a tongue lashing from his mother, and as he enters the dining hall there are no looks of shock or disgust to be met with, simply the shy smile of his niece as she looks up at him from her seat between her two brothers.
She has not told anyone, and she does not appear to regret what had transpired between them.
Aemond settles into his seat at the head of the table with a smug sense of pride. The dinner is a tawdry affair, musicians playing tunes he does not care for are stationed in the corner, while endless trays and bowls of food are brought out to them all.
He listens to his family toast to each other with a sneer, watching with barely concealed anger as Jace invites Helaena to dance. His only reprieve are the shy glances and smiles that his niece directs his way across the table. Perhaps all is not lost.
It is not until a suckling pig is brought out and settled before him that he is no longer able to contain his temper. Seeing Luke smirk at him, a reminder of the pig he had been taunted with in place of a dragon as a child, is too much. Is it not enough that his nephew has taken his eye, but now he continues to mock him too? He will not stand for such an insult.
Abruptly, he slams his first upon the table, halting the music and chatter within the room, as he rises from his chair, raising his wine cup.
“Final tribute,” he announces, eye scanning the room, careful not to include his niece in his speech, lest he foils the plans he has especially for her. “To the health of my nephews; Jace, Luke, Joffrey. Each of them handsome, wise…strong. Let us drain our cups to these three strong boys.”
The ensuing scuffle passes by in a blur for Aemond, resulting in him pushing Jace to the floor before they are all dismissed to their quarters. He hangs back, out of sight, waiting for Jace and Luke to disappear from sight, before striding after his niece.
She whips around, looking angrily up at him, eyes blazing with fury. “Why would you do that? You’ve ruined everything!”
“Forgive me,” he utters gently, taking her hands in his, “I lost my temper, but you have to know that my anger was never directed at you.”
She sighs, her shoulders sagging. “Jace and Luke’s betrothals were announced tonight. I was hoping we could announce ours too. Now my mother will never agree to it.”
Pride and satisfaction swell within his chest as he gazes down at her. He raises an eyebrow. “You wish to marry me? I had thought you were refusing my proposal, considering how quick you were to flee from me yesterday.”
“It all happened so fast. I have never been touched in that way before, and I allowed it to frighten me, I am sorry for it. But having had time to think on it, I do want to be your wife.”
He smiles down at her, seeing eye shining malevolently. “Then let the news of our betrothal be the balm that soothes all hurts upon the morrow.”
She smiles happily at him. “Then I shall bid you goodnight, Uncle.”
“So soon? I thought perhaps we might pick up where we left off yesterday.”
She flushes a delicate red. “Would it not be better to wait until we are wed?”
“I will not push you further than you wish to go,” he whispers, before kissing her deeply, walking her backwards into her bedchamber.
He is quick to cover her body with his own as she topples back against the softness of the mattress, kissing her fiercely as his hands push her skirts roughly up and over her hips.
“I thought you did not wish to push me?” She whispers breathlessly, pulling back from his lips.
“I shall not, talus,” he reassures her, his fingers absentmindedly stroking her the bare skin of her thighs, “but that does not mean I will not make you beg for it.” Niece.
Kissing her deeply once more, he shifts down her body, dragging her small clothes down and off of her leg in one fluid movement, before spreading the plushness of her thighs, his single eye drinking in the glistening sight of her cunt spread out before him.
He smiles to himself as he drags the tip of his tongue through her folds, hearing the way her breath hitches, his hands forcefully holding her down, keeping her still, as she attempts to buck her hips. He almost groans at the tart taste of her, his mouth quick to envelope her, alternating between sucking messily at her pearl and laving the flat of his tongue against her.
She writhes, pinned to the bed by her pelvis by his forceful grip, wanton sounds of pleasure escaping her as she clutches the bed sheets so tightly her knuckles turn white.
Lapping greedily at her as she falls apart against his tongue, he almost spends in his breeches taking in the sight of her arched back, tousled hair, ruddy cheeks and trembling thighs. But he is not finished yet.
The moment she settles back against the bed, her body spent and pliant, he begins his assault anew, this time crooking two fingers inside of her, rubbing urgently against the rough patch inside of her as his tongue focuses purposefully on her sensitive nub. The desperate sounds she makes are music to his ears. She is impossibly tight, he wonders how he will ever fit inside, but is all the more determined to find out as he sends her hurtling and crying out once more into the throes of another torturous release.
“Stop, stop!” She whines, attempting to back up the bed away from him, as he attempts to settle his face between her thighs a third time. “I cannot take it anymore.”
“If I am inside of you, it will not feel quite so intense,” he whispers, not moving an inch from where he lays between her legs, his chin shiny and sticky with her arousal.
“We are not yet married, Uncle, we should not,” she protests feebly.
“But we will be,” he insists, “so what does it matter? And I am afraid I have not had my fill of you, talus, so we shall have to continue as we are if you do not wish for me to be inside of you.”
“Gods…please…no…anything, just no more of that, it is too much.”
He smirks at her ruined state, bringing himself up towards her face, his voice dark. “Beg me for it.”
“Please, Aemond, please,” she cries, “put it inside, I cannot stand anymore.”
He grins wolfishly, as his fingers move to the lacings of his trousers, untying them and shucking the material past his hips.
Sucking in a steadying breath, he places the swollen head of his cock against the wetness of her opening, his eye flickering to her face for any signs of hesitation. She still looks utterly wrecked, her expression one of hazy bliss, her eyes glassy. Taking this as silent permission, he presses forward, hissing through his teeth at the resistance he is met with.
She whimpers softly, in clear discomfort, as he continues to push inward slowly, looking between her face, her brow furrowed and lips parted, and where their bodies are joining together.
He feels something give way, before he is fully rooted within her.
Her maidenhead.
Aemond fights the prideful grin that wants to spread itself across his face. His nephew had taken his eye, now in turn he had taken his niece’s virtue.
He stills, waiting for her to adjust, before moving slowly, dragging his hips back before pushing softly forward, repeating the motion. He desperately wants to snap his hips against hers, to make her cry out in pain, to disregard her comfort, but he is not a monster, he reasons. Her innocence soaking his length is payment enough.
Remembering how her body had responded so positively to his affections the previous day, he tugs down her plunging neckline with two fingers, freeing the softness of her breasts, leaning down to press gentle kisses against them, before suckling a nipple into his mouth.
She moans quietly, her body loosening up, becoming less tense beneath his, making it feel more pleasurable for him in turn. He means to be gentle with her, he really does, but feeling her grow wetter around him makes it impossible for him not to speed up his thrusts, driving into her faster, harder, causing her to whine and whimper as he trails his mouth across her chest. So lost in the sensation of her, he barely registers her delicate fingers clutching desperately at his hair and shoulders.
He knows he is done for when she squeezes around him, he knows he ought to pull out, to spill himself across the creamy white skin of her lower belly and thighs, but she is so warm, so wet, so tight around him that he cannot bring himself to leave her. He finds himself chasing his own end inside of her, his hips moving of their own accord, until finally, with a blinding white heat that tingles at the very base of his spine, he groans loudly, pulsating and spending inside of her in hot, powerful spurts.
Allowing himself a moment to settle against her, he basks in the warm afterglow of his peak, before pulling slowly out, disentangling his limbs from hers as his breath comes in shallow pants. He kneels up on the bed, pulling his trousers back over himself and fastening them. He allows himself to drink in the sight of her, her dress and hair in utter disarray, the sticky mess between her legs, her kiss swollen lips and faraway stare. Utter perfection.
It is not until he stands from the bed, smoothing over his clothing and hair with his hands that she finally comes back to reality and pulls herself up to rest upon her elbows. “Where are you going?”
“Back to my chambers,” he says coolly, “I have gotten what I wanted.”
“What do you mean?” She asks, worry lacing her tone, her eyebrows knitting together.
“Your bastard brother took my eye. Now I’ve taken the only thing that makes you worth a damn.”
Her voice wobbles, tears rimming her eyes as they widen in realisation, pulling at her dress to cover herself. “You said you would marry me…”
“I lied.”
“Why?! Why me?!”
He shrugs. “You made it easy. You might want to have the maester brew you a tea though, unless the bastard also wants a bastard.”
“I will tell my mother,” she whispers tearfully.
“Go ahead. I will deny it. Who will believe you? If you birth a silver haired babe, there is nothing to suggest that it is not a result of my brother forcing himself upon you, or perhaps our uncle. Your mother was younger than you, I believe, when he first started to show an interest in her. So if I were you, I would have the tea brewed and keep quiet, unless you wish to be branded a whore as well as a bastard.”
“You are a monster!” She spits, shoulders shaking as she sobs.
“Drīves, talus,” he utters, turning to leave her bedchamber. “Ñuha drīva issa.” Justice, niece. I have justice.
English is not my first language, sorry about mistakes
A - Aftercare
Aemond tries to choose the right moment for intimacy so that he has enough free time to spend with you later. You always hug him tenderly and hold him close, showering your sweet husband with all your love.
Over time, Aemond's free time diminished; the regency took your husband away from you, and the decision to appear in his study came surprisingly quickly.
- Look at you… - Aemond fucks you, your pelvis digging uncomfortably into the edge of the table, but you seem oblivious. - You came here to seduce me. You'll make me late for the council meeting because of you, little slut. Do you want my cum dripping all over you when you leave?
This new side of Aemond, slightly rougher towards you, pleased both of you. The thought of you walking around the castle marked by him excites the Targaryen.
B - Body part
He adores your eyes. The way you look at him — with interest, with amusement, with desire, or even with challenge — touches his soul; your gaze captivated the prince from the very first met.
Aemond loves to look into your eyes while he fucks you. He loves it when you look at him while you're falling apart.
Aemond considers his hands his best feature. The hands with which he embraces you bring pleasure. You share your husband's feelings and love to hold his hand in public, to play with his fingers during dinner.
- Is everything alright, my dear? - Aemond watches as you quickly play with his fingers, drawing circles on his skin with your thumb.
- More than alright. - You smile and squeeze your husband's cold hand. - I was just remembering how you used that hand this morning. Can we do it again after dinner?
C - Cum
Aemond loves to cum inside you. You wrap yourself so tightly around him, your hot, soft walls responding to his every movement. Your pussy is so hot, soft, and wet that sometimes Aemond can't bear to leave it.
Besides, you need to conceive. And the Seven know how much your prince enjoys working on this task.
- That's it… - Aemond strokes your back. - Take it all, like a good girl. You mustn't spill a drop, right?
- Aemond… - You whimper, so full, Aemond has cum inside you for the third time. Your bodies make squelching sounds, and Aemond continues to move slowly.
- Hush, my love. We must make sure the seed bears baby, right, Mommy?
D - Dirty Secret
That night, right after your official introduction, when obscene thoughts of you filled his head, Aemond succumbed to temptation...
Touching himself seemed dirty, wrong to him. The Seven hadn't created him for this. But as soon as he dropped his pants and grasped his dick, all thoughts of righteousness left his head.
He masturbated painfully, coming four times that night. He shamelessly fucked the pillow, closing his eyes and imagining you beneath him, naked and hot, moaning loudly and unashamedly.
- Gods… Beautiful. So beautiful…
E - Experience
You were a virgin before marriage, while Aemond had only spent time with the capital's whores a couple of times. You were both inexperienced, and you learned together, beginning to perceive and memorize each other's body signals.
Aemond has always been a diligent student; your desires, moans, and movements—all these reactions to his actions—are like the most fascinating book in the world; he eagerly listens to all your fantasies and fulfills them in the best possible way.
Sometimes you learn something interesting from the ladies of the court, and you always suggest your spouse try a new position.
- Yesterday I heard that a lady's husband likes to have her on horseback. Strange, isn't it?
- I wouldn't mind taking you while we're riding Vhagar, if that's what you mean, my love.
- What? Stop it, that's…
- For the experience, my love, aren't you interested? We've never had anything like this before, have we?
F - Favourite Position
It depends on your mood. If you're relaxed and unconcerned, Aemond will be on top, gently and tenderly guiding the process. In the mornings, you love to shower your husband with tenderness, which can often escalate into something more intense.
Sometimes, after a hard day, you pounce on each other like wild animals. Aemond takes you from behind, squeezing the flesh of your thighs until it bruises. You adore this position; it gets him deepest, and you almost squeal with the feeling of fullness.
And on certain days, especially when a suspiciously charming woman is hanging around your husband, you love to remind him who he truly belongs to by sitting on top. It's on those days that Aemond looks at you like a goddess who has blessed him with her grace.
- Darling… - His lips brush your breasts; Aemond has managed to undo the lacing of your dress and free your flesh. - You hold me so tight, please…
- Look at me, husband. - You grip the back of the chair and speed up the movement of your hips, your legs are already burning, you fuck him without stopping.
G - Goofy
Aemond tends to have a calmer, more serious approach. This applies to almost all aspects of his life, including his personal life. He focuses on your pleasure and can only indulge in playfulness at your whim. If you laugh, smile at him, and embrace him, Aemond might share your mood and even enjoy it.
- What's wrong? - Aemond hears you giggle and slows down.
- Your hair… - You smile and tuck a blonde strand behind your ear. - It tickles.
- Mmm… - Aemond leans lower and kisses your shoulder, moving to your neck and resuming the rhythm. He can't help but smile as his lips brush your skin.
H - Hair
Aemond is a disciplinarian. He's always been extremely meticulous about his appearance, though he'd hardly ever admit it. He cares for hair, trimming it periodically.
You like to run your hand through the short hairs on his pubic area; sometimes it feels good to tickle him.
- When we first met, I used to wonder what color your hair was below… - You play with your husband's fingers as he presses against you from behind.
- I never thought you were such a naughty girl.
I - Intimacy
Aemond loves the feel of your body pressed against his, your fingers tangling in his long hair. He kisses you everywhere he can reach, running his tongue over your sweat-slicked skin.
- Hold me. - Your request alone is enough for Aemond to pull you into a hug. His chest presses against your back, hot skin rubbing against each other as he penetrates you from behind. - Don't let go, please
- Never. - Aemond growls into your shoulder, pressing his whole body against you, as if wanting you to merge, as if he wants to consume you completely.
J - Jack Off
He has neither the desire nor the time. Aemond is busy with his family's affairs, devoting time to the Small Council, his studies, and training. And, of course, to you.
What's the point of cumming in his hand when Aemond can experience far greater pleasure than a moment's pleasure with himself?
Besides, sometimes searching for you in the castle feels like a hunt, and Aemond feels his blood boil. Sometimes you spot him from afar and run away, provoking a game of cat and mouse.
- Gotcha! - Aemond pins you against the wall. - I think I've earned the prize.
K - Kink
He wanted to make you a mother so much that it sometimes bordered on obsession. He performed his duties as a husband so diligently that it couldn't bear fruit.
When you were pregnant, he loved to play with your breasts; they had grown larger and couldn't help but attract your husband's attention. He could spend hours licking your nipples and squeezing your soft breasts in his hands.
You are so beautiful and kind that Aemond can't keep quiet about it. The praise he heaps on you every time makes you blush, even though his cock is buried deep inside you.
- Do you hear? - Aemond nibbles your ear. "This pussy is practically singing for me, listen.
- Aemond! - You hear yourself slurping around your husband's cock. - Please, I want…
- What? Do you want to cum? - The prince's hips move faster. - You're such a good wife, aren't you? You take me so well, wet and hot… You just want to be fucked, right?
- No, I…
- Don't you? - Aemond squeezes your wrists, preventing you from touching him. - Oh yeah, how could I forget? You want my cum, right, baby?
L - Location
In his study, in your marital chambers. On the bed, on the sofa, on the balcony, in a tub of hot water, or on the rug in front of the fireplace.
You often fly off to Vhagar, somewhere far away, where no one will see you making love in the open air.
- I love you… - You move on top of him, the wind whipping your long hair, your nipples hardening from the coolness.
- And I love you. - Aemond feels the dew-damp grass against his back.
M - Motivation
The way you listen with fascination to his stories about dragons, the way you ask questions and admire his knowledge. The way you play with his siblings' children, how attentive and sweet you are to them. The way you became friends with his mother and grandfather, even got along with his father, the king.
No one in Aemond's life has ever been as good as you, and all he can give you in return is boundless love, respect, support, and passion for your pure and passionate nature.
- Aemond! - You stop his hand. - What's wrong?
- You look so beautiful today.
- As you do every day, my love. - You kiss his forehead, understanding his intentions. - Let's wait until evening; we are in public, after all.
N - NO
Anything that concerns other people in your bedchamber. Aemond had heard that lords often invite a third person, man or woman, into their beds. This way, they indulge themselves and humiliate their long-suffering wives.
But Aemond Targaryen has no intention of sharing.
O - Oral
He prefers to give, quickly learning and memorizing where you like to be touched and how. He has a prominent nose, which he uses along with his lips and tongue to provide you with as much stimulation as possible. When you want to repay the favor, Aemond finds himself unable to refuse, your mouth feels so divine on him.
- Gods, I don't deserve you… - Aemond massages your scalp as you greedily swallow his cock. - So good, my love.
- I'm glad you like it. - You massage the part of his cock that doesn't fit in your mouth yet, but you've already decided to practice more and take him all the way.
P - Pace
Always start slowly, no matter how many times you've taken your lover, it always takes a little time to get used to him inside you.
Only after receiving your consent does Aemond speed up, picking up that sharp, deep tempo you both love so much.
- You can move. - You lower your heels onto those beautiful dimples above his buttocks.
- Are you sure? - Aemond releases your breast with a pop.
- Yes, fuck me, my prince.
Q - Quickie
Aemond is looking for a way to spend time with you before and after the act, so quick fixes aren't for him. It all reminds him of how Aegon corners his unfortunate servants in dark corners.
And even in the most mischievous mood, he'll find the strength to lead you to the bedchamber, where no one but him will see you and you'll feel safe.
- What are you doing? - You grab your husband's shoulders. - Aemond, put me down.
- We have business, my wife. Yesterday, our son said he'd like a younger sister, and I thought we should start working on it.
- I agree. - You quickly calm down, a heat already building inside you, in anticipation of what Aemond has prepared for you.
R - Risk
The only risk you both took was sex before marriage. If your parents or the royal family found out, you would be banished from court and branded dishonorable and filthy.
Aemond promised you that no one would ever know, and he kept his word. He secured your marriage, and you will both take this secret to the grave.
- The first and only… - You whisper against your husband's lips before the kiss. That's exactly what you called him in private.
S - Stamina
If you haven't had sex in a while, you both usually can't last long. But more often than not, you run out of steam after the second or third orgasm, but Aemond is relentless.
Your dragon descends upon you again and again, making you beg and cry with pleasure.
- Come on, my love… One more orgasm for me, okay? - He whispers in your ear. - The last one, okay?
- You said that before… - You whine. - I'm tired…
- But she doesn't think so. - Your pussy betrays you, squeezing Aemond's cock in its wet clutches once again.
T - Toy
You used ties, temporarily blinding each other with them. Aemond likes to use a small whip when spanking you for misbehavior.
U - Unfair
He loves to torment you. Lying on the bed, naked and completely wet, you tremble and shake, desperately wanting release. But Aemond skillfully brings you to the very edge and then abruptly steps back, leaving you on the brink of madness. After such games, you cum violently and loudly, the minutes of such agony feeling like hours.
V - Volume
Aemond is a quiet person, but that changes in the bedroom. Besides praise and dirty talk (yes, he's very talkative), he loves to make noise.
You once mentioned that you liked his moans, and that information was put to good use.
What Aemond didn't expect was that he himself would enjoy being loud. Only with you, only for you.
W - Wild Card
Aemond is afraid of losing you. You were the first person who opened up to him, who wasn't afraid of his appearance and never made fun of him. The sweet, kind woman who was brought to him by the will of the Seven is now his greatest weakness.
Sometimes the prince has nightmares, and only your embrace and kisses can calm him upon awakening.
X - X-Ray
Just over 7 inches. Aemond's penis is just like him: the skin is light and soft, not too thick, but it feels heavy in your hand. It's a beautiful length, curved slightly upward, allowing him to touch all the right spots inside you.
Y - Yearning
Aemond skillfully conceals his carnal urges, but that doesn't mean he doesn't have them. Around you, his restraint weakens; the mere touch of his hand can cause him to flare up with obscene thoughts.
The passion hasn't waned over the years, and you're as drawn to each other as you were in your youth. Aemond adored you always, during your pregnancy and after, and he never gave you any reason to doubt his love and fidelity.
- Aemond… - The man unbuttons her dress. - Darling, we'll be late.
- I've been watching you get ready for too long, my love. I don't think anyone will mind if we're late.
- Your mother…
- I know. - He kisses the back of your head and presses his erection against your backside. - It's just dinner, nothing formal, and no one will notice…
Z - ZZZ
You always fall asleep first. Aemond loves nothing more than to hug you from behind and be the big spoon. His long arm wraps around you, holding you close, and sometimes he plays with your breast, gently squeezing the warm flesh.
You lean against him, feeling his hot breath on the top of your head, and relax, slowly drifting off to sleep.
- And what happened next? - You love it when Aemond tells you what he's read or learned that day; his deep voice lulls you.
