Summary: Aemond's life has always been a bitter and sour one, the only sweet thing in his life was you, his wife, perhaps too sweet for his liking, yet he neglected you in the past but a series of events lead you both together into love.
WARNINGS: mdni, smut, unprotected p in v, cunnilingus, interrupted orgasm, horny aemond, martial duties, clit stimulation, tiddy succin, body worship(?), gentle and kind aemond but he gets rough during sex, + not proofread, lmk if I missed any!
WC: 2.9k
A/N: divider credits @cafekitsune
The cold breeze brushed against Aemond's face as he walked hastily towards your chamber, his boots clacking against the stone floor heavily while his heart banged in his ribcage.
He was feeling light headed, unable to form any thoughts and only the words of the maester rang inside his skull from earlier. ‘Your lady wife seems to be sick’ he had informed him and those mere words were enough to make Aemond spurt up from his chair in the meeting room and immediately rush towards you.
Aemond, frankly, did not know why he was feeling anxious at the information that you were sick, he did not even like you much and only merely married you for the connections and benefits your family provided.
You were just a mere duty to him, so when did he start caring about you?
He stood in front of your chamber door waiting anxiously as the guard gave him a bow before he opened the door, the mental hinges creaking as it slowly moved. He steps inside hurriedly and immediately lets out a sigh of relief when he sees you sitting up. You just stare at him confused.
“Husband? What are you doing here?” The tone of your voice indicated surprise, because Aemond had never visited your chambers even once since the beginning of your marriage and only called you to his chamber when he wanted to consummate.
“I had been informed by the maester that you were sick.” He replies nonchalantly, tone betraying the true feelings that were whirling on the inside. He wanted to get close to you, embrace you.
“I'm not with child.” You reluctantly tell him while looking down, suddenly feeling as though you are a disappointment. It felt humiliating to tell him that, especially when he came all the way to your chambers, he probably expected that you would be with a child.
Except that was not the case.
Aemond was confused on why you were bringing up that topic now, but then it clicked in his head and he cleared his throat, grabbing your attention before shaking his head, “Oh no, wife, I wasn't here because of that.. I was worried.” He admits and your eyes widen in shock.
Worried for you?
For as long as you can remember Aemond never seemed the type to show affection or concern for anyone, perhaps it was due to his past grievances, you had only heard about his eye through rumours, he never opened up to you about anything. You were a duty for him, someone he needs a legitimate heir from; because it is not as though he doesn’t have whores to seek pleasure from so what is the use of you? ; or at least that is what you had assumed and questioned.
But to Aemond, you were his sweet gentle wife, he was afraid of hurting you, in his vision, you were like a white swan, pure, elegant and graceful, he did not want to scare you lest you fly away from him. He did not know when he started perceiving you in this way, but as time went on, he had developed quite a soft spot for you.
“My apologies, Lord husband, I did not intend to worry you.” You apologised, he shook his head gently. “No need to apologise, how are you feeling now?” He questions and you simply blink at him, “I'm well, better than before.” You reply with a soft smile. Aemond's lip curved upwards slightly as he nodded, “Very well.” He says in a dismissive tone.
Awkward silence falls between you both as you look down, he clears his throat before speaking, “If you'll pardon me- I have to—”
“Would you like to take a walk with me?” The question leaves your mouth in a hurry before you could stop it, a desperate attempt at clinging onto this fleeting moment of affection. He seems slightly taken aback but he nods his head, “I'd love to.” He replies and you nod, stepping in his direction and standing next to him. “Shall we go?” You inquire, “Yes, wife.” He answers and you wait for him to take the first step, which he does; and soon you follow him out of the room.
You both stroll down the garden, admiring the scenery, the breeze was gentle today, and the weather seemed perfect, Aemond linked your arm in his, holding you close to him.
Your skin was soft to the touch and it drove him insane, he couldn't help but stare at the way your breasts pushed up against the material of your dress, he never really properly fucked you like you deserve.
Yet now, he just wants nothing to do but push you against the castle wall and fuck you relentlessly in the garden. Aemond realised that he never heard you moan, or show any type of reaction when he consummated with you.
He wondered how your soft voice would shriek in pleasure, calling out his name in pleasure, how you'd cling so tightly to him, he wished he could witness such a sight. He wished he hadn't gone to whores to receive pleasure while he left his wife dry. He missed out on a lot of things due to his decisions.
He mentally made a note to stop visiting brothels as it would taint your honour, he could simply seek the same pleasure from you. He became more bothered as his imagination went wild.
“... husband…? husband…!” He snaps out of his imagination, looking at your confused expression, “Y-Yes? Please excuse me, I was lost in thought.” He apologises and you give him a soft smile, “You were saying something?” He asks and you nod, “I was thinking about; well; if you excuse my rudeness, I realised we don't know much about each other.” You truthfully tell him.
Aemond furrows his brows in question, “What do you mean by that wife?”
“I want to get to know you, husband.” You stare at him in the eye and his eye widens slightly, and just then he recalls the memory of Aegon's words.
“That woman in the brothel knows more about you than your own wife, don't you find it amusing?” He was taunting Aemond, and at that time Aemond ignored those words, but now that you've openly admitted that you don't know him much made his heart shatter.
“Of course wife, what do you wanna know?” He decides to let his guard down, ready to tell you whatever you ask for. “Everything.” You reply, biting your lip anxiously, your hand travels up to his face, caressing his cheek before you trail your thumb down his scar. He knew what that implication meant and he smiles at you in a gentle manner, his own hand coming up to grab your wrist.
“Of course.”
Days pass by just like that, your marriage with Aemond had improved tremendously after your little effort to get to know him better, you felt bad for him when he began to reveal such vulnerable things, yet you never judged him.
He had shown you all of his vulnerability so openly, from the matter of his eye to everything else. You listened in silence, and he appreciated that.
As Aemond grew more comfortable, he began to show his emotional side, which included both his vulnerability and anger. He would utter treasonous things about his own brother.
This night was one of those cold nights, the cold breeze flew into the martial chambers you were waiting in, the maids prepared you for the consummation as they do, you and Aemond consummate according to your moon cycle since your only duty is to provide him with a heir.
And besides, he probably did not want to lay with you in an intimate manner, or for pleasure. You felt insecure because of that.
You were scared that after all this progress, everything would return to the same way it was before because of this night, you doubted that it would happen but your thoughts plagued you.
You winced when you felt the maid tug at a hair strand accidentally, “Sorry my lady.” She apologises to you, “It is alright.” You respond softly, you stare at your own reflection in the mirror, eyes trailing down your features.
The door to the chamber opens, and Aemond strides in hurriedly, the maids quickly finish fixing you up and leave the room immediately, you get up from your seat and turn around to see Aemond undoing his clothes.
“Let me help you.” You offered, usually he would decline and continue to undress himself, and you expected that again, but his actions shocked you.
He immediately dropped his hands to the side and turned to look at you, waiting for you to walk over to him and help him. You blinked rapidly before rushing over to where he stood before you stood in front of him.
Your hands immediately began to work on removing his vest, your fingers delicately undid the loops, you were too focused on the job that you failed to notice Aemond's piercing gaze. He watched with intent as you worked on removing his clothes, his eye taking in your form. His breeches felt tight.
You pushed his coat off his shoulders and peeled away the vest, revealing his tunic beneath the layers, his garments fell to the ground with a shuffle, you stepped back, leaving him in his undergarments.
He grabbed the hem of his tunic before he pulled it off and then began to undo his breeches, untying the strings. You took that as a gesture to lay down on the bed, facing up.
This is what you did when you both consummated before, you would lay down, he would spread your legs, insert himself, finish and leave.
You expected that to be the case, but you were surprised when climbed on top of you, his face right in front of yours, platinum locks curtaining around you. He stared at your lips for a moment before he leaned in, capturing your lips with his.
You were surprised, and didn't know what to do, so you stayed still, but he bit your lip, indicating his disappointment at your freezing up, and so you immediately tried to mimic his movements.
Your lips danced against his, yet it couldn't match the fervent passion he moved with, it was desperate, intimate and most importantly, filled with love and lust.
All your prior insecurities melted away under his warm lips which were filled with desire and want, he wanted you, he seeked you out.
You both pulled away to catch your breaths, his lips were glossy from your saliva and slightly swollen. Your heart was pounding loudly in your chest.
Aemond moved your night off your shoulder before ripping it apart, revealing your breasts which you immediately covered out of instinct. But he gently grabbed your wrists and pinned your hands to the side of your head.
He leaned down, tracing kissing down your jawline, to your neck and to the soft flesh of your chest. His hot breath against your bud made you shiver in delight.
He hooked his tongue on your hardened nipple before engulfing it with his mouth, you let out a squeal of surprise at his actions but you didn't stop him.
He suckled on it gently, using his teeth to trap the bud in between before licking it with his tongue, he grunted in delight, his grip loosening one of your hands, freeing it from his hold.
He grabbed your unoccupied breast with his now free hand, giving it soft squeezes and playing with the bud, rolling and pinching it. You were new to this, not having any understanding of what was happening, after all, you've only read about it, never experienced such intimate acts yourself.
You rubbed your thighs together, trying to ease the ache that was forming in between them, you realised how sticky the area felt, and how it made it difficult for the friction of rubbing to work.
He notices this, lets go of your breast with a pop, he smirks before he rises off from you and settles in between your legs, this was the position you were more used to.
He spreads your legs wide apart, pulling up your nightgown, revealing all of you. He pressed his thumb against your clit which made your breath, you stared at him confused until you felt him rub small circles upon it.
Your body felt pangs of delightful stimulation, you couldn't help but enjoy the feeling, all of this was foreign to you. Aemond takes a deep breath before he closes in on your cunt, before licking a stripe upwards to your clit. You jolt from the sudden pleasure.
Aemond wrapped his lips around it, sucking on the bud slowly, you whined, grabbing his head for support as his mouth worked wonders down there. You tasted absolutely divine to Aemond, your essence trailing down his cheek as your body produced so much of it. You whimpered, thrashing around lightly as his warm tongue flickered with your bud.
Aemond's tongue swirled around your clit before he captured it with his mouth once again; “Oh! Yes!” You moaned, throwing your head back in pleasure when you felt him nibble on your bud. An unfamiliar feeling of warmth rose in your lower abdomen, you felt as if there was a fire inside you, waiting to combust any moment.
Just when you feet the flames beginning to erupt, Aemond stops his manoeuvres, putting out the fire, you furrowed your brows in confusion, wondering why he stopped.
But when you looked at Aemond, he seemed like an entirely different being at that moment, he had risen up back to his haunches again taking deep breaths almost as if he was trying to contain himself.
He was.
He had never felt such an overwhelming of desire in his body, every time he touched you; his mind scrambled into pieces, he wanted to fuck you so badly.
“Aemond?” You call out softly, confused, wondering if he was disappointed by your behaviour but it seems to snap him out of his daze and he stares at you. “I apologise; I'm finding it hard to control myself.” He admits his thoughts.
“Then don't.”
Aemond swore he heard you wrong.
“What?” He questions you.
“Don't try to Aemond, Don't hold yourself back, I want this, I want you.” You admit shyly.
The atmosphere fell silent for a second and you could feel the awkwardness from your own words beginning to sink in, that was until Aemond moved suddenly.
You shrieked as he pulled your hips onto his lap, wasting no time in inserting himself, you gasped at the sudden stretch, feeling yourself become full of him. You grabbed onto his shoulders for support.
He held your waist tightly, grabbing onto your hips for leverage as he began to move, thrusting himself in and out.
This was a movement you were familiar with, yet somehow it still feels new because of the strange sensation, it felt more intimate and passionate, his thrusts held meaning and it was as if every time he pushed inside you; he was reaffirming his love and desire for you.
He pushed you into the mattress, grabbing your legs and shoving them to your chest as he thrusted hard, his skin slapped against yours loudly, the room echoing the noises.
You threw your head back at the sensation, and you felt the fire in your stomach rekindle and you couldn't help but desperately chase it. “Ah, right there.” You moaned, feeling him hit a sweet spot inside you that fueled the fire in you, you gasped for air as every thrust of his knocked it out of your lungs. “You feel so good, you're driving me insane, wife.” Aemond grunts, his thrusts never once faltering.
Everything about this night together was very different from the previous ones, Aemond had never felt this good and neither have you, he regrets not trying to get to know you earlier. He felt like he was in heaven with the way you clenched around him.
He felt his high approaching, and he desperately ran after it thrusting deeper inside as he groaned and moaned.
Your body jolted up and down the bed and you felt the fire beginning to spread out slowly, you closed your eyes, when you felt the fire suddenly go out, you were confused but as Aemond thrusted one more time it erupted in your body like volcano, coursing through your veins and to your mind.
You moaned loudly, grabbing the sheets and arching your back as your eyes rolled to the back of your head at the intensity, you have never felt this way before.
Your vision went completely white before you could see once again, you felt Aemond finish inside you, his cocking twitching as he spurted his seed deep inside you.
“Seven hells.” He groans, riding his orgasm off, you watch as he clenches his eye shut taking deep breaths.
He looked so ethereal.
He immediately falls down next to you, catching his breath, he pulls you close and kisses you on the forehead, “You did so well for me.” He praises you, and you blush shyly.
Neither of you moved from the bed, having no intention to.
Typically Aemond would leave the room right after.
Yet he didn't.
He was stroking your shoulder gently as you dozed off, head resting on his shoulder.
He looks at your closed eyelids and thinks you're asleep.
“I love you.” He confesses, realising his true feelings.
Your lips quirk up into a smile before you open your eyes slightly.
“I love you too.”
You then doze off into slumber immediately, Aemond's heart picks up its pace, embarrassed and shy that you had heard him, but your response made him smile.
Summary: The most precious possessions in Prince Aemond Targaryen's life are his gentle wife and his sweet, beloved daughter, Rhaenys. May the gods have mercy on the poor soul who, even inadvertently, causes them any harm.
WARNING: No age restriction. Unhealthy amounts of cuteness and softness, a tiny bit of pain, mentions of blood and anxiety attacks.
Word cont: 6.700 k
Author's note: This story can be read on its own or as a continuation of my other one-shot bravery in love with these same characters. For the kind readers who asked me to see more of this family together (especially this suggestion), here it is! 🥰💖
The first rays of sunlight shone through the King's Landing sky, slowly bringing the warmth of a new day. Prince Aemond and his lady wife lay against the pillows, tangled together, talking. She stroked the ends of his silver hair lovingly, and he smiled sideways.
Y/n was wearing the silk nightgown from the night before, and Aemond wore only his comfortable sheepskin pants. They both felt so soft against each other, just talking and occasionally exchanging sweet kisses. The moment was interrupted when the bedroom door opened with a bang, and they could hear soft, hurried footsteps coming toward the bed.
-Kepah! - Rhaenys's sweet, childlike voice sounded from beside the bed as she reached out her arms toward Aemond, hopping lightly on the floor, as she wasn't yet big enough to climb into bed without effort.
-What are you doing barefoot on this cold floor, Byka sõvion? - (Little butterfly) He asked in a soft voice and a crease in his forehead, already lifting her onto the bed by her armpits and placing her under the covers next to him and his wife.
-Ziry'll zīragon aōha byka dekossa raqagon bona. - (You'll freeze your little feet like this.) He placed a kiss on his daughter's soft foot, making her giggle and writhe with tickling as she clung to her mother.
-Muña, Kepa is tickling! - She cried, writhing with laughter.
-Husband! - Y/n scolded playfully as she snuggled Rhaenys close. -You know very well that's no way to treat a young lady. - She said, leaving smacking kisses through her little daughter's silky hair.
-My apologies, my ladies. - He smiled, snuggling into them and pulling his wife and daughter closer, making Rhaenys laugh and hug him.
The door opened again, but this time much more gently, and Rhaenys's nursemaid's voice rang apprehensively through the room.
-A thousand apologies, Your Highness. - She bowed her head as she spoke. - The princess asked me for water and when I turned to get it she had already run.
Before Y/n could answer, Aemond had already taken the lead, his voice firm and serious.
-It's fine, just leave us.
The young woman didn't need to be told twice; she simply turned and walked as quickly as possible out the door.
It wasn't long before Aemond felt the soft tips of Rhaenys's fingers on his cheeks, near his lips, pulling them upward.
-I like it better when you're smiling, Kepa. - She spoke in that sweet voice that had enchanted him since the first time he heard her speak in those same rooms.
-Then I will always smile Byka sõvion. - He smiled at his daughter and kissed the palms of her hands gently, making her smile and hug him.
-Muña, can we go pick flowers in the garden? - She asked, still leaning on her father's shoulder as she looked at Y/n eagerly, her eyes shining with excitement. - I want to look at the butterflies!
-Of course. - Y/n smiled and placed a loving kiss on her daughter's nose. - The flowers are beautiful this season, I'm sure there will be plenty of butterflies for us to watch!
Rhaenys practically screamed with excitement at her mother's answer, standing up on the bed, slipping on the covers in the process with a soft yelp and falling off the bed. But before she could hit the floor, Aemond caught her ankle and pulled her back onto the bed with a hiss of concern. The girl's eyes were wide as she stared at her father.
-You have to be careful, Byka sõvion. - He warned her gently as he pulled her toward him and his wife again, cradling her between them. - Kepa doesn't want you to get hurt.
Rhaenys just nodded, already smiling again after the scare as her messy silver hair fell into her eyes.
-Did Kepa know I saw a blue butterfly as bright as your eye? - She ran her fingers over Aemond's sapphire eye, which always caught her attention, gently caressing the scar that ran down his cheek.
-Truth? - Aemond asked smiling as he pulled his daughter's little hand and left a kiss on her fingertips, making her give a small childish laugh.
-Truth, Kepah! - Rhaenys's eyes sparkled as she spoke, and she turned toward her mother, still smiling. - Isn't that right, Muña? Wasn't she beautiful?
-One of the most beautiful we've ever seen. - Y/n agreed, smiling and stroking her daughter's silver hair.
-Muñaz said I'll be able to have a tiara when I get a little older, Kepa! - (Grandma) Rhaenys smiled excitedly at Aemond, her eyes shining with anticipation. - I said I'd like one with a blue stone! To be just like you!
The girl chattered happily and smiling, completely oblivious to the effect those words had on her father, how his heart instantly warmed with emotion upon hearing those sweet words from his sweet little girl.
Y/n, on the other hand, couldn't help but see the emotion in her husband's eyes, who leaned in and left a soft kiss on his daughter's silver hair, still ruffled from sleep, making her laugh and hide under the blanket.
•●○●•
The day was sunny and warm, perfect for sitting in the garden and perhaps even having a picnic. As much as Aemond longed to spend the whole day with his wife and daughter, as was his usual habit, he was prevented from doing so that afternoon. Due to the need to participate in one of the small council meetings at the request of his grandfather since Aegon had disappeared to where only the seven knew.
The prince paid attention to everything, occasionally offering his own opinions or rolling his good eye at the rather idiotic opinions of others. The hours passed slowly, and at times his mind would wander to his wife and daughter, causing him, unconsciously, to let out a soft smile that confused those who saw him.
It was almost the end of the meeting when the table fell silent upon hearing the beginnings of a commotion in the Keep's corridors, causing the council members to frown as they looked towards the chamber door. Until Aemond's heart skipped a beat when he heard a pained, childish cry that he recognized almost immediately as his little daughter's.
Without even thinking, taking a breath, or answering his grandfather, mother, or the other members of the small council, Aemond simply dragged his chair back, running toward the sound with long strides and a frightened look. Finally spotting Rhaenys at the end of the corridor, being held by one of the guards, the moment Aemond saw her, it was as if his body were freezing.
There was blood on her lips. Blood on the lips of his little butterfly. The torpor instantly passed at the thought that someone had had the audacity to hurt his daughter. Eyes blazing, the prince marched toward the guard holding her and took her from his arms into his own with careful gentleness, even though at that moment his fury was deadly.
-Ziry iksos byka sõvion. - (It's okay, little butterfly.) Aemond murmured, rocking her gently in his arms while caressing her back with the palm of his hand. -Aōha Kepah iksos kesīr sir. (Your papa is here now.)
Instantly, Rhaenys laid her head on her father's shoulder, hugging him tightly as she wept. Little by little, her crying subsided, leaving only sobs and soft, shaky gasps as she held tightly to Aemond's neck.
When she finally removed her head from his neck and Aemond could face her properly, his stomach dropped with the realization that one of Rhaenys's upper front baby teeth was missing.
At that moment he saw red like he had never seen before in his entire life. He could feel his hands shaking with anger and his breath coming in short gasps, and it took all his self-control not to yell at the guard in front of his daughter and scare her again.
-What happened, Byka sõvion? - Aemond decided to ask Rhaenys gently, trying to understand what had happened, blowing softly against the little girl's face in an attempt to ease the pain.
-I was watching the butterflies Kepah. - She sobbed, her voice trembling, her bloodied lips curled into a pout, her beautiful little eyes shining with tears. - But then they pushed me, and I fell into the flowerbed.
Amidst her sobs, she began to cry again, trying to wipe away her tears with her dress. Standing there with Rhaenys in his arms, Aemond felt as if his own heart were being crushed by that painful sound. Watching his daughter's every movement closely, he noticed that her beautiful lilac dress was stained with dirt and a little blood, as were her small hands, and that a few leaves were stuck in her silver hair.
The prince could barely hear the sound of footsteps running towards him, such was his discontent at that moment. The only thing on his mind was trying to calm his little girl's cries. He only realized his wife's presence when he felt her savage touch on his forearm and heard her shrill voice close to his ear.
-What happened? - Y/n's worried eyes were filled with tears that she held tightly as she looked at her husband and daughter with trembling lips.
-I fell Muña. - She whimpered, laying her head on her father's shoulder, who stroked her silver hair while glaring deadly at the guard above Rhaenys's head.
-Let's take her to the Maester! - Y/n practically begged, her voice cracking as she looked at her daughter, carefully holding her hand in her own and placing a tender kiss on it even with the blood and dirt clinging to it. This instantly made Aemond nod in agreement, his thoughts returning more clearly, his stupor so severe that he hadn't even remembered the Maesters' existence at that moment.
Amidst slight sniffles and tremors, Rhaenys clung even tighter to her father's neck. Hiding her face there, her lips never touching the leather of his jerkin, so as not to hurt her gums, Aemond walked quickly toward the room with Y/n at his heels, staring at his daughter with watery eyes and lips trembling in pure anguish.
Meanwhile, the guard responsible for Rhaenys's care, Sir Jorson, didn't even wait for an order to rush forward, eyes wide as saucers in panic, and ordered the Maester to go immediately to Prince Aemond's chambers to examine the young princess.
•●○●•
-The princess will be fine, my prince. - The Maester declared in a slightly weary tone after examining Rhaenys once more at Aemond's request, as she slept soundly in her parents' bed, clinging to the blanket wearing only a white nightgown with colorful hand-painted flowers and soft socks on her feet that Y/n had put on her after giving her a warm bath as the maester had instructed.
-The impact only knocked out her baby tooth, nothing permanent.
-Only? - Aemond grunted, widening his eyes, causing the maester to swallow hard and lower his head at the same time. -You mean only?- He hissed with a furious look, taking long strides towards the maester, not shouting so as not to wake his daughter. - The fucking impact it takes to pull out a tooth that hasn't even loosened yet!
-Forgive me for my boldness, Your Grace. - The Maester muttered as he finished gathering his things from the table as quickly as possible, eager to get away from the prince's barely contained anger, which seemed on the verge of boiling over and sweeping everything in its path.
Glancing impatiently at the maester, Aemond walked to the door and opened it angrily, no longer bothering with the man's presence in the room now that he was no longer tending to Rhaenys, only refraining from slamming the door furiously behind the elder when he left so as not to disturb his little one's sleep.
-What happened, wife? - He asked as soon as the Maester left them alone, walking to where his wife was watching her daughter near the bed, still with a distressed look. Holding her hands firmly between his, his tone wasn't accusatory, just irritated and filled with concern.
-I don't know. - Y/n sobbed, hugging her husband tightly as she buried her face in his neck, still frightened by the sight of her daughter hurt and crying. -We were both in the garden picking flowers, and she was playing with the butterflies. - She sighed against the leather of her husband's clothes as he gently stroked her hair, soothingly.
-She said she was hungry, and I went to ask a maid to bring her some refreshments, but there wasn't one around, so I moved away a little. -Y/n lifted her head and looked him in the eye as she spoke. - When I returned she had disappeared and I found her next to you.
-This isn't your fault, ābrazȳrys (Wife). -Aemond murmured softly, breathing deeply, trying to contain his anger so as not to take it out on the wrong person.
-It isn't. -He gently pulled her back to him, and Y/n leaned against her husband's chest.
-It's the fault of that damned guard whose sole function in life is to protect you and our daughter. - He practically growled, tightening his hold on his wife as he watched Rhaenys sleeping in the center of the bed, clutching the covers, her lips parted, exposing the empty space where her lost baby tooth had once been.
-But I assure you, ābrazȳrys, it won't stay that way! - The prince growled in a low voice, leaving a kiss against Y/n's scalp, making all the hairs on her body stand on end. With a smoldering look of anger, Aemond left the shared chambers, heading off in search of the guard supposedly watching his daughter.
•●○●•
The door to the courtyard's weapons storage room opened with a dry, ghostly rumble, announcing the furious presence of the Targaryen prince, a sight that would make any man rather face the seven hells than him. Rhaenys's white cloak trembled from head to toe as her gaze met his enraged gaze.
-Mmmh… Now Sir Jorson you will tell me exactly what happened. - Aemond hissed in a dangerously low voice, almost spitting the words at the man as Sir Criston watched him closely at the door.
-T-the princess… S-she fell… - The guard began to stutter, barely able to keep looking Aemond in the eye.
-And how in the seven hells did a simple fall knock out one of my daughter's teeth? - Aemond shouted voraciously, taking long strides toward the man, making him shrink even further, if that were even possible.
-T-the princess was playing m-my prince. - The man stammered, trembling and looking at the ground while tightly gripping his hands together. -She was just picking flowers like she always does. - The guard sighed, shuddering, as he faced the prince and found his eyes shining with barely contained fury.
-Lord Dargood's son… naughty boy… was running and pushed her. - He looked away again, unable to keep his eyes fixed on the prince's angry gaze, his voice falling lower with each passing moment. - In the fall, she hit her mouth on the stones surrounding the flowerbed. I-it was an accident. - The man stammered and whispered the last words, looking at the ground as if he were a scolded child.
The prince's blood boiled in his veins at the thought of that boy, who must have been three times the size of his Rhaenys, pushing her into the damned flowerbed. It wouldn't be a fucking accident when Aemond personally pulled out every single one of that damned Dargood brat's teeth.
-You have only one fucking job within this Keep, which is to keep my daughter safe! - Aemond growled lividly, approaching the man even closer, cornering him as he would a cockroach. -And now she's lying in bed, wounded!
-I got distracted for a moment, my prince. - The man begged in panic, his gaze darting in every direction in pure desperation, with nowhere to run. - It won't happen again, have m-mercy! - He begged with wide eyes.
-You are relieved of your duties! - Aemond hissed through gritted teeth, his red face contorted with fury. - We're not keeping you here to distract yourself.
-My prince, I'm truly sorry… - The guard began, kneeling before him, but was interrupted at the same moment.
-You're sorry? - Aemond practically shouted, still maintaining his fierce tone, his eyes wide and his face contorted in fury. -If anything worse had happened to my daughter, I'd have your fucking head for it!
Sir Jorson cringed even more at that, if that were even possible.
-Don't you ever dare step foot near that fortress again if you want to keep your head on your fucking shoulders, you bastard. - Aemond grunted, clenching his jaw before finally leaving the room under Sir Criston's watchful eye.
•●○●•
-Husband, he's just a child! - Y/n tried to reason with Aemond a few moments later, after her husband returned to their shared quarters even angrier than before and told her everything he'd discovered while threatening the Dargood boy, too crudely to be just lip service.
-Our daughter is just a child too! - He growled softly, pointing toward the bed where the little girl slept soundly, sighing deeply, clutching the blanket.
-I know that, I'm furious too, but you couldn't demand physical punishment for Rodd Dargood. - She sighed, approaching him with a frown. -It would be wrong, and he probably wouldn't even understand the reason for the punishment!
-Do you know what happened the night I lost my eye? - Aemond asked her in complete dismay, his eye wide and bloodshot as he stared at her. -My father barely cared! I was covered in blood and scared, and he interrogated me about what happened as if I were a common criminal!
Y/n's heart sank when she heard those words, Aemond had already told her about that night in Driftmark, but hearing it said in such a raw and painful way made her want to pull him into a hug and never let go.
-What happened went unpunished, he acted as if that bastard had the right to do what he did to me! - He spat the words furiously, pressing the missing eye over the eyepatch with his fingertips amidst growls of rage. -I won't let that happen to Rhaenys! I won't let our daughter feel unprotected and helpless, like her father doesn't care about her, even if I have to pull every tooth out of that little bastard's mouth!
Aemond swore furiously, shuddering as he spoke, his hands clenching, the air he breathed growing thinner as memories of that horrible night mingled with memories of his precious little girl, covered in blood and dirt, huddled in his arms as she wept. Little by little he felt as if he lost his balance and leaning against the sofa he lowered himself and sat on the stone floor staring at the crackling fire in the fireplace.
At the same moment, Y/n crouched down beside him and touched his forearm, feeling him flinch at the touch and slowly pulling her hand away before sitting on the floor beside him and hugging him with all the care and affection she had in her being, her heart breaking at seeing her dear husband, always so strong, helpless like that.
-Husband, I'm here. - She murmured against his neck, trying to comfort him, leaving a gentle kiss there and caressing him through his hair. -I'm here, Aemond, you don't need to be afraid.
-What's the point, wife? - He whispered, raising his head towards Y/n with his eyes full of unshed tears. - Having done so much, having gotten to where I am… If I can't protect our daughter?
Y/n's heart felt like it weighed hundreds of tons as she heard those words leaving her husband's lips so rawly while his eyes looked as sad as she had ever seen them.
Slowly, she raised her right hand and tenderly caressed his face until her fingers curled around the eye patch and she carefully removed it, placing it on the rug and then pulling him closer to her.
-Aemond, I know you try, but you couldn't protect her from everything. - She stroked his back soothingly. - Accidents happen, our daughter will be fine.
The prince let out a shaky sigh against his wife's hair at that.
-Besides, you know… our daughter doesn't think that way of you. - She shrugged subtly.
-What do you mean? - He frowned in confusion the instant he heard the words.
-Aemond, you're the knight in shining armor from her stories. Her hero! - Y/n smiled, stroking her husband's hair tenderly and sweetly. -Didn't you notice how she was today? She was scared, in pain. And she didn't want to leave your arms for even a moment, because she feels safe with you. Because she knows you will protect her no matter what, our daughter doesn't doubt you. You shouldn't doubt yourself either.
Those simple words were enough to, albeit gently, calm the anger bubbling inside the prince. Even though a mere glance toward the bed made his stomach twist again at the sight of his little butterfly so still.
-I don't want her to think that I didn't give due importance to what happened. - He sighed, laying his head on top of his wife's head as they snuggled together on the plush rug. - I want her to know that the aggression she suffered was duly punished.
-What would you have preferred? For your father to have ripped out Lucerys's eye or to have taken you in and given you a hug? - Y/n asked him softly as she stroked his hands between hers, the two of them practically embracing each other on the floor now.
Aemond didn't answer her, but he knew exactly what he would have preferred when he was just a little boy.
•●○●•
That night passed as quickly as the wind, and the prince had barely slept, lying awake all night beside his wife and daughter, keeping watch, as if something might happen to one of them at any moment and he needed to be alert.
When Rhaenys woke and smiled at him, hugging him and leaving a kiss with a hint of drool on his cheek still sleepy, then laying her face on his shoulder, Aemond simply held her close, pressing her close as if she were suddenly going to disappear.
At that moment it seemed like nothing had happened, if it weren't for the missing tooth in the front and the slight purple bruise near the lip, the incident would barely have been noticed.
-Kepah? - She called him in a soft, sleepy voice, still lying against him, playing with the thread of her father's shirt.
-Yes, byka sõvion? - Aemond whispered, rubbing his palm against her back.
-Kotago nyki emago cookies syti breakfast?- (Can I have cookies for breakfast?) She whispered in high Valyrian, as always, mixing it with the common tongue and mispronouncing a few words.
-Hen rhinka, Kepah jāhor epagon zirȳ naejot maghagon" (Of course you can, dad will have them bring your favorites). He smiled, tenderly stroking his daughter's silver hair, who snuggled even closer to him.
The moment Aemond looked away from Rhaenys he could see his wife already awake looking at them both with a smile on her lips, and with a sigh the prince guided his free hand to her and tangled it in a soft caress through her hair.
•●○●•
Their morning was uneventful, except for the moment when Y/n gave her husband a subtle scolding for giving in so easily and letting Rhaenys eat three different types of biscuits for breakfast just to make her happy.
As the sun rose high in the sky, Aemond and Y/n shared a delicious pheasant pie with wine, while Rhaenys ate her favorite stew of shredded chicken with carrots and a few other fresh vegetables, prepared especially for her at Aemond's request.
After the meal, the prince could no longer avoid his daily duties, being forced to leave the room with a scowl, which intensified even more when Y/n announced that she was taking Rhaenys for a walk in the garden and some fresh air. He had barely stepped out of the room when he was already scolding the new guard Criston had chosen for Rhaenys earlier, standing by the door next to Y/n's sworn shield.
That afternoon was undoubtedly one of the most irritating of Aemond's life. Lord Dargood's pathetic voice, trying to apologize for the behavior of the wild animal he called his son, made his blood boil in his veins. The only thing stopping him from rushing the man and killing him on the spot was the fact that he had taken Criston with him precisely for the purpose of preventing him from doing so.
Even when the matter had been resolved and his thirst for revenge partially sated, anger still gnawed at Aemond, and with every step he took through the halls of Kepp, people seemed to move out of his way, as if afraid the prince's fury would spill over onto them.
The moment Aemond flung open the bedroom door and entered, Rhaenys's eyes lit up, and she ran toward him, calling out excitedly as she jumped into her father's arms. And as angry as he had been before, Aemond couldn't help but smile as he scooped up his little girl, lifting her into the air as if she weighed nothing.
-Kepah, I found an injured bird in the garden with muña and she said we can take care of it until it gets better. - She smiled excitedly at her father, and Aemond's heart ached at the sight of the missing tooth.
-Truth Byka sõvion? - He glanced around the rooms slightly, searching for his wife as he spoke, finding her organizing his books near the fireplace while Rhaenys merely nodded, wriggling out of her father's arms and pulling him by the hand.
-Look him, Kepa. -The girl's eyes shone with delight as she pointed to the small bird with gray and white feathers and an injured wing, huddled inside the wooden box lined with cloth and a saucer filled with cut fruit. - It's so small.
-But muña said he'll be fine. - She smiled expectantly, looking at Y/n who just watched their interaction with a smile after putting away her husband's last book.
Y/n was so worried about Aemond, afraid that even though they had talked about it at length, he would make some rash move, driven by anger at seeing Rhaenys hurt. She smiled at her husband, but Aemond could see the question mark over her head from miles away, and with a sigh, the prince crouched down, looking at his daughter.
-Are you feeling better, Byka sõvion? - Rhaenys nodded, smiling toothlessly at her father.
-Better! Sir Criston found my tooth in the garden, he came with Muñāz (Grandma) to bring it to me. And Muña said that if we put it under my pillow, a magic dragon will bring me cookies tonight! - She practically squealed with excitement, her eyes shining as she told Aemond everything in a very credulous way, and Aemond arched his eyebrows at his wife as he listened to his daughter speak. Y/n just shrugged, smiling, approaching them both.
-He will come, my love, but only when you sleep. - Y/n stroked her daughter's silver hair, smiling lovingly at her.
-See Kepah? - Rhaenys looked at him excitedly, almost skipping with her bare feet in just socks on the floor. - I want to hear my story earlier today so I can fall asleep faster and get my cookies!
Aemond nodded and smiled at his daughter's excitement.
-Kepa wants to know something very important now, Byka sõvion. - Aemond sat down on the rug and gently pulled her onto his lap, and the girl simply tilted her head to the side as she stared at him. - Do you know who pushed you yesterday in the garden?
-I think it was Rodd who knocked me down. -She whispered to her father as if it were a secret no one knew, looking at him very seriously. - He's always running.
Aemond nodded, knowing his daughter was right.
-Kepa had a very serious conversation with Rodd and his father, Byka sõvion. - Aemond said with a serious look as Rhaenys paid attention. - What Rodd did was very bad, and it won't go unpunished, okay? Rodd will apologize to you for what happened and will be grounded.
Rhaenys looked at her father, still a little confused, not quite understanding what all this meant, but she knew punishments were bad and that her father was really angry with Rodd for knocking her down. So the girl just smiled and hugged her father tightly, laying her head on his chest and just staying quiet for a while.
-Are you okay, my sweet love? - Y/n gently ran her hand over her daughter's back, looking at her slightly worried, and Rhaenys simply nodded.
-Did Kepa ground Rodd for being mean to me? - She asked after a few minutes of reflection.
-Yes, dear. - Y/n replied with a smile, leaving a soft kiss against her hair and still caressing her daughter's back. - No one has the right to hurt anyone and get away with it.
Y/n knew Rhaenys was still too young to understand certain things, and that her little daughter was too sweet for her own good, but seeing the sparkle in her eyes as she looked at Aemond and hugged him once more, while her husband smiled contentedly, was enough.
•●○●•
Night had already fallen throughout Kings Landing, and a very common habit between Aemond and Y/n was putting their daughter to bed together. Except when there was some kind of mishap, as there was that night when Y/n was called by Alicent for a cup of tea after dinner.
So, only Aemond was in his little daughter's room, sitting with her on the bed, telling her a story, some of the parts in high Valyrian while stroking Rhaenys's silver hair. She could feel her eyes growing heavy with sleep when he finally finished the story.
-I don't like it when you're sad, Kepa… - She murmured sleepily, staring at her father with her head slightly tilted to the side, unable to help but notice how sad her father had been throughout the day.
-Kepa isn't sad, Byka sõvion. - Aemond caressed his daughter's chubby cheeks, forcing a smile.
-I know you are, Kepa. - Rhaenys stared at him with those faintly violet-blue eyes that everyone said were identical to his, making him sigh. He didn't think so himself. Even though the color was identical, the sparkle of sweetness and innocence that burned in his daughter's eyes had long since faded from his.
-Is it because I fell? - She leaned closer to him as she asked, her eyes growing worried as she looked sadly at her father.
-No! - Aemond denied immediately, shaking his head negatively as he pulled his daughter into his arms. - It's not because of you at all.
-Then what is it? Muña always says that if I tell her what makes me sad, I can feel better later. - Rhaenys was looking at him expectantly now.
-I was just upset with myself for not being there when you got hurt. - The older man stroked the little girl's slightly curly silver hair.
-But that wasn't your fault, Kepa. - She placed her small hand on Aemond's face, gently caressing him as if he were one of the cats she played with around the keep, while looking at him confused. - It was Rodd.
-Boys are all silly. - The little girl snorted, still hugging her father. -Except you, Kepah. You're smart and kind and know how to tell the best stories!
Aemond just chuckled , leaving a kiss on his sweet little girl's forehead.
-The important thing is that you are okay now Byka sõvion. - He sighed, carefully laying her down on the bed and covering her with her favorite blanket that Y/n had embroidered with flowers, bees, colorful butterflies and her name in blue thread in the center. -Bona's ry bona gaomon.
-I don't know what those mean yet, Kepah… -She murmured confusedly, snuggling into her blanket, smiling and rubbing his sleepy eyes.
-It means you're all that matters. - Aemond whispered, leaving a soft kiss on her forehead in the process. - Issa byka prūmia. (My little heart.)
-Avy jorrāelan Kepah… - (I love you, Daddy) Rhaenys laughed and kissed her father on the cheek, warming his heart, as always, with her daughter's sweet words and gestures.
It wasn't long before she finally fell asleep, and the prince only left the room when she was snoring loudly in her sleep while being watched by one of Kepp's nannies.
Aemond couldn't help but smile as he left his daughter's quarters and turned into the corridor that led to his own shared quarters with his wife, since just like him, Y/n had just appeared at the opposite end of the corridor, but unlike him, her brow was furrowed in a thoughtful look.
-Did you order Lord Dargood's tooth pulled? - She questioned with an arched eyebrow as soon as the two met in front of the door to they chambers.
-Mmmh… - He shrugged with a dismissive pout as he reached for the doorknob, opening the door and politely ushering his wife inside. -Unlike his son, he's a grown man, he can very well deal with the consequences of his inability to raise a well-behaved child.
•●○●•
Not much later that night, Aemond had finally given in to the day's weariness and lay down next to his wife, wearing the more comfortable clothes she had chosen for him.
The yellowish candlelight was low, and the two were cuddled together in a comfortable silence that usually helped calm the prince's troubled mind, until he himself broke the silence with a velvety voice.
-After you gave us our daughter, I began to understand my father and his reasons better. -His brow furrowed as he spoke. - But on the other hand… I began to feel angrier toward him for it.
Listening to her husband's thoughtful ramblings, she looked at him curiously from beneath her lashes, her head still resting on his strong chest.
-If I lost you, I would never be able to love another woman. - He gently stroked his wife's soft hair, each word leaving her lips slowly. - I could never love a child if you didn't give it to me… If it wasn't a part of you too, if it didn't have your sweetness.
-And I hate him for knowing that he also had this certainty when his first wife died, but even so he married my mother and made her unhappy, having other children that he will never be able to love. - He muttered the last part with subtle bitterness in his voice, but Y/n didn't even notice. She had been holding her breath many words ago.
Love. She thought, nearly gasping for breath at her husband's verbal admission of his feelings for the first time in years of marriage.
She knew Aemond loved her. She knew her husband cherished her with all his heart and soul. But hearing those words come from his beautiful lips made her heart swell with the purest, most simple joy, and in that same instant, she hugged him tighter and whispered against his chest the words she had also learned by now, making Aemond sigh with contentment.
-Avy jorrāelan…
•●○●•
The following weeks passed as quickly as the winter winds, and in the meantime, all of Kepp whispered about the frightening fact that Prince Aemond had personally pulled Lord Dargood's tooth because of his eldest son's offense to the young princess.
Even more terrifying, about how the house of Sir Jorson, Princess Rhaenys's former guard, had burned to the ground with him inside shortly after his dismissal from service at Red Kepp. No one could prove anything, but everyone knew that the strange, uncontrollable fire in the man's secluded hut had been Aemond's doing.
In the midst of all this, Rhaenys just cared for her injured bird with all her dedication and love alongside her mother, completely oblivious to the gossip surrounding her name, completely innocent of the atrocities her father could commit in her name. She fed the bird from her own hands day and night, grooming its feathers with all the delicacy in the world, and both Aemond and Y/n had found themselves smiling as she told him one of her favorite stories one afternoon.
Rhaenys's favorite thing was that if she whistled near it, the little bird would repeat the melody almost instantly, no matter what it was. She talked about it to the whole family for days, even dragging Sir Criston from his duties to hear the bird sing.
Aemond, for his part, was very pleased, after all his little girl was happier than ever, even if she had no other topic of conversation other than her precious little bird. Besides, Rhaenys was so absorbed in caring for the bird that she didn't even have time to wander the gardens looking for other little flying creatures as she usually did. And that, well, that brought Aemond peace of mind, knowing that in they chambers, accompanied by her mother, his daughter was safe.
That was until the day the damned bird began flapping its wings again and flying around the room while singing, making Rhaenys scream and laugh, clutching the skirts of Y/n's dress.
-Look, Muña! Look! - She pointed smilingly at the little bird that flew happily around the room, getting higher and higher. - Now he can go back to the garden!
The moment he heard that, the prince's stomach sank and he could no longer continue reading the words on the pages of his philosophy book. He even tried to convince Rhaenys to keep the bird under his wife's incredulous gaze, but the girl was adamant about it.
Four days later, when Y/n and Rhaenys were sure the little bird had truly recovered, the three of them went together to Kepp Gardens to release it. And Aemond had to admit, over the course of those four days he'd seriously considered breaking the damn bird's wing again, but he hadn't, knowing neither his wife nor his daughter would forgive him if he did.
-Are you sure you won't keep him? - Aemond asked, frowning, as his smiling daughter prepared to release the little bird back into the sunny garden. - He might get hurt again if he's left loose out there.
-I can't, Kepa. - She sighed, stroking the bird's soft feathers, now holding him in her hands. -He's a little bird; he has to fly with his bird friends and find his muña again. He'll be sad if I leave him in my room. - She looked sadly from her father to the bird she had learned to love so much. - And if he gets hurt again, muña and I will take care of him again.
-Are you ready, dear? - Y/n smiled at her daughter, her eyes sparkling with pride, and Rhaenys nodded, carefully stroking the bird's soft feathers.
With a sweet, childlike, and still toothless smile, Rhaenys opened her little hands, letting the bird fly free through the flower gardens of Red Kepp. The little bird landed in a nearby tree, humming happily, but then flew off again and circled the girl's head, making her laugh and squeal with excitement as her parents watched.
-See, husband? - Y/n murmured with a smile to the prince, who held her close by the waist. -The bird will return.
-Mmmh… - Aemond watched Rhaenys skipping around the garden chasing the bird with a smile from ear to ear on her lips, and even though the missing tooth reminded him of the unfortunate accident with Rodd Dargood, seeing such a bright smile on his daughter was the greatest of his joys.
It was there, as he watched Rhaenys run happily toward him, tripping over the hem of her own dress and catching her balance to run again, that Aemond thought that perhaps he could give his little butterfly a little more room to flap her wings, even if it was just… a few inches at a time.
A/n²: I'm so happy to finally post this one-short. It's been ready for a few months, and now I finally have the courage to post it! I hope you enjoyed it. The title came from Eminem's song Mockingbird, especially the final part, which makes you want to know more, haha. Thanks for reading! 💖💖🥰🥰
⸜̑⸝͂ ⋮ mdni, 18+ › hades!aemond 𝑥 persephone!reader ꣑ৎ 𓏲 ݂ ˖ 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒. hi, lil bbs.. ꒰ ´͈ ᵕ `͈𓏼 ྀིᥩ꒱❀ i'm sry this took forever for me to post, but i hope it was worth the wait.. ∩⑅∩ happy reading, sweet angels! ⸜̑⸝͂ ⚔︎ ⟢ 𝗰𝘄: smut. lots of fluff. drama. i tweaked the bit abt the reader's mother, demeter. based heavily on greek mythology. aemond is lowkey emotionally constipated. happy ending. ꒰ ♡ ꒱ 𝘄𝗰: 11.5k.
—𝒷𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝒷𝑦 𝓅𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑒 & 𝒷𝑜𝑛𝑒 ⏾ ₊ ݁ ⊹
☠︎︎ ❀ ☠︎︎
the earth trembled awake when you first felt him. every year, the same cycle—the soil yawns open, the first green unfurls, and you, the goddess they call kore, breathe life back into a world gone gray in your absence. your bountiful touch ripens blossoms, your girlish laughter coaxes rivers from ice, and your very footsteps scatter fields with color. you are the balm and the promise of renewal, the very essence of new life and growth.
and yet… beneath all that light, something gnaws at you. for every blossom that blooms from your gentle hands, every seed that unfurls, there is a shadow waiting. you feel it in the hollow of your chest, in the ache that no garland of flowers can soothe. you are worshiped, adored, crowned in daisies and peonies alike, but none of them see the fragile, lonely girl beneath the goddess of spring.
it is in that restless longing that he finds you. at first, he is only a weight at the edge of your awareness, a distant flicker in the corners of your eyes when you lean down to tend to the daffodils in your beloved field of blossoms. he is the eerie silence between birdcalls, the chill that clings to your skin when the sun is at its warmest, and then, he steps forward.
the world stills, holding its breath. he is remarkably tall, carved from shadow, his presence an eclipse against your brilliance. his hair, long and pale as moonlight, falls like a curtain, veiling the sharp planes of his angular face. his single eye gleams with a glacial fire, unrelenting and unwavering, fixed upon you as though you are not merely the goddess of spring, but prey, or worse, destiny.
you should fear him, the nymphs warn as they whisper among themselves, frightened of his dark presence. all mortals fear him, and all gods, too. hades; or rather, aemond, they whisper—the silent, merciless king below. he who rules the endless night, the warden of the dead, the judge whose heart beats colder than obsidian stone.
but you do not dare to tremble; instead, you tilt your head like a newborn fawn, your doe eyes sparkling with curiosity. the hem of your soft, blush-colored gown brushes over the dewy grass as blossoms lean toward him, eager to discover who brings such darkness into this place filled with light, as if they too wish to brush their delicate petals against his shadow.
"why do you watch me?" you ask, voice soft and full of childlike wonder, though your heart hammers as if to break through your ribcage. his pale lips curve into a soft smirk, barely, hauntingly. "because no one else has ever dared to look back."
that is how it begins; not with the earth splitting open, nor with screams, thunder, or chains. it begins with a piercing gaze full of longing, with the faintest of smiles curling upon lips that rarely get the chance to. it begins with you standing in the warm sunlight, while he stands beneath the shade of a willow tree, and the space between you trembles with an unnameable feeling that you sense deep in the marrow of your bones.
days pass, perhaps weeks. you return to your blooms, your rituals, and your endless offerings of joy to the mortal world. yet, the shadow lingers—he lingers. at the edge of crystal-clear rivers and at the boundary between lush groves, you speak more often now. your voice is soft, sweet like the scent of your precious blooms, filled with innocent curiosity as you share quiet words slipped between your duties.
he never dares to interrupt you, but he listens most eagerly, like a man who has never before been trusted with such gentleness in all his existence. as more time passes, you gradually uncover a horrifying truth: beneath all the iron, frost, and death, there is a man who is desperately yearning for more. he carries the weight of an empire built on bones, ash, and sin, yet he has never experienced warmth or kindness.
one evening, as the horizon bleeds gold and violet, you find yourself seated on a stone, exhaustion weighing heavily on your bones. he appears, silent as always, but for the first time, you do not stand up. instead, you reach out to him, your small hand daringly moving against the high collar of his cloak, fingers threading into his long, pale hair. his breath catches in the back of his throat, utterly bewitched by your tenderness. almost stunned, his posture becomes unnaturally rigid from the gentle touch of your fingertips.
you notice the tremor that runs through him, how his shoulders stiffen as if every instinct urges him to pull away, to resist the urge to be touched by such a divine creature such as yourself. yet, he doesn't. he endures your touch like a man braving fire; rather, he would prefer to burn alive than to live without your gentleness.
then, he exhales sharply, as if he's experiencing the worst kind of agony. his large, calloused hand finds your wrist, not to push you away, but to anchor himself against the threat of your tenderness. in that moment, he is not hades, the king of the damned, nor the terror that is whispered in mortal prayers. he is but a simple man, experiencing love from a woman for the very first time, unable to resist the temptation that is simply you.
later, much later, you will climb into his lap as if it were your own personal throne, unafraid of his crown of iron and unshaken by the hollowness of his halls. you will run your fingers through his silky, silvery-white hair while his court of shadows whisper in disbelief, in awe of your gentle presence in such a damned place such as tartarus. you will teach him warmth, tenderness, love, and he will surrender the steel in his soul to you alone.
but not yet; for now, you only sit together in the hush of twilight in your field of blossoms, his head lowered in submission, your touch gentle, so very gentle, your heart thundering as you whisper, "you are not as frightening as they whisper about, aemond." and his answer is little more than a low rasp, a vow hidden in the tremble of his deep, baritone voice, "for you, my beloved... i never will be."
☠︎︎ ❀ ☠︎︎
the world above still hums with life, but since that twilight moment, you feel it differently. every bloom you coax into being, every bud that unfurls beneath your fingers, it all pales in comparison to the memory of his voice. for you, my beloved... i never will be.
the words haunt you. not like a curse, but like a secret song that only you have heard. you repeat them in the dark when you are alone among the trees, when the nightingale sings and the wind brushes your hair like a lover's caress.
and always, he is there. not close enough to touch, not bold enough to intrude, but you feel his presence at the border of your light. shadows linger longer when he comes, and your blossoms bend toward the dark as though testing if they, too, might grow there.
sometimes you catch the faint gleam of his pale hair between the trees, or the ghost of his profile, carved sharp and stern, watching, always watching. it should frighten you, it should send you running. but instead, you begin to search for him.
one dusk, when the sun drips molten into the horizon, you speak into the still air, as though to the silence itself. "why do you not step closer?" the hush deepens, the birds still, the earth waits, and then, his voice, low and quiet, like a stone rolling across deep water, "because i do not wish to ruin you, little goddess."
you shiver, heart fluttering wildly inside your chest. the answer is both confession and wound. he thinks himself corruption incarnate, yet within you, the goddess of spring, something unfurls—not fear, not revulsion, but a quiet, aching longing.
you rise, skirts brushing the soft grass, and cross into the shadow where he lingers. he is taller than you remembered, his cloak a tide of black swallowing the last of the day's gold. his single eye glows faint in the twilight, sharp as the edge of a blade.
"you cannot ruin me," you whisper, though your voice trembles. he leans closer, and you feel the chill of his breath. his hand lifts—almost, almost—to touch your cheek, but he stops short, fingers curling into a tight fist, as though the barest contact might unravel the fabric of worlds. "i can," he admits, so low you nearly do not catch it. "i would."
your throat tightens. yet instead of stepping back, you tilt your face up toward him. it is reckless, unholy perhaps, the goddess of spring standing in the embrace of death's sovereign, but your heart beats louder than reason. "then let me decide if i wish to be ruined."
the silence that follows is unbearable, suffocatingly so. you swear the meadow holds its breath with you. his jaw tightens, that single eye burning into yours with a hunger he cannot disguise. and then, he withdraws, black cloak snapping as he turns, vanishing into the dark as though he had never been.
you are left alone. and yet, not truly. because the moment he flees, the earth itself seems changed. blossoms bloom richer, more wilder. the air tastes sharper, sweet and metallic at once, like cherry wine spilt upon stone. the undercurrent of him remains, coiled tight around your ribs.
you press a trembling hand to your chest, right over your pounding heart. what is happening to you? you are the goddess of renewal, of warmth, of life itself. and yet, with every passing night, your roots stretch not only toward the sun, but into the shadows where he waits.
it's only a few days later when the gifts begin. the first is small, so small you nearly mistake it for a fallen stone among the violets at dawn. but when your hand brushes it aside, you find a ring of onyx, carved with the faintest of patterns: flames coiled like vines, wrapping endlessly around themselves. it is cold in your palm, impossibly heavy for such a simple band, and you know instantly it is not of the world above.
you wear it that day, hidden on a thin chain beneath your gown. none of the nymphs take notice, but when night falls, when you stand at the meadow's edge with your heart hammering, you feel him there, watching silently. the ring warms faintly against your skin, and you understand, it is from him.
the next offering is stranger; a single pomegranate, resting delicately on a patch of moss where no tree could have dropped it. its skin glistens like spilled blood beneath the sun, each ruby seed whispering danger and sweet, succulent temptation. you dare not bite into it, yet you cradle it to your chest, unable to leave it behind. when you tuck it into your basket among wildflowers, it looks almost natural… almost.
after that, the gifts appear more often. a black feather longer than your arm, its sheen catching faint green and violet when struck by the light—surely a relic from some ancient bird of the deep. a silver comb, engraved with serpents twining in endless knots. a cluster of ghostly flowers you have never seen, their petals translucent as glass, smelling faintly of ash and honey. each gift you receive is unlike anything the sunlit world has ever yielded, and every gift is for you. you begin to wait for them, wondering to yourself what he would gift you next.
morning dew barely dries before you are out in the meadow, skirts damp with grass as you comb through blossoms for his touch. sometimes the offerings are bold, placed where your eye cannot miss them. other times, they are hidden, tucked between roots or beneath leaves, so you must seek them out like treasured secrets shared only between you and him. and every time, you cannot help but to smile. a goddess of spring, caught in the net of the underworld's king.
one dusk, unable to help yourself, you whisper into the empty air, "why do you hide if you wish to court me?" the shadows shift. you cannot see him, but you know he hears you. the meadow holds its breath, waiting. then, his voice, a low murmur, dark silk drawn over polished steel, "because flowers are delicate things… and if i ever were to step too close, little goddess, you may wither."
you shake your head, though your cheeks flush hot. "or bloom." a pause; a silence that stretches like a bowstring, pulled taut and waiting to break. then, faint, like the brush of night wind over your skin, he replies, lips twitching, soft and amused by your stubbornness, "perhaps."
the next morning, a crown of obsidian roses waits upon your favorite stone. their thorns glint like mini daggers, yet the petals are velvet, impossibly soft, delicate to the touch. when you lift it, a strange warmth spreads through your chest, as if his hand were still there, offering it to you.
you do not tell the others. you do not confess what you now crave; the thrill of each new token, the silent devotion of the king they call merciless. for the world sees him as ruined, but for you... he is beginning to look like true love.
and so, as the moons pass, the gifts do not cease; with each one, you find yourself drawn further beneath his dark and watchful presence. it is no longer enough to simply find them. you linger over them, cradle them, cherish them, as though each trinket carries a fragment of him; a whisper of his hand, his thought, his gaze.
and then, one morning, as you lift an obsidian rose to your cheek, you realize something, something that nearly startles you—you have not given him anything in return. the thought unsettles you instantly, making your chest ache with guilt, with longing. for though you are the goddess of spring, you have been selfish, basking in his devotion, in his dangerous patience, without ever answering it.
you know what it costs him, to approach the light, to lay himself bare, to court you as though you were some delicate bride instead of a deity whose touch births life itself. you cannot remain silent forever. so you begin small, almost shy.
one evening, when the moon is high and silver, you pluck a daisy from your meadow; a humble bloom, white and bright and pure. its petals feel warm against your fingers, alive in a way his black roses never could be. you kneel at the edge of the meadow, the place where you always feel him most, and lay it carefully upon the earth.
then, while your heart flutters with nerves, you wait. the shadows stir, drawing your attention. you do not see him, but you know he is there. his presence presses against your skin, cold and consuming, yet softened by a strange tremor, hesitation, perhaps disbelief.
your voice comes softer than you intend, but steady. "for you." the silence that follows is unbearable. you imagine him reaching for it, imagine his long, pale fingers brushing against the fragile stem. you imagine him holding it as though it were the most foreign thing in the world, yet the most precious.
at last, you hear it; a breath, sharp and shaken, as though torn from a man who has not known tenderness in centuries. "little goddess…" his voice is low, hoarse, reverent. "you wound me." your heart stutters, suddenly unsure. "why?" he sighs, voice wrecked with emotion. "because i never believed you would touch the dark with your light."
you swallow, throat tight, and press your hand to the grass as though you could reach him through the soil. "perhaps i am not as delicate as you think." the air quivers, the night creatures still. you feel him drawing closer, not close enough to see, but close enough that your breath catches, close enough that your skin prickles with the ache of almost being touched.
and then, softer than a hushed secret, he murmurs, "then you will be the death of me, sweet girl." when morning comes, the daisy is gone. in its place rests a chalice wrought of onyx and bone, filled to the brim with pomegranate seeds glistening like polished rubies. a silent vow, a temptation, a promise that he has accepted your gift, and will never stop answering it.
☠︎︎ ❀ ☠︎︎
the chalice of pomegranate seeds is only the beginning. you had offered him a daisy, simple and unassuming, a child of sunlight and soil. he returned it with something eternal, an artifact heavy with meaning, impossible to ignore. his message was clear, he does not deal in trifles, for every act of his is a vow, and every gesture is permanence. and yet, it is not the last gift you find.
a week later, as you wander your meadow at dawn, your eyes catch upon a strange bundle resting at the roots of a willow. at first, you think it is another trinket of shadow, perhaps an engraved bone or some rare jewel, but when you draw closer, your breath halts.
it is parchment; folded, sealed with black wax pressed by the mark of a crown. a letter… for you. your hands tremble as you break the seal, breath hitching. the ink is dark, the script sharp and elegant, each letter carved onto the page with care. it is not long; he does not waste words, but the weight of them nearly drives you to your knees.
little goddess, i do not know why i write, words have never served me, for they are too weak, too clumsy to cage what stirs in me when i see you. i cannot stop. i find myself restless when you are not near, and when you are, i am more restless still. you are a torment i would gladly endure for eternity. do not ask me to step into your light, for i cannot, but if you leave me your flowers, i swear to carry them like armor into my endless dark.
your heart hammers, unnaturally so. you press the letter to your chest, dizzy with the ache of it. his words are not flowery, they are not gentle, but they are his. and in their rawness, you glimpse a man unraveling, thread by thread, before you.
after that, the letters come more often. each one hidden in a different place among your blooms; under a cluster of violets, tucked between stones, pinned to the stem of a rose he has left for you. his hand never wavers, always precise, always deliberate. and though he is the lord of silence, on parchment, he speaks more beautifully than he ever dared aloud.
he writes of the weight of his realm, of the endless tide of souls he must shepherd, of the solitude that even gods cannot escape. he writes of how the sound of your laughter lingers in his ears long after he has left, how the memory of your hand in his hair still haunts him like the sweetest torture. he writes of want, not crude, not careless, but aching, reverent, dangerous in its sincerity.
and one night, as you lie awake with his letters scattered across your lap, you realize something—you want to answer him back. and so, you begin to write. your hand is less steady than his, your script less precise, but your words are full of warmth, of color, of the tenderness he has never known.
you write of the feel of the lush grass beneath your bare feet, of the thrill of finding each of his tokens, of the strange, impossible longing that grows each day in your chest. you write of how he does not frighten you. of how, when you think of him, the world feels fuller, not darker. when you are done, you leave the letter tucked into the hollow of a tree where you know he will find it. and as you walk away, your heart races with a mixture of fear and delight.
that night, when the meadow falls silent, you hear it. a low chuckle, soft and hoarse, echoing faintly through the shadows. not cruel, not cold. a laugh unpracticed, startled into being. your letter had reached him. and perhaps, just perhaps, you had given the lord of the underworld something he had never held before. hope.
sooner than later, the letters begin to change. at first, they were hesitant, as though even his hand feared betraying too much. his words circled you like a wolf in tall grass, curious, reverent, unwilling to pounce. but as days turn to weeks, the restraint frays. each parchment you unfold now is heavier, the ink pressed deeper, the words themselves edged with a fierce kind of hunger. he writes longer, too, spilling more of himself than a king of shadows should ever dare to.
little goddess, i thought you sunlight incarnate, meant only to dazzle and then vanish. but you linger, your words linger. your laughter, your flowers, your touch; they root themselves in me like the sharpest of thorns. i cannot pry them out, and if i could, i would not. i think you do not understand what you have done to me, sweet maiden. i walk among the endless halls of the dead, and still i hear you. your voice threads through the silence, taunting me to madness. your name burns on my tongue when i speak none other. i should loathe you for this endless torment, but i am far too lost. i am already yours, my beloved, though you have not asked it of me.
another time, the letter is much shorter, more frantic, as if torn from him before reason could interfere.
my beloved kore, they whisper your name even in my realm; spring's child, flower-girl, light incarnate. but they do not know you as i do. they do not know the warmth of your hand, or how your gentle smile devours a man whole. you will be mine, there is no doubt. i do not know how much longer i can keep from taking what i already claim in my heart.
your fingers tremble as you read it, seated in your meadow with daisies bowing around you. a shiver coils low in your spine, fear and exhilaration tangled together. he does not threaten, not directly, but the longing is sharp, undeniable, edged like a blade pressed close to skin. and yet, you cannot stop reading, you cannot stop wanting.
his gifts grow bolder, too. a necklace wrought of obsidian, set with a single pearl that gleams faintly red in moonlight. a silken ribbon black as midnight, long enough to wind twice around your throat. a dagger, its hilt carved with glittering roses and thorns, its edge gleaming so bright it could cut through the dawn itself.
he leaves these offerings without note, but you feel the words in them; his desire, his claim, his vow that he will not remain forever at the edges of your meadow. and still, you answer. you leave him pressed flowers, little verses written in your softer hand, petals kissed with sweet little droplets of dewdrops.
you tell him of the world above, of the bumblebees buzzing drunkenly through your fields, of the way children run barefoot through the first green grass of spring. you tell him you think of him when you walk beneath the moon, and that you no longer mind when the shadows stretch too long near you. one night, you dare write only a single line, and it costs you every ounce of courage you have.
perhaps i would not wither in your dark, if i only had your hand to guide me through it.
you tuck it into the roots of the willow where his first letter appeared, and when you return at dawn, the parchment is gone. in its place is another letter, the wax seal cracked and slightly smeared as though pressed too quickly, as though he could not bear to wait.
do not tempt me, little goddess, for i am already undone. and if you step even one foot toward my realm, i will never let you go. not for spring, not for the sun, not for gods or men. you would sit at my side forever, with your fingers in my hair and my crown in your lap, and i would burn the world above just to keep you there with me forever.
the words make your chest ache with longing, with love. you fold the letter carefully, press it to your lips to soothe the constant ache. and though you know his vow is dangerous, perhaps even ruinous, you feel your pulse quicken with a treacherous truth; you want it; you want him.
the night he comes to you, the air is strange; thick, heavy, expectant, as though even the meadow itself knows something is about to change. you sit among the daisies and violets, your lap full of letters, his letters.
you have read them so many times the parchment is softened at the edges, the ink smudged where your fingers linger too long, stroking each word lovingly, full of longing and heartache. one letter of his in particular lies open in your hands, his writing almost obsessive.
if you were only mine, little goddess, i would never let you go. i would rather chain the sun itself in my halls than to ever lose you to it again.
your breath trembles, your chest aches; and then, your flowers shift, not from the wind, but in the shadows. he does not linger at the edges this time, no flicker between trees, no glimmer of pale hair quickly gone.
boldly, he steps forward. the meadow seems to bow around him, bending away from the darkness he carries, his cloak black as the void that sways behind him, his tall, lean frame cutting the night like a freshly sharpened blade. moonlight brushes his face, sharp and cold, glinting over the pale gleam of his silver hair, the burn of his single violet eye.
you should run, every instinct whispers it, to flee into the light, but you do not. instead, you rise, your skirts whispering over the grass, and you go to him, willingly. the letters, the gifts, the longing; they have led you here, to this, to him. "why now?" you whisper, breathless, though your feet carry you closer, closer. "why show yourself to me like this?"
his jaw clenches, the glowing sapphire in his empty eye socket glistening with something close to tenderness, his hands curling into fists at his sides as though even now he wars with himself. his voice, when it comes, is low and hoarse, trembling with restraint. "because i cannot endure it any longer… your words, your flowers; you. i have tried to remain at a distance, but you… you are undoing me, sweetest kore."
your name in his mouth steals the air from your lungs, making your heart skip a beat. you stop just before him, close enough to feel the cold that radiates from his body like mist from a cavern, close enough to see the way his eye devours you, as though memorizing every little detail, every single breath.
slowly, as though afraid you might vanish, he lifts a hand. it hovers at your cheek, shaking faintly with the effort not to touch. "you are light itself, my love," he murmurs, voice cracking slightly from anguish. "and i… i am nothing but shadow, pure darkness. if i take you now, i will never let you go." your heart races, your throat tight, but you lift your chin, daring. "then take me."
the words break him, nearly bringing him to his knees. his hand cups your face, cold and trembling, and the moment his skin touches yours, the meadow gasps; a thousand blossoms bursting open at once, fragrance thick and dizzying in the air. his other hand finds your waist, pulling you against him with a hunger he can no longer mask. and then, he kisses you.
the kiss is not gentle; it is not timid; it is a claiming, cold lips pressed to yours with desperate force, the taste of pomegranate and ash, the burn of something endless and unyielding. he kisses you like a man drowning, like you are the only breath he has ever taken.
you clutch at him, his cloak, his shoulders, his hair, threading your fingers into the pale silk of it, just as you once dared in secret. he groans against your mouth, the sound low, guttural, full of hunger, breaking through the mask of a cruel king and revealing only the lonely man beneath.
when he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his breath ragged. "you are mine now," he whispers, fierce and reverent all at once. "say you are mine," he pleads, his voice wrecked. and though the night is thick with danger, though your heart pounds with both fear and want, you cannot stop yourself. "yes," you mewl, voice soft and breathy. "i am yours, aemond."
the shadows coil tighter around you both, as if sealing the sacred vow. and for the first time, the goddess of spring and the king of the underworld stand not as light and dark, but as something new, something inevitable.
☠︎︎ ❀ ☠︎︎
the night after your kiss, nothing feels the same. the meadow hums differently, the flowers bow lower as if acknowledging the vow that now binds you to the god who rules over the dead. even the air tastes altered; less sweet, more sharp, tinged with the metallic tang of shadow.
you cannot stop touching your lips, cannot stop replaying the press of his mouth against yours, the weight of his large hands, the way he looked at you as though you had become the very axis of his world.
and then, he comes for you; not in silence this time, not in flickers of shadow. the earth itself shivers as he steps into your lively meadow, cloaked in majesty, no longer hiding the truth of who he is.
his crown gleams black as obsidian, his cloak ripples like the mouth of night itself. behind him, the shadows deepen, spilling like a river through the grass. "kore, my love," his voice thrums through your bones, a low, seductive purr. "come with me."
your breath catches, but you do not hesitate. you go to him, your small hand sliding into his, and the moment his fingers close around yours, the meadow wilts; blossoms fold upon themselves, grasses bow, petals fall like raindrops. it is as though the world itself mourns the loss of you. but you do not mourn; no, you follow.
the ground cracks beneath your feet, opening into a path of stone. the air grows cooler, heavier, humming with unseen voices. you descend, his hand guiding you steadily, firmly, as the light of your world fades behind you. and then, you see it; the underworld.
it is vast, endless, magnificent. caverns carved from black stone gleam faintly with veins of crystal; rivers of silver fire cut through the dark, their glow casting ghostly light on the halls that stretch into eternity. shadows move like courtiers, bowing low when they catch sight of you, whispering, rustling like leaves in a storm.
but their whispers are not for you; they are for him, their king. aemond leads you through them, his grip on your hand unyielding, as though afraid someone might steal you from him at any moment.
his face is unreadable, a mask of icy calm; but you feel the tension in him, the way the rough pad of his thumb brushes faintly over your skin, betraying a man who has never walked through his realm with anyone at his side.
at last, he brings you to a throne made of stone and iron, carved with blood-red roses whose thorns twist like poisonous daggers. he lowers himself onto it slowly, never releasing your hand. and then, with a gentle pull that steals your breath, he draws you into his lap, as though you were always meant to be there.
the court of shades stir in disbelief; their king, merciless and unyielding, with the goddess of spring nestled against him like a crown of blossoms. you feel their stares, but he does not. his eye is only for you, his beloved little goddess.
you lift a trembling hand, threading your fingers into his pale hair as you once dreamed. his body goes utterly rigid, then shudders, and he leans into your touch as though it is the only thing tethering him to existence. "my queen," he whispers, reverent, undone. "my beloved persephone," he purrs, bestowing you with a new name, a name fitting for a queen, his queen.
and though the shadows of his realm close in all around you, though the world above is lost from sight, you do not fear. for in his lap, with his hand gripping your waist and your fingers in his hair, you feel not claimed, nor conquered, but cherished.
some time later, you notice how the halls of the underworld breathe around you; stone carved from shadow, veined with faint light, whispering with the restless voices of lost souls. yet though it should feel suffocating, though the air is heavy with silence and the weight of eternity, you are not frightened, because his hand never leaves yours, not once.
aemond leads you from his throne, through corridors vast as cathedrals, their ceilings glittering faintly with ghost-crystals. the shades that drift through them bow deeply, but their gazes linger in disbelief. for the first time, their king does not walk alone.
at last, he stops before a set of tall doors. they open with a thought, and he guides you into chambers unlike anything you have seen. the walls are black stone, yes; but lined with shelves of books and tombs older than empires, with relics and artifacts carved from bone, with sweet-smelling flowers—your flowers—growing in pots of onyx as though he has been coaxing them here, waiting for you.
your breath stutters, doe eyes widening in disbelief and awe alike. "these are... mine?" his gaze flickers to the living blooms, then back to you. his voice comes low, almost defensive, lips forming into the smallest of pouts. "i tried to keep them alive, my love... though they never quite flourished the way they do in your hand. even so, i kept them."
your chest aches, unable to hide how deeply you are touched by his sweet, simple gesture; the god who rules the damned, nurturing fragile blossoms in secret for you, as though his only desire were to see you pleased. you turn to him, smiling softly, and his composure falters.
the great king of shadows looks suddenly uncertain, like a man stripped bare. his eye drops, his jaw clenches, as though bracing for rejection. so you step closer, placing your hand against his chest, over the cold beat of his heart. "they're so beautiful, aemond… thank you."
his breath leaves him all at once, shaky, as though your touch has undone centuries of restraint. he lifts his hand to cover yours, pressing it more firmly against him, as though willing you to feel the truth in his chest—that he loves you, and would move mount olympus itself merely to see you smile.
the night grows quiet, yet he does not touch you as a conqueror might. he does not demand, nor does he take. instead, he sits with you in his vast chamber and guides you to a chaise by the great hearth, so that you might sit beside him, and perhaps, allow yourself to be held by him.
later, he brings you to a bed carved of obsidian, draped with silks soft as flower petals. he does not lie beside you, not yet. instead, he sits at the edge, his head bowed, his fingers tangled in his pale hair. "i would give you the world above if you asked, my love," he murmurs. "but i cannot give you the sun; i cannot give you spring."
you rise, kneel before him, take his hand in yours. "you have already given me so much more, sweet aemond." his gaze snaps to you, raw, unguarded, trembling with a hunger not of flesh but of the soul. slowly, he lowers himself until his forehead rests against yours, breath shuddering with restraint.
the kiss he gives you then is nothing like the claiming in your meadow; it is tender, reverent, almost frightened. a man who has never known softness, tasting it for the first time. he lingers there, breathing you in, as though memorizing every heartbeat, every soft brush of your sweet, pillowy lips against his.
and when at last you lie down, he does not leave. he stretches beside you—stiff at first, as though unsure he belongs there—but relaxes when you curl into his side. his arm wraps around you, his body a cold shield against the darkness of his realm.
the king of the underworld does not sleep; but that night, with you snuggled in his arms, safe and warm and loved, his breath softens, and he dreams. and you, little goddess of spring, close your eyes in the realm of death, and feel, for the very first time, wholly alive.
☠︎︎ ❀ ☠︎︎
the underworld was never meant to bloom; it was forged in silence, shaped in shadow, bound by stone and river. it was a kingdom of endings, souls adrift in endless twilight, bowed beneath the weight of their king's cold law. but then you came. at first, it is subtle; a curl of green sprouting from the cracks in obsidian tile where your feet have touched, the faintest shimmer of color clinging to the air when you laugh.
one morning, when you open the doors to his chamber, you find a vine climbing boldly up the black walls, its blossoms pale and luminous, as though drinking light from the darkness itself. the shades whisper, they stare as you pass, hushed awe threading through their voices. never have they seen such things, life defying death, roots digging stubbornly into stone, color staining shadow. and aemond... he watches you with a hunger deeper than any letter could hold.
he says nothing at first, but his sharp, piercing gaze never leaves you. you catch him standing in doorways at night, silent, violet eye gleaming in torchlight, drinking in the sight of you curled in his bed, your breath soft, your hair spilling across his sheets like ink. you feel him beside you when you wander around, his presence cold but constant, his hands sometimes brushing yours as though unable to help himself.
one evening, you catch him in the great hall, standing before a cluster of flowers that had sprung up where you once sat. his hand hovers above them, uncertain, almost reverent. "they should not grow here," he murmurs, as though speaking to himself. "nothing ever grows here."
you step to his side, slipping your fingers into his. "then perhaps they were just waiting." his eye snaps to yours, wide, raw, and for a moment the king of the dead looks like a boy startled by his first true taste of hope. from then on, he stops pretending. the gifts he leaves for you are no longer trinkets, they are shrines.
jewels set in silver bowls to hold your delicate blossoms, carved alcoves in the stone walls where he places each flower you've touched, guarded as though they are more precious than any crown. when you braid daisies into your hair, he sits silently at your side, stiff and unmoving, letting you tuck one into his pale strands; so out of place it makes the shades murmur louder, but he never removes it.
and each night, when you lie beside him, he pulls you closer. he kisses you not with hunger this time, but with something worse, something deeper; devotion, worship. as though every breath you give him is a miracle, as though he cannot believe you are real. yet his letters, now tucked into drawers and hidden beneath lush pillows, grow darker still. he writes them even though you are here, his need for you spilling into words he cannot speak aloud.
the underworld bends for you, my sweet. even its rivers sing your name, praising you. you should be afraid of this new power, but i am the one who fears it. because if you ever chose to leave, i would burn my kingdom to ash rather than let it survive without you.
and you wonder, when he looks at you like that, when the very stones form flowers beneath your touch, whether you are still the goddess of spring at all, or if you are becoming something else entirely. the queen of the dead.
the bed is vast, carved from obsidian, draped in silks black as midnight and faintly gleaming in the glow of silver fire from the braziers. you've lain here before, curled against him, his cold body a shield around yours. but tonight feels different; tonight, the air itself is heavier, trembling with something unsaid.
he sits at the edge, as always; too rigid, too still, as though terrified to break the spell of your presence. but when you place your hand upon his knee, he turns to you, and his eye is wild, his pupil blown with desire. "persephone," he rasps, your name thick in his throat. "do not look at me like that. if you do, i will not be able to stop myself." and you, soft, reckless little goddess that you are, only whisper, "then don't."
the words shatter him, leaving him nearly panting with the need to have you. he cups your face in his cold hands and pulls you into his mouth, sighing softly in pleasure as your lips connect with his. the kiss is not tentative this time, not a test. it is ruinous, desperate, consuming; his lips crashing into yours with the force of centuries of restraint breaking all at once. his tongue sweeps against yours, stroking, claiming, devouring, yet reverent in its hunger, as though he cannot believe you bless him with the taste of you at all.
you fall back into the silks, and he follows, his weight pressing you into the bed. his cloak spills around you both like the mouth of night swallowing light, but his hands tremble when they find your waist, your hips, your thighs. "order me to stop and i will at once," he pants against your skin, kissing down your delectable throat, his voice breaking. "tell me before i lose all reason, darling girl."
you arch beneath him, fingers buried in his pale hair, tugging at the roots until he groans, low and guttural and lustful. "i will never tell you to stop, my love," you croon, your voice sweet as spilled honey. that vow undoes him; he tears the silks from your body with trembling hands, reverence and violence clashing in every motion.
his mouth follows, tracing fire over your collarbones, your heaving breasts, down the curve of your soft belly. his kisses are desperate prayers, his tongue worshiping every inch of you, murmuring your name like a litany, over and over.
when his long, deft fingers slip between your thighs, you cry out, and his head bows lower, groaning against your flesh as if the sound itself is his undoing. he works your virgin cunt open, slowly, reverently, as though memorizing how your body yields to his touch. "mine," he whispers against you, over and over, his voice breaking into raw, endless hunger and awe. "mine, little goddess... all fucking mine."
and when he finally presses his hard, aching cock into you, his body trembling, his jaw clenched as if to restrain himself, you see him as he truly is, not the cold king, not the feared ruler of death, but a man, desperate and undone by love.
he moves within you as though he is praying, every deep thrust a sacred vow, every desperate kiss a confession. his forehead presses to yours, his eye burning into yours as though daring you to look away, to deny what this is. "say it," he groans, his voice shattering as he begs. "say you are mine, my love… please."
your nails dig into his shoulders, your body arching against his, every nerve aflame, every heartbeat colliding with his. "i-i… i am yours," you gasp, whining softly as he hits your sweet spot with the tip of his cock over and over, as though he were bullying your pleasure, coaxing it out to meet his own. "always, y-yours... a-aem—" you choke, babbling nonsensical words, your greedy cunt clenching tightly around his shaft, wet and needy.
the words rip a sound from him you've never heard; a sharp cry, half broken, half triumphant, as he shatters against you, as though your surrender has destroyed the last of his restraint. he holds you through it as you climax together, trembling, clutching you as though you might dissolve into mist if he lets go.
when it is over, when the dark is quiet but for your breaths mingling, he buries his face in your neck. his body is heavy against yours, warm and damp from his previous exertions, his arm wound so tightly around your waist you know he will never release you; not tonight, never.
"you are my spring, persephone," he murmurs, his voice raw, shaking from the intensity of his orgasm. "but you belong to my dark." and though the underworld trembles, though the stones themselves seem to bow, you only close your eyes and smile. for at last, you are his.
☠︎︎ ❀ ☠︎︎
the underworld is changing. everywhere you walk, blossoms curl out of stone, vines twist up obsidian pillars, the rivers glimmer with faint color as if touched by spring. the shades whisper as you pass by, bowing their heads in deep respect to the queen who brought life to death.
but aemond's whispers are only for you. you wake in his bed, your body wrapped in cool, luscious silks, with his arm wrapped tightly around your waist. he has not slept; you feel the rise and fall of his chest too quick, hear the faint rasp of his breath against your hair. when you turn, his violet eye is already on you, fierce and heavy with sleepless hunger.
"you're still here," he whispers, wonder cracking his voice. "every morning i expect you gone, a dream i've woken from." you cup his jaw, kiss him softly, and he groans; low, broken, like the simplest touch of yours unmakes him. without hesitation, he rolls you beneath him, his hair falling like a pale curtain around you, caging you in.
"you are mine, my sweet," he hums against your lips. "my little goddess, my spring, my persephone." his mouth travels to your throat, kissing feverishly, almost frantic. "say you'll never leave me." your fingers lace through his hair, tugging gently until he shudders against you, his cock hardening rapidly. "i'll never leave you, aemond… i swear it."
that vow destroys what composure he clings to. he kisses you again—slow, deep, desperate—his tongue tangling with yours as if he wishes to taste every breath you'll ever breathe. his hands trace your body with reverence, worshiping every curve, every soft place, as though he cannot believe you're real.
he undresses you carefully this time, not with the tearing urgency of the first night you made love, but with shaking patience, as though each piece of silk he removes is a ritual. he kisses each new inch of skin revealed; your collarbones, your breasts, the soft dip of your navel, murmuring soft praises and sweet nothings between every worshipful kiss. "so fucking beautiful… sweeter than all the flowers in the world above... my sweet, perfect little goddess."
when he lowers himself between your thighs, his eye gleams up at you; dark, starved, reverent. he takes his time, worshiping you with his mouth, his tongue, his lips, until you are gasping, writhing, sobbing his name like a prayer. he holds your squirming hips steady, groaning into you every time you fall apart on his wicked tongue, drinking in your sweet cries like nectar.
when he finally returns to your lips, his mouth still tastes of you, sweet, heady, and terribly addictive. he kisses you through your trembling, murmuring against your lips, trying to soothe your tremors with his softly spoken voice, "f-fuck, you're mine, angel..."
and when he finally slides into you, slow and deep, he breaks. his forehead presses to yours, his eye closing tight, a choked sound of desperation falling from his throat. "you're so tight around me… you feel so soft, so ripe, so fucking good," he gasps, voice ragged. "feels like i was waiting centuries for you."
he moves with aching devotion, every thrust steady, reverent, his hand never leaving yours, your fingers intertwined with his. his lips trace your face, your hair, your throat, worshiping you with frantic desperation. "i'd tear the heavens apart for you; i'd burn olympus itself if they ever tried to take you away from me." his voice is raw, each word pressed into your skin. "you are my heart, my queen… my fucking ruin."
you moan his name, and he shudders, hips faltering, his control unraveling the more he continues to keep fucking you. he buries himself deeper, holding you close as if the world might fall apart if even an inch of space forms between your bodies.
he comes undone with a strangled groan, your name falling from his lips as you clench one last time around him, and then he collapses against you, trembling as though he’s been violently torn open. his kisses soften then, slow and languid, his body heavy but tender as he gathers you close, pressing your head beneath his chin.
in the stillness, you feel him trace lazy circles against your hip, his breath still uneven from the euphoria he just experienced. "stay with me forever, sweetling. be my spring, even in the dark." and as you lie in the arms of the king of the dead, surrounded by flowers blooming in black stone, you know you already are.
sometime later, the great hall goes silent. all the flowers you've coaxed from stone stand trembling, as if aware of the storm brewing at the threshold. the gods above have noticed; their messengers come cloaked in gold, voices sharp and cold, demanding your return to the world of sun and sky.
you stand at aemond's side, your hand folded in his. his throne looms ominously behind him, carved from the same obsidian as the bed where he worships you each night. he is calm on the surface, but you can feel his pulse where your fingers rest on his wrist; fast, violent, restrained like a caged beast. "she is ours," the envoy intones, voice like struck metal. "the goddess of spring belongs above, with her mother. return her at once, king of the dead."
the hall shudders with the weight of the words. aemond does not answer, his hand tightens on yours until your knuckles start to ache. then, his violet eye flicks to you—not a command, not even a plea—it's a question, a prayer disguised as desperation. you look up at him; he is so still, yet his jaw trembles, his lips pressed tight. and you know, you know he is one breath away from spilling blood, from starting war.
and then, as though from some ancient memory, a shape appears on the obsidian table before you; a chalice wrought of onyx and silver, filled with pomegranate seeds glistening like rubies. they gleam in the dim light, rich and red as freshly spilled blood.
you understand at once. if you eat them, you will belong to the underworld, you will never be free of it, you will never leave him. your heart thunders in your chest, loud and strong. the envoys' eyes widen; they know what it means; they know what you are about to do.
slowly, deliberately, you step away from them and toward the chalice. aemond's breath catches—a sharp, broken sound—and he reaches for you, but stops himself. he cannot force you, not for this. your hand hovers over the alluring seeds, the temptation too strong to resist.
he whispers, hoarse, "my love, you don't have to." you turn to him, and you have never seen him look like this—this cold king undone, violet eye wet with something akin to despair. "i want to," you say, voice breathless, tender.
and before anyone can stop you, you take the chalice in both hands. the seeds are cool, heavy, sticky with juice. you lift one to your lips, then another, then another, six in all, one for every vow you make in your heart as you swallow them. the sticky juice runs red down your fingers, and you can't help but lick it from your skin.
the hall erupts in gasps and murmurs, and aemond can't help but to stare as though watching the sun itself fall into his hands. the envoy takes a step back, startled, his golden mask paling. "she has bound herself," he whispers, frightened. "the goddess is his."
aemond moves before you can blink; he's at your side, his hands cupping your face, his mouth crashing onto yours. the taste of pomegranate is still heavy on your tongue when he kisses you, deep and hungry, trembling as if afraid you might vanish even now.
"you chose me," he breathes against your lips, voice breaking from the overwhelming emotion he feels for you. "fuck, you chose me." you press your forehead to his, smiling softly. "i belong here… with you." the hall is silent now, the envoys vanish, the air shimmering as olympus recedes, defeated.
aemond pulls you against him, his hands sliding down your sides, clutching you as though you're his heart made flesh. he kisses your hair, your temples, your mouth, murmuring between each one, "you're truly mine now… my queen, my eternal spring."
and as the pomegranate's sweetness lingers on your tongue, the underworld itself shifts. the stones pulse beneath your feet; the rivers shimmer with new color; the shades kneel as one. the goddess of spring is no longer a visitor, she is a queen—his queen—persephone.
the underworld knows before the heralds can even flee back to olympus. the air thickens, the silvery-black rivers glow faintly red, and a hush falls over every cavern and chamber as if the stones themselves are holding their breath.
aemond takes your hand and leads you from the hall, not toward his throne, but down a stairway carved deep into the heart of his kingdom. the steps descend into a vast cavern, lit by thousands of silver flames, and at the center waits an altar of obsidian, now veined with living green where your touch has already begun to transform it. here, in the belly of his realm, his power is absolute, yet his grip on you trembles.
"this is where oaths are sealed," he muses, his voice low and rough. "not with law, not with crowns, but with flesh and blood and will." his thumb traces the sticky red juice still clinging to your puffy lips. "you have bound yourself to me, but i..." he swallows hard, violet eye burning with intensity, with fierce devotion. "i would be bound to you."
the silks of his cloak spill around you both as he draws you to the altar. he does not place you upon it as a king with a prize; instead, he lowers himself to his knees before you, pressing his forehead to your belly. his long, flowing tresses brush your thighs, pale strands sticking to the pomegranate stain on your fingers.
"little goddess," he whispers against your skin, "spring of my dark, my beloved queen…. let me worship you, let me love you, let me crown you as mine." your hands find his hair, your fingers threading through the silky strands, tilting his face up. his eye is wild, desperate for your love. "rise," you say softly. "rise, my king."
he does, and the kiss he gives you is slow, reverent, molten—not the kiss of a conqueror, but of a man offering his soul. his hands move over you as though learning you once again, palms rough and shaking with greed, worshipping every curve as he undresses you with patient, aching care.
the altar's stone is cool against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat that blooms wherever his lips press. every kiss is deliberate, slow, tracing the contours of you like a prayer wrought in flesh. he lingers at your throat, worshiping, memorizing, then drifts lower, lips grazing the swell of your breasts, the soft dip of your stomach, leaving trails of scorching fire in his wake.
each whisper against your skin is a benediction. "mine... my queen... my life..." he speaks as if invoking a spell, as if the words themselves might bind the world to you both. his hands are everywhere, palms rough and trembling, learning you anew with reverent hunger. every curve, every shiver, every gasp becomes sacred in his possessive touch.
you arch into him, not from just need, but from the exquisite knowledge that he is undone by you. his body moves with a rhythm older than time itself, slow, steady, unrelenting—not to consume, but to honor. the air around you hums with the pulse of something greater, a current of shadow and blossom, of longing and devotion, binding the two of you to this eternal night.
when he finally joins you, it is not a claim but a coronation. his body moves with yours as though to a rhythm older than death, slow and deep and endless, skin slapping loudly against wet skin. he cups your face, the rough pad of his thumb stroking your cheek as he thrusts into you, over and over, murmuring soft, hoarse, obsessive words that break between blissful gasps, "n-never thought... never dreamed... y-you'd choose me..."
you arch beneath him, fingers digging into his back, his name a litany on your lips. the silver flames flicker higher, shadows dancing across the cavern walls, sweet-smelling flowers bloom at the edges of the altar where your hands clutch the stone.
he presses his forehead to yours, his thrusts growing frantic, his restraint fraying. "you are everything to me, everything," he groans, panting softly against your kiss-swollen lips. "you are my spring, my ruin, my eternity..." you whisper back, "i am your queen, your wife… all yours, my king."
he shudders, an animalistic growl torn from his chest, fiercely primal and powerful, and comes apart with you, his body shaking, his mouth against your throat, kissing and sucking your pulse like a vow. when it is done, he does not move away; instead, he stays wrapped around you, his cold body soft and pliant now, his face buried against your neck as though hiding from the overwhelming swell of emotions he feels for you.
outside, the underworld shifts. the altar is no longer bare stone but veined with living green, blossoms spilling across it like an offering, the silver flames burning brighter. in the distance, you can hear the river sigh. aemond lifts his head at last, his eye heavy with exhaustion and awe. he cups your warm cheek, thumb brushing your lower lip affectionately. "you are no longer my guest, little goddess," he whispers, smirking. "you are my queen, my equal, my heart." and as you lie together on the altar, crowned by shadow and bloom, you know the world above has lost you, for you have always belonged to the dark, just as you now belong to him for eternity.
☠︎︎ ❀ ☠︎︎
the realm no longer whispers about the girl from the meadow, it kneels. the underworld has never seen a queen like you—here, where once there was only black stone and silver flame, veins of green now wind along the walls, soft moss creeps between the tiles, blossoms open where your bare feet touch the floor. even the river lethe runs clearer, its surface reflecting flickers of color like dawn on water.
you sit beside aemond now, not at his feet but at his side. the throne, carved for him alone, has been split into two—obsidian twinned, your seat inlaid with living gold filigree curling like living vines. when the shades approach to plead their cases, they kneel before you both. when aemond passes judgment, his voice still rings like thunder, yet his hand rests lightly over yours, a quiet promise: we rule together.
and you are learning. at first, your power had frightened you. the first time you touched a wandering shade and flowers bloomed from its path, you snatched your hand back, heart hammering, suddenly startled and unsure. but aemond only caught your wrist and pressed a gentle kiss to your palm. "do not hide what you are, my love," he murmured. "you are spring, sweet girl, even here."
now you do not hide it. you move through the halls with your head high, speaking life into a place that has only ever known lonely, bitter endings. where aemond brings order, you bring mercy; where he closes doors, you open windows. the souls begin to soften under your gentle touch, even the darkest corridors glow faintly with light after you pass.
at night, when the petitions are done and the torches gutter low, you are no goddess on a throne. you are a woman curled in your husband's lap, his long fingers tracing idle patterns on your bare thigh. his hair smells of cedar and smoke; his lips taste faintly of mint leaves and pomegranate. he has grown quieter since you had bound yourself to him—not less dark, but deeper, as though your light has given his shadows somewhere to finally rest.
sometimes he catches you watching him while he writes, or sharpens one of his many blades, or gently arranges your blooms. his violet eye lifts, softening at once, and he crooks a finger for you. "come here, little goddess." and you do, always, happily climbing into his lap, your skirts spilling over his knees, your palms against his chest as you relax against him.
he holds you like that for many hours, as if your weight on him is the only thing that truly steadies him. he murmurs in high valyrian against your temple, words he will not translate but that sound like sweet devotions.
and when the hunger rises between you—slowly, inevitably—he is not the desperate king from your first nights. he is slower now, almost worshipful, sliding your gown from your shoulders, kissing each new inch of skin revealed as if in benediction. "you are my queen," he murmurs against your collarbone, his voice rough with awe, with love. "my spring in the dark, you're the other half of my heart."
his hands roam your womanly hips and back, his mouth tracing fire down your throat. you feel the power in him coiled tight but held in check; he moves slowly, letting you guide the rhythm, letting you decide how his shadows touch your light.
and when you finally join him, moving together in the quiet of your private chambers, it is not an act of possession but of creation. every little sigh you give him births another blossom on the walls; every cry of his name makes the silver flames burn ever so brighter as you continue riding him, bouncing up and down, up and down.
afterward, tangled in his arms, you rest your head over his heart. he strokes your hair, breathing you in, and murmurs, "one day, they will say my kingdom was death until you came. they will not call you a stolen girl, my love. they will call you what you truly are, the underworld's heart." in the distance, beyond the sealed golden gates, olympus remains silent. and so, while the world above waits for spring, here, in the realm of shadows, you and your king remake it in your own image.
❀ ᴇᴘɪʟᴏɢᴜᴇ—
the seasons changed differently now. the world above still followed its old rhythms—the thaw, the blossom, the warm breath of sunlight across the fields—but there was a new pulse beneath the earth, a second heart beating in its depths. spring did not vanish; it descended, and now, it reigns.
across meadows in the mortal realm, flowers grew wilder: poppies bright as blood, lilies soft as sighs, ivy twisting stronger than ever. the shepherds whispered that the blooms bowed toward the ground, leaning toward some unseen warmth beneath the soil. they did not know that the warmth had a name—you, little goddess of spring, wife of the king of the dead.
in the underworld, life moved with purpose. the souls knew peace where there had been only silence and wandering; gardens grew along the banks of the river styx—gardens of midnight blossoms, petals dark as wine and glowing faintly with your touch. and the shades who had forgotten color now stood among them, and remembered what it felt like to feel.
aemond would often walk with you there, no guards, no title. just the man who had once been a solitary god of stone and shadow, learning how to hold life gently in his hands. your fingers would trail through the blossoms, your footsteps leaving new growth in their wake.
his would follow, close behind, as though the idea of you drifting an arm's length away was still unbearable. sometimes, he would touch your waist, just barely... just enough to reassure himself: she is here, with me. he had once ruled with fear, but now, he ruled with you always by his side.
and the underworld adored its queen. the shades bowed their heads as you passed—not in terror, but in fierce devotion. spirits often came to you seeking comfort, and they found it; even the furies softened when you spoke, their merciless fire reduced to embers in your presence.
the dead had found their spring, but the most sacred place in the realm was not the throne hall, nor the river banks, nor the grove of night-blooming flowers; it was the private garden aemond had built for you, his little goddess of spring.
deep in the heart of the palace, beyond any corridor known to guards, behind doors carved with pomegranates and vines, there lay a sanctuary where shadow met bloom. the ceiling was open to a sky that did not exist—silver stars burning in a darkness eternal, glowing like distant lanterns.
there, he had planted every flower you had ever touched: daisies and violets from your first meadow, pale lilac blossoms from the altar where you became queen, roses thorned and fierce as your vow of eternal love. and it was there you would sit, in his lap, just as the old poets whispered: a goddess upon her rightful throne.
he would hold you as though you were made of flame and silk and holy things; one hand at your waist, the other toying absently with the ends of your hair. his voice was always low, rough, never quite steady—not when speaking to you, his sweet love.
sometimes he read to you, the words ancient and heavy, his breath warm against the sensitive shell of your ear, soft and teasing. sometimes you simply sat in silence, your cheek resting over his heart, snuggling together. and sometimes, when the world grew still, he would murmur, soft, reverent, confessional, "i thought i was born to rule alone, just as i thought my heart was formed by stone. and yet… here you are, spring rooted in death, bloom in my darkness, and i kneel gladly."
you would tilt your face up then, press a kiss to his jaw, feel his breath catch. and always, always, his hands would tighten as though anchoring himself to the one thing in existence he could not bear to ever lose. no god from above dared call you stolen now, just as no poet would speak of abduction. there were no chains here; only choice, only vow, only love rooted so deeply it had reshaped a kingdom.
the world above continued to bloom because of you, and the world below thrived because of you. and every night, when the silver stars gleamed over your secret garden, and aemond's arms wrapped around your waist, drawing you close in that quiet, steady way that said mine without a sound—you knew. you were not a flower plucked from the sun; you were a queen who chose her throne. and you were loved—darkly, deeply, eternally—by the king who once thought himself incapable of love at all.
Summary: Aemond declares his dedication to making heirs.
/// [Read on AO3] ///
Aemond’s pounding into you—thumb circling that perfect spot, staring intently into your eyes—and your pussy’s so good a whole villain monologue pours out of him, in that slow, too calm, soft-but-absolute way of his.
“Are you… moaning my name? Do it louder. Thaaat’s it. Good girl. I want the entire castle to know the King is fucking his Queen. I want them to gather outside our chambers every morning and night to hear how often and how thoroughly I fuck you. I want the whole kingdom to know how dedicated the King is to breeding heirs into the belly of the Queen. Even once you are with babe, I won’t stop. I’ll be the King who tried for twins at every opportunity. King Aemond the Undeterred, they’ll call me.”
A low chuckle. “I know that feeling.”
[to himself, eyes closed, face turned upward] “I pursue it in my dreams.”
[to you, commanding] “Cum on it. Suck my sperm into your womb.”
Your muscles lock—you teeter on the edge, rocking with the rhythm of his thrusts.
His voice softens, a desperate echo of his grand declarations. “Make a baby with me.”
You shatter.
Your climax pulls a groan from deep in his throat, hips finally stilling as his cock jerks, merging your releases together.
Even as he cradles you to his chest, still nestled deep, his promises hang like thick smoke in the air. He’ll never break them.
Content/Warning: 18+, arranged marriage, enemies to lovers, smut, loss of virginity, fingering, oral (f receiving), p in v sex, mentions of blood
Word count: 7.1K
Summary: Aemond and his betrothed are not fond of each other, spending more time bickering and ignoring one another. As a result, the young woman grows bored in her solitude in The Red Keep. But one day after arguing in the library, Aemond decides to relieve the young woman of her boredom unorthodoxily.
When she had learned she had been betrothed to Prince Aemond Targaryen, a mix of dread and curiosity had struck her. Not long after the betrothal that had been forged to strengthen the bond between their families, she had been sent to live the Red Keep in King's Landing to further strengthen the alliance and get to know the one-eyed prince.
She felt that she had done what was expected of her; smiled politely, asked him the correct questions and showed a general interest in him. But though Aemond had reciprocated her initiatives to conversation with answers and asked questions back, she found that his answers were curt and held an undercurrent of haste, as if their interactions were but simple, dreadful business to him; like she was a member of The Small Council or the likes. His once somewhat tempered answers and sentences shared with her, had evolved into short, absentminded hums, barely even giving a glance her way. She grew angry at first. She'd come all this way, left her family behind to live in a castle with no friends and kin, all to be treated like a careless nuisance to him. Did he not realize that this was for their families’ best? Was it too much to ask that he be grateful to have her?
She had tried to press him in further conversation, but that only earned her rebuffs. He hardly even bothered with raising his voice at her to voice his irritation with her — mostly he just rebuffed her and left the room.
Eventually, she gave up and decided to pay him back in kind. So they ignored each other. And when they didn't do that the few words exchanged held an air of annoyance and tension between them as if they couldn't stand to be near one another. It was only on the rare occasion that she shared her meals with the entirety of his immediate family that they somewhat bothered to bear a mask of polite decor. But the smiles and quiet exchanges were fleeting and in private replaced by either indifference or bickering and a sharp choice of words.
The young woman no longer cared to maintain her proper appearance. In her quiet mind, she had come to hope that the silver-haired nobleman would seek to have their betrothal annulled, so it didn't really bother her should he find her to be but a nuisance in his proximity.
With no one to bond with and little to do, she often allowed herself to succumb to boredom.
On one particularly dull day she let her solitude lead her to the library. Feeling careless as ever, she had stepped out of her slippers and climbed the step ladder leading up to the taller shelves where she pulled out a small collection of Essosi short stories. She settled on the top step with her feet resting comfortably a few steps down, as she read with the book in her lap, not even bothering to step down to the floor and find a proper chair to sit and read in.
She dived half-hearted into the stories of ship traders and travellers in the book, feeling but slightly entertained and distracted. After roughly half an hour, the silence of the library was broken by the thuds of familiar boot steps on the stone floor. Aemond stopped short of the bottom of the ladder. He looked at her discarded shoes on the floor, and his mouth twitched in something akin to disgust. His gaze lifted to find her sitting up there, like a lazy bird perched on a branch. She made of course no move to acknowledge his presence.
“Tell me,” Prince Aemond's voice came smooth and clipped.
“Do you consider this exemplary behaviour for a woman of your station?” He asked her, smoothly but chilled.
She flipped a page, taking her time to answer, as she felt a heat of irritation rise in her chest and make the tips of her ears turn pink.
“Mayhaps,” she muttered, keeping her gaze down.
“Why do you care?”
“Well, I don't,” came the clipped reply.
“How you decide to carry yourself is of little matter to me. However, I'd say that I do have a say on how my betrothed dares to present herself to the world”.
Aemond's tone grew more tight with each passing sentence.
One of his hands wrapped its lithe fingers around one side of the step ladder on which she sat.
“Come down,” he commanded in a warning tone.
She ignored him. Her eyes travelled over the same sentence in her book a third time.
“No,” she nearly sang in a careless tone.
Aemond's only physical reaction was the tiniest widening of his one functional eye and a flare of his nostrils, as a testament to the fury simmering beneath.
His hand squeezed the ladder.
“You dare defy your prince?” He spoke quietly, but taut like a bowstring.
“I said… Come. Down”.
The girl arched her brow and for the first time dared to crane her neck to gaze down at the one-eyed prince. The parts of her hair that weren't braided fell over her shoulder.
“What's with you?” She asked defiantly and shut the book in her lap with a clap.
“Did the prince get bested in the training grounds?” She nearly mocked.
He scoffed.
“You're asking about my temperaments? Mayhaps it is you, My Lady who is the cause of them,” he smirked coldly.
“I come here in the hopes of a quiet hour and I see this-” he gestured vaguely with a hand from her in the ladder to her slippers on the floor.
“- Careless display of disturbance. I hardly reckoned you for a scholar of the written word, quite frankly”.
She ignored his obvious jab.
“The library is large enough for the both of us, I would've assumed,” she shrugged, keeping her hands on the book in her lap.
“Even so, I do not applaud my betrothed for looking down on me, while she sits barefoot on a ladder like a child from Fleabottom,” Aemond gritted out and gave the ladder a warning jerk that made her heart flutter with alert at the slight sway. Her left hand scrambled to the ladder’s top, grasping tightly for safety, while the right one nearly had the book slipping.
“Stop that!” She shrieked in shock.
“Get down,” Aemond scolded coldly.
“Fine!” She finally complied and turned to place the book back on its shelf, before she took the angry steps climbing down the ladder.
Her feet nudged into her slippers once she made contact with the flagstones again, and Aemond was the one towering over her.
Aemond's eye followed her all the way down. Now that he had gotten his way, he showed little sign of feeling gratified from her reluctant compliance. He stood there, watching her put on her shoes, no book in hand.
“... You did not intend to finish the book?” He heard himself ask. Where that dry curiosity came from, only the Seven could tell.
The young woman brushed off an imaginary wrinkle in her dress and looked up at him.
“No. It was boring,” was the response.
“Mm. Strange you'd make that pick then,” Aemond mused with a hint of a jab.
“Well, I didn't come in here to read Essosi fishermen's tales,” she countered and crossed her arms softly.
“I was bored. Thought I might come looking for ‘A Caution For Young Girls’”.
She was only half serious. Her remark earned her an arched brow from the prince.
“Did you now?” He spoke smoothly with a fraction of challenge.
“And what praytell were you hoping to find in that particular piece of litterature?” He asked and took a small step closer that threatened to crowd her space.
She didn't move, but the slight sway in her shoulders and flicker of her gaze betrayed a sense of unease or fluster at his challenging tone. Her arms remained crossed as she shrugged.
“Nothing. Just… An end to my boredom,” she said, shifting lightly on her feet.
“Mm,” Aemond hummed.
“Boredom,” he repeated as if the concept was foreign to him. Or at least beneath him.
“Well, the maesters have been diligent with hiding it away. My mother did not wish to have that filth within arm's reach of young, bored ladies such as yourself. It is distasteful and not in good faith with The Seven,” he spoke the last bit with a hint of bemusement as if he didn't quite believe it himself.
He was quiet for a beat as he regarded her with a sense of contemplation.
“But they didn't hide it well. I have it,” he stated. The slight smirk that curled on the corner of his lips revealed his bemusement at her reaction.
“You have it?” She asked with skepticism, narrowing her eyes a slight.
“I do,” he smirked, with a hint of smugness.
“I had a curiosity that I needed… Sated. So I took it into my possession”.
She blinked at this revelation, and it seemed curiosity was getting the better of her as well when an idea formed in her mind.
“... Can I see it?” She asked.
Aemond scoffed out a grin.
“See it?” He asked in amusement over her audacity.
“My Lady, I hardly think it becomes you to gaze upon such depravities. Are you truly that bored or are you simply seeking inspiration?”
Aemond tilted his head and folded his hands behind his back as he taunted her.
The girl’s cheeks blushed in irritation.
“And what about you, huh?” She countered.
“Did you keep the book to sate your curiosity over and over again?”
The slight flare of Aemond's nostrils was a satisfying reaction for her.
“Well,” she continued, and straightened her back, placing her hands on her hips.
“If you're not going to show it to me, mayhaps I should just go to your chambers myself and look for it”.
Aemond's smirk had completely vanished and been replaced with a warning scowl.
“You wouldn't d-”
The words had hardly spilled from his lips before she sprinted past him. With her skirts clutched in her fists and a grin on her face that signaled mischief and trouble, the young lady bolted out the library with an agility that caught Aemond off guard. For a second or two, he was dumbstruck at her audacity as well as stamina. When he finally came to, after giving her an unintentional head start, he hurried on after her.
“What do you think of yourself?!” He shouted as he ran after her.
“Running in the halls of The Red Keep as if you were a mere child!” He scolded, but the woman's steps did not falter. If anything, she seemed to be giggling as she remained at a surprising distance ahead of him. Aemond felt his blood rush as his anger intensified as he witnessed her round the corner to Maegor's Holdfast.
She shoved the doors to Aemond's private chambers open. The surroundings were just like him; neat, tight and practical. Her curious gaze wandered over the vast room, as her heart thundered with adrenaline. With eager steps she headed towards the bookshelf.
Aemond had caught up with her almost immediately as she entered his chambers, witnessing her pranze in as if she owned the damn place. His chest heaved slightly in ragged breaths as he glared at her with intesity. With a steady hand he clicked the heavy doors shut behind him.
“You've got some nerve,” he hissed. His boots clanked against the stone floor when he stepped over to her, surprisingly quiet and calm in exterior.
“You ought to be whipped for this very insol-”
“Is it here?” She interrupted with a furiatingly carefree tone as she pointed towards the books on display. No ‘A Caution For Young Girls'.
Aemond blinked in shock and rage as he could not begin to comprehend this behavior towards him.
“Were you raised in the dungeons?” He hissed.
“You come into my private chambers just to search for that filthy book? Have you no shame at all?”
She turned and looked at him with a stare that was unaffected by his reprimand.
“I'll leave, if you show it to me,” she offered.
Aemond's jaw twitched and after a tense second he let out a sigh that came all the way from the tightness of his belly.
“Fine,” he snarled.
“I ought to hurl you out the window,” he muttered irritatedly as he turned his back to her and stepped to a large chest. The hinges creaked slightly when he opened it. His hand rummaged a little and then summoned a book that had withstood the tooth of time. It was handed over with a tension to the prince’s movement.
The young woman opened it somewhere in the middle.
Her eyes darted over the page she had settled on.
“Oh”.
A small unwilling flush formed on her cheeks, and her thoughts could have might as well been written in the plane of her forehead. Could a man and woman really do that?
Aemond found that the corner of his mouth lifted into a smirk.
“‘Oh’?” He echoed.
“Is it too depraved for your liking?” he asked, folded his hands behind his back and took a step closer.
“No, it's not,” she tried and flipped another page, refusing to meet his gaze.
“Hmm. Read it out loud,” he dared.
She lifted her head to look at him, lips parted in surprise at his demand. Refusing to go down on his challenge, lest she showed she was but a mere blushing maiden, she looked upon the page again and read:
“‘The Lord parted my thighs and greeted my parts by-... By gathering a good amount of saliva on his tongue and delivering it to my- erhm… my pearl, where I ached for him the most and then let it trickle down to the gates of my most sacred castle’... Aemond!”
The prince let out a small chuckle.
“Oh? Are the descriptions too vivid for the young maiden?” He taunted.
“They're not, they're just-…!” She licked her lips, still holding the book.
“It's just so… Stirring. Is this truly what a man and woman are meant to do in private?” She baffled in disbelief.
Aemond's smirk morphed into something more contemplative as he held her gaze.
“Some,” he replied.
“That book is meant to excite the reader, not as much inspire the means of creating successors,” Aemond mused flatly, as if the contents were as interesting to him as reading a map of Westeros.
He paused and tilted his head, regarding his soon-to-be wife.
“It is depraved. Do you find that… enticing?” His tone was analytical, like she was but a subject of study to him.
Her eyes widened.
“No! I mean-… It's not… Uninteresting”.
She blushed and glanced down at the open book in her hands again. One of her hands left the book and without realizing, the young woman nervously let it thread through a loose lock of her hair, the shiney lock falling over her shoulder.
Aemond's eye followed the slow movement of her delicate fingers, as they combed through the tresses, gliding down past the clavicle that peeked out over the neckline of her dress. Her hair had a smooth shine to it; a testament to its softness he presumed, though he had never touched it himself. Her hands were soft too. Those he had only ever touched once back on the day they were formally introduced to each other. He'd greeted her, and politely taken her small hand in his grasp to place a chaste kiss to the back of it. The recollection of how damp her palm had been, softened with a sheen of sweat against his, was something he hadn't thought about for months. It was clear that the girl had been nervous to meet him. But that nervousness had soon evaporated as their arranged relationship had turned sour and stale. The nervous fleeting glances from her had been replaced by scowls and rolled eyes that nearly provoked him to poke them out on a bad day.
That nervous girl showed a small glimpse of herself now. He couldn't remember the last time he'd stood this close to her besides their day of introduction. Aemond noted the perfumed oils she'd dabbed on her skin this morning; it was sweet with a floral roundness to it that was subtle but still added a softened edge to her presence. His eye observed how her lips turned inwards as she read the obscenities that Lady Coryanne Wylde had supposedly experienced with her undivided attention, eyes darting over the page in jagged, nervous movements. The flush on the girl's cheeks deepened, and Aemond felt the muscles in his lower abdomen tense to his own surprise.
“‘Not uninteresting’,” Aemond repeated.
“So you find the book adequately entertaining to save you from the boredom that had you acting like a brat mere moments before?” He challenged and folded his arms to his front.
“I-” she looked up at him, unsure if she ought to bite back.
“Or do you expect me to find something else to entertain you with that will keep you intensively preoccupied?”
It sounded like a mix between a challenge and an offer.
Her eyes narrowed in skepticism.
“Like what?”
Aemond's lips twisted into a lopsided smirk like he'd been waiting for just that question.
“I could exhaust you with physical activity. Show you what Lady Coryanne Wylde tries to warn you against… Unless My Lady considers herself too prim and proper for that?” The last bit was delivered with a teasing edge.
The young woman’s lips parted and eyes widened upon realization of his intentions.
“You mean-...?” She felt her cheeks bloom with warmth and color while, paradoxically enough, it felt as if all colour had drained from her face.
“But… We're not allowed to! Not before we are wed-” she reasoned, a thousand thoughts running through her mind. Had he truly just offered that or was this some sort of cruel prank to get her all flustered? To humiliate her mayhaps?
“We're not supposed to,” Aemond corrected with a small shake on his head, and that same smug smirk lingering.
“And since when have you held any rules in high regard?” he took a step closer, threatening to crowd her space.
“Is it so that your careless streak only takes you as far as to have you sit barefoot in the library for all to see, but you refuse to rebel in private, between my sheets?” His words were smooth as paper but cut just the same.
Her cheeks were practically burning now, and her throat dry as parchment. She thought she had shrunk to the size of a mouse as she stood there before Aemond with no answer ready.
It's not that she was particularly afraid of the act - she had been curious about it for some time now, and had often explored her own body in the dark beneath her covers. And she knew of course that she was bound to get introduced to it on their wedding night after a less than humiliating bedding ceremony. With that in mind she mused that—from a more pragmatic point of view—that whole ceremony would most likely go a lot smoother if she had already been acquainted with the art of coupling beforehand.
“I mean-” her throat bobbed as she swallowed.
“I suppose we… Could,” she peeped out from a less convincing tone.
“You ‘suppose’?” Aemond challenged with a more seriously edged demeanor, devoid of amusement.
“If you do not wish for it, I will not convince you. But if so I suggest you make your leave right this ins-”
“It's not that!” She blurted out.
“It's not that I don't want to, it's just…” her cheeks were piping hot and it felt as if her spine was made of air.
“I don't know… How”.
Aemond's smirk returned again. This time not so much with a smug, taunting edge but more acknowledging.
“I didn't expect you to,” he answered plainly, but softly.
“And it is not a problem at all. I can teach you,” he offered and gently took the book from her that she had completely forgotten the relevance of.
“You've… Done it many times?” She questioned in a cautious, curious murmur.
Aemond placed the book on a nearby table and gazed back at her. There was something steely in his eye.
“Once”.
She parted her lips, wanting to ask more about this one encounter of his, but the shield behind his eye, made her stifle her words. Her throat bobbed as if she physically swallowed them. Then, she opened her mouth again to ask something different, but no less of great importance to her:
“Will it hurt?”
His eye remained fixed on her trepidatious face.
“Yes,” was the simple answer.
“A bit. But it will lessen if we-... If I prepare you properly”. In the moment it seemed like the most galant thing to make that his full responsibility.
She bit her lip with an incisor and nodded, not so much in compliance, but understanding that that was simply a term she’d have to accept.
Surprise came over her when the prince suddenly took a step closer, threatening to invade her space, and took her hand in his.
By the nature of their relationship so far, she would have been less surprised if he had punched her in the kidney.
Instead of that, his calloused thumb traced a soft line over the back of her hand. His hand was massive compared to hers. For a fleeting moment she wondered if every part of him matched in size.
“I will guide you,” Aemond reassured in an uncharacteristically gentle tone. No smirk, no malice, just a mentoring presence.
“Will you let me?”
Having him so close reminded her that she had only thought of him as handsome once before; the day they had met. When they had been introduced she had let her eyes travel over the chiseled nature of his face, the smoothness of his hair and the tall posture on him. Of course, the first thing she’d noted was his eyepatch but that didn’t matter so much and did little to take away from the handsome face. It had not been long after that her awe of his physical appearance had faded and made way for her indifference and distaste for his person.
But right now, in this moment, she gathered recollection from that one fond memory, feeling a warm flutter in the deepest pit of her belly.
“Yes,” she murmured.
“I want to, but… Why do you?” She asked, letting the last bit of remaining skepticism slip through her cracks.
“Why?” Aemond repeated almost carelessly and gazed down at his hand that still held hers. His thumb traced circles on her skin.
“Because I am a man, and you are a woman. You are to be my wife, and mayhaps if I let myself break the customs this once, it will make way for us to find some sort of common ground”.
His gaze flickered up again, and that darn smirk of his returned to his lips.
“And because I’ve wondered what sounds may protrude from that pretty mouth when you’re not using it to throw insults at me”. His tone was slick and his words made a warmth mixed between arousal and irritation twist and swirl in her stomach. His thumb pressed on her hand.
“I dare say you haven’t even been properly kissed before, have you?”
Her eyes widened and cheeks flushed as she glared at him.
“You d-” she was cut off when Aemond’s lips captured hers. His free arm wrapped around her waist while the hand that had been holding hers let go, and now snaked up to tangle into the softness of her hair. She gasped against Aemond’s lips, and squirmed in his grasp, until she finally relented and closed her eyes, trying her best to reciprocate. Her hands fumbled, unknowing where to settle, before they finally clutched at the front of his doublet. He was a prick. But she couldn’t deny that the kiss felt nice. His lips were softer than she had anticipated and the fervor and dominance with which he kissed her was more than enough to make desire flare up between her thighs.
Aemond pulled back a fraction to catch his breath and look her in the eye.
“Yes?” He asked for confirmation. His pupil was dilated.
“Yes,” She murmured, her eyes hazy and cheeks ruddy. Surprise was written all over her.
Aemond grinned approvingly before kissing her again, and backed her towards his bed.
Once she was on the mattress with Aemond sleekly climbing on top, caging her in, he wasn’t long to smooth a hand behind her back and pull at the lacings of her dress.
“N-No!” she exclaimed almost in panic and pulled back.
Aemond raised an eyebrow at her quizzically.
“I mean-... You first!” she insisted, suddenly being struck by self-awareness from the whole ordeal. Aemond moved out of the bed. She would have been certain he had taken offense and decided to call it all off, had it not been for the fleeting bemused smile on his lip.
“As you wish”.
He stood beside the bed, facing her, as his hands niftily and without the shadow of tremor started unfastening his doublet. The entire time he was undressing he kept his gaze locked on her; all determined and without anything resembling the least amount of shame about what he was doing and what he intended to. Somehow, despite him being the one who was stripping down, she felt as if she could have just as well been naked by the way his gaze bore into her.
Aemond’s doublet fell. Then his undershirt. Then his boots… He slowed his motions just as his dex fingers were starting to pull at the laces of his trousers.
The last thing to be removed was his eye patch. Her lips parted at the sight of the sapphire stone he revealed. The skin was shrunken, reddened and it looked tense around the blue gem. She was surprised by the sight of it, but didn't dare to mention it.
“It will be much more comfortable for us both if you disrobe as well,” Aemond spoke smoothly like he were a scholar guiding his student..
She felt shy, but nonetheless nodded, and sat up to reach around herself and started unlacing her bodice. It was more difficult to do by herself without staff to assist her.
Aemond didn’t ask for permission, but just leaned down and helped her loosen up the garment. He was so close that she could smell the musk of his perspiration and fully appreciate the tone of his muscles.
So that’s what daily hours in the training yard does to a man, she thought sheepishly to herself, and promptly looked away when she heard him chuckle in her ear.
“Let us parallel each other, My Lady,” he smiled approvingly, while he helped her out of her dress.
Once they were both fully nude, she pressed her back down into the bed like she was ready to disappear into it, the reality of what they were about to do suddenly hitting her. Her cheeks still blushed profusely and her arms tried to half-heartedly cover her breasts, though it was futile. Aemond smirked and leaned over her. His lips pressed to her cheekbone in a surprisingly soft kiss.
“You are not uneasy on the eyes,” he whispered.
Then he made his ascent down till he was facing her hips. He gently, if however a little decisively, pried open her thighs to reveal a glistening vertical line faintly hidden under a patch of hair.
“What are you…?” She tried.
“I told you. I’m preparing you properly,” he grinned wolfishly, before he lowered his face and experimentally dragged the tip of his tongue all the way up over the line of her cunt. She gasped from the sensation and nearly jolted back against the headboard.
It was far from unpleasant. She could swear she nearly felt Aemond smile against her flesh, before he dove in, large hands holding her thighs open, as he licked and sucked at her. The sounds that left her lips were sounds she didn’t even know she could make.
“A-Aemond…!” She gasped, feeling her legs tremble as he feasted on her cunt.
“You’re already so wet,” he mused approvingly and circled her little nub with his tongue, which earned him a sharp groan from her. He locked his lips down on her again and kissed, sucked, licked as if she was the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted. Aemond groaned and hummed against her, the vibrations causing her to shiver again. She was surprised to find herself rocking her hips back and forth against his face, chasing the ministrations that his tongue was granting her. Unsure of what to do with her hands that were growing frantic and restless, they switched position from grasping at the sheets, to Aemond’s hair, while her breathing came out in ragged gasps. If Aemond felt distracted by her fidgeting, he didn’t let it show.
“Aemond, fuck-... Aemond, please I’m…!”
If she had intended for him to stop, she had another thing coming. Her mewls ignited a larger flame in Aemond who damn near growled against her as he pressed his tongue firmer down on her, eager for her to erupt in what he knew would soon be eminent.
Her back arched, pressing her cunt desperately against Aemond’s mouth as she cried out her climax, fingers digging into his scalp. Aemond breathed out heavily as he withdrew, his mouth and surrounding area of his face moist and shiny with her slick. He wiped his mouth lazily with a hand like a man recovering from a task well done. There was something pragmatic and stoic about the way he regarded her as she laid there, a panting, ruddy mess, all wet and shivering with eyes half-lidded and unfocused.
He smirked smugly, terribly pleased with the state he’d brought her in.
“You ready for more?” He asked in a teasing tone, and let his right hand wrap around his already half hardened cock, and started stroking languidly.
She swallowed and tried to find proper words to rasp out as she looked up at him.
“I-I suppose I-...” She gasped when Aemond haphazardly placed his open hand on her cunt again. His thumb had entered her, rubbing upwards to a textured spot that made her squeeze around the finger, while the top of his palm nudged against her sensitive bud. She groaned when he lazily pulled it out and traced upwards, never seizing contact, and in the end let it circle her bundle of nerves which damn near made her fall apart all over again. Aemond watched his hand work her with an analytical look, as if he was experimenting with what reactions he could elicit from her, like they were words in a foreign language to be studied.
“You’re so sensitive,” he mused with intrigue as he absorbed all these new discoveries, while letting his thumb gently press against her.
She gasped, her hands halfway to covering her mouth.
“Don’t…” She panted, looking up at him with pleading, hazy eyes.
“Don’t tease me…”
Her cheeks were rosey, and her lips ever so delicately parted as she breathed – no rasped, while he continued to touch her. She was a ruddy mess, and Aemond thought it might be the most beautiful she'd ever looked.
He had put her in that state.
The sight of her like that accompanied with that breathy, needy voice made him slow down and nearly forget what he was doing. It went straight to his cock, making him ache for her.
A deep, primal sound rumbled up from the lowest of his abdomen, up through his chest and almost made him growl. His hand left her perhaps for a moment when he decided for each of his hands to land on her thighs, squeezing so hard on the inner parts it made her squeak in surprise.
“Apologies, my lady,” Aemond rasped, feeling his cock throb with need to feel her around him.
“It appears my reactions to you are less chivalrous than I'd first anticipate,” he murmured and leaned over her, letting his lips graze the edge of her jaw.
“Are you ready for me?”
She felt her blood rush through her veins at such speed, it felt like her body was on fire. All forethoughts that had filled her mind with apprehensions in regards to pain and the state of her virtue had vanished, now replaced by a dire, primal need for him. Her legs spread wider open under Aemond, nodding, while air left her in soft breaths through parted lips.
There was a shadow of a twitch at the corner of Aemond's mouth. There and then gone. His head dipped, gazing down at her, as he guided himself to her cunt, with a firm hand around his base.
A soft hiss left Aemond when he swiped the head through her folds, feeling how wet she was. She grunted lightly when he pressed on. There was a stretch at the foreign intrusion, a faint sting, and then an outlandish sensation of being filled up. A shiver ran through her at a tingling sensation in her lower belly.
It was done – she had overstepped where she was not supposed to and there was no turning back.
Aemond sucked in a sharp breath as she engulfed him with how tight she was.
She barely had time to recollect her thoughts before Aemond started to move, pulling his hips back and then thrusting back inside.
“Oh,” she sounded like a surprised fool. Then a gasp, then a moan.
Aemond gave a low, deep groan as he thrust into her.
“Fuck,” he whispered. The warmth of his breath hit her cheek while he kept her caged in under his arms.
“A-Aemond,” the young woman groaned, her hands nervously fumbling to rest at Aemond's ribs. The prince cursed himself, feeling a dire need to have her grab at him, and do something that'd permit him to give into his urges of fucking her harder.
“You speak my name so sweetly,” he murmured, tracing his lips over the shell of her ear.
“I knew you would”. He sounded almost smug again.
Aemond's thrusts were steady, almost gentle, till his breathing grew labored and his hips started to move in tact with it. His skin slapped against hers, and the sounds they both made grew more primal, more animalistic.
She gasped sharply when he pounded into her. There was a bit of discomfort, but it was drowned out by the pleasure, the tingles, the warmth that absolutely insisted on consuming her.
Was this how it was done? Was she even doing this correctly, she thought to herself. Her toes curled and she subsequently squeezed around Aemond, which elicited a hiss from him through his teeth. The sound made her flinch, planting a thought that she'd done wrong, mayhaps even brought him discomfort.
“You're doing so well,” the prince suddenly muttered in her ear. She was surprised when she felt new warmth coil in her belly at his praise, causing her to clench around Aemond once more.
Her reaction was not lost on him, and he gave a small appreciative sound.
“You're taking me so well,” he cooed in his betrothed’s ear, while tracing his lips over the peachy softness of her earlobe and rosey cheek.
“Oh, gods…” she whimpered in reply, feeling herself melt from his words. A new rush of ecstasy made it feel like a ripple of wetness flowed down between her thighs. Her hands trembled, nearly clinging for dear life to the muscular planes of his back.
“Is… is there any blood?” She asked.
Aemond slowed down, and finally stopped, balancing his weight on one hand, while the other swiped a couple fingers between them where they were joined together. He rubbed his fingers together as he looked at them.
“A little bit,” he concluded and placed the hand back next to her head, caging her in once more.
“Are you alright?” Aemond's voice was uncharacteristically ever so slightly out of breath.
“Yes,” she nodded, a couple of her fingers twitching slightly on his back.
“Good”. He resumed his movements, languid and controlled at first, letting her settle before he grew bolder in vigor and sounds. Aemond groaned, closing his eye as he lost himself in ecstacy. The young woman under him made sounds made up of soft gasps and mewls.
Delightful music.
Aemond opened his eye, never seizing his movements, and he witnessed her small hand seek down between their bodies where they were joined and started almost timidly, shyly touching herself. She sighed in relief and Aemond gave a low guttural sound from deep within. The sudden urge to take her and be rough with her was nearly overwhelming as he witnessed her take the reins of her own pleasure.
But no, not yet, not tonight.
She was still so green to this. She deserved patience and the comfort of learning.
She blinked quizzically up at Aemond as she, suddenly feeling self-conscious, realized he was watching her please herself.
“Is it a problem…?” She asked skittishly, wondering if this was considered impolite to a man's efforts.
Aemond huffed out an amused breath, the corner of his mouth twitching lightly.
“Not a problem,” he assured, and snapped his hips a little firmer against her, making her cry out so exquisitely.
“But I would like to be the one to touch you”.
She swallowed visibly and then nodded.
“Y-You may”.
Without missing a beat, the one-eyed prince gently swatted her hand away and replaced it with his own. He pressed gentle circles with his thumb. The feeling of having someone else touch her there than herself was much more intense than she'd expected now that it was convoyed by the new sensation of having his girth fill her up.
“Like this?” He asked, searching her face for reaction with that methodical expression he often had when studying old texts.
“Uhm… A little firmer” was the apologetic request.
She amused Aemond. He had finally found out how to strip her off all that guarded disposition she'd shown up with when she'd first arrived in King's Landing. Always so closed off, having that attitude about her. Now she laid here, blushing, cheeks ruddy, eyes teary, hazy with lust and completely pliant.
Letting him fuck her like he wanted to.
Letting her learn that he knew a few things that she didn't.
He complied with her request, and she granted him a soft moan in return.
Aemond smirked almost smugly in triumph, and continued massaging that most sensitive part of her in that way that proved fruitful. His hips never stopped moving, as he carried himself to his own pleasure..
From the way her breathing grew more and more laboured and her cunt twitched around him, it was evident that she was nearing her precipice. Aemond sighed softly, enjoying the way her legs started to shake.
“You're close, sweet thing,” he stated, and got more insistent with his thrusts, his thumb working in tandem.
“Aren't you?” He teased and dipped his head to place a soft kiss to her jaw. She tasted slightly salty.
The young woman mewled, lips and eyes squeezed shut, as if trying to protect herself from revealing her own eminent demise.
She nodded.
Aemond gave an amused tch.
Still refusing to give in, he mused to himself and as a result let his thumb on her cluster of nerves move slightly faster. She yelped from the punishment.
“W-Wait-, I-...!” Her eyes opened wide with a start.
“Tell me you're close,” he demanded softly.
“I-I am…!” She yielded, perplex and shocked by how much more intense this felt than when she reached her peak alone by the touch of her hand.
She fell, her voice leaving as a strained moan from a stretched throat.
“Fuck-” Aemond gritted out between clenched teeth, as she squeezed around him, insisting he follow her. She was so unbelievably wet and tight, it made him see stars. He snapped his hips against her, harder than ever, causing her to gasp from the overstimulation. Aemond fucked her like a man possessed, until he finally, suddenly pulled out, grabbing his cock, stroking himself to finish.
He came with a sound akin to a roar, letting his pearly release land on her belly. No sound left her upon the surprise of the sudden wetness. It was as if he had fucked out all verbal communication out of her, so she just laid there, breathing heavily and looking up at him with heavily lidded eyes filled with awe. She said nothing, and instead let herself be acquainted with the afterglow of what had just conspired between them. She knew she ought to feel ashamed but she was taken aback by how little regret and shame was present in her mind and body at this very moment. It felt sinful, but rightly so in a sense.
Her chest heaved slightly as Aemond's gaze travelled over his betrothed, appreciating the state he'd brought her in. His taut muscles relaxed, and he certainly didn't mind witnessing how she too was taking in the shape of him with enjoyment.
A small huff left his lips, reckoning she'd never looked so correct as she did now. He leaned down, silver hair falling over his shoulders and caged her in again, underarm on either side of her head.
He kissed the curve of her jaw, letting his lips linger for a moment.
“Now you know,” he stated smoothly, voice slightly husky from his earlier strain.
“You know what will transpire in our bedding ceremony,” Aemond murmured. He couldn't help but chuckle as he'd moved back slightly to see the widening of her eyes and the slight increase of flush on her darling cheeks.
“Now that it is done, I reckon we may find time to… rehearse some more, should the mood strike us,” the smirk on his face told her.
She was about to protest with irritation right before Aemond dipped again, this time pressing a deft forefinger on the softness of her lips.
“However, sweet girl,” he said with a low voice, eye half lidded.
“Under our bedding I intend to spill myself inside of you, and make you swell with my heir. My seed will not be wasted on your soft skin then,” Aemond promised, letting his lips trace over the shell of her ear.
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
request: Aemond x ( Rhaenyra x Criston daughter ) niece were married and having a son. instead kill aegon son b&c kill Aemond son. How Rhaenyra daughter try to save her son from b&c and what people react after find out about Aemond son being kill. I need this fic so bad…
summary | Daemon took Rhaenyra's words literally. "A son for a son" he said. Who knew that it would be your son?
pairing | Aemond Targaryen x Fem!Wife!Reader
tags | mentions of BLOOD, extreme grief, talk of child murdering, knifes, MORE BLOOD, infanticide, DEATH, extreme grief. mentions of murder
w.c | 3.8k
TW!!!!!!!!! | I personally have a very gruesome writing style when it comes to things like this, so if anything relating to infanticide or violence will trigger or bother you please don't read!!
____________________________________________
You loved your son. You named your son Baelon, after your mothers lost brother. Aemond knew how much you love Baelon, and he would be a fool if he said he did not love his son as well.
Aemond tried to pride himself with being stoic and emotionally unavailable. But the minute they put his squirming son's body in his arms he felt his whole world resolve. The boy was the most beautiful thing to him, and he couldn’t believe that half of this being came from him.
Ever since that night, Aemond became softer. When you weren’t breastfeeding, or when you got tired from taking care of the crying infant, Aemond would immediately offer to take the boy. When Bealon would cry in the middle of the night, Aemond would be up almost immediately, rushing to be at the babe's side. It took you almost forty minutes to convince him that it would be better if he slept with you and not in the nursery.
And everything was fine until the night he killed Luke.
Aemond would come back to the Keep late at night, still shaken from what he had involuntarily done. When he got back to his chambers, he saw his wife, his sweet, innocent wife holding his son.
You had a smile on your face, Baelon coo’ing in your arms as he giggled and reached up to play with your braided, black hair. When you looked up, and noticed Aemond, your smile faltered.
Aemond stared at you, and for a second his face was his normal and stoic, but the minute his son, his little Baelon, reached for him with a smile he broke down.
That night he told you everything; He apologized profusely, and for the first time in all of Baelon’s four months of living, he refused to hold him.
“I’ll only hurt him.” Is what Aemond told you. Your heart broke a little when you heard this, and you tried to reassure him but he wouldn’t have any of it.
____________________________________________
“Aemond?” Aemond stopped, looking at you with a soft sigh.
“Darling, what have I told you about sleeping on the couch?” His voice was tired, full of weariness from having to deal with Aegon’s antics. You smiled softly as you sat up, holding out your hands out for him. He sighed as he sat down with you. He immediately cuddled against you, letting out a long, heavy breath as his head come into contact with your chest.
This was how you two spent most of your time now. At night, Aemond would come to you and he would cuddle against you, yearning for that love and affection only you could seemingly give him. You two sat like this for a while, you stroking his head, and him stroking your stomach.
“...I do regret that business with Luke, you know.”
“I know.”
There was more silence. It seemed that between you and Baelon, the only time Aemond’s mind was quiet now was when he was with you, in your embrace, being held by you. Not being treated as a monster, or a ruthless warrior, but rather just a man. Just your husband.
In the distance, you heard the sound of your son’s wails. You sighed heavily, and you looked down at Aemond.
“Perhaps he wishes for his father’s arms.” You spoke softly, watching as Aemond slowly sat up.
“He does not.” He shook his head, leaning against the back of the couch. He avoided your gaze, knowing the somber look you were giving him.
“Are you sure you do not wish to join me?” Aemond sat still, a look on his face that held some sort of thought before he shook his head softly.
“I’ll see him first thing in the morning, my love.” You smiled at the thought, and you held his hand as you walked away. He watched you leave, a sad smile on his face. The wails from Baelon stopped moments later, and Aemond sighed heavily.
Tomorrow, he thought, i’ll see him tomorrow.
The worst part about this sentiment is that Aemond would see his son tomorrow. However, Baelon would be on a pyre.
____________________________________________
The night started off peaceful. You sat in your rocking chair, rocking back and forth with Baelon in your arms. You smiled to yourself, holding the-now-sleeping babe in your arms. You hadn’t even registered the two men behind you.
When one of them accidently knocked something over, you immediately jumped.
“Aemond?” You whispered, quickly turning around. However, you were met with the face of two, unruly men you didn’t recognize. You saw the bag they held, along with the rat traps. “Who-Who are you?” You tried to stay strong, but you knew your voice gave away your fear.
One of the men, the taller, bigger one looked you up and down. He turned to the other man and spoke softly. “Who is she?”
“This…Is the one eyed prince’s wife.” Your breath hitched as the shorter man spoke. They both looked reasonably dirty, like rat catchers, but you knew something was wrong.
“There are no rats in here.” The two men started to walk towards you, murmuring something about your husband underneath their breath. You had half a mind to turn and run, but they seemed to have the same idea.
The shorter man came to you, and put a knife to your throat. You gasped, and clutched Baelon closer to you. The boy whined softly at the pressure.
“Give us the boy, and we won’t hurt you.” The taller man spoke. You looked at him and held Baelon tighter.
“You have no business with my son-”
“Give us the boy!” The taller men yelled. You flinched, and at the sudden noise, Baelon started to cry. You looked between the men, and you felt tears in your eyes as the anxiety started to build up in your chest.
“I-I have uhm..I have many valuable items. I have gold! I have lots of gold that I have no need for-”
The taller man kicked the edge of Baelon’s crib and you held back a scream. The taller men started to speak to the shorter man, but the words they spoke didn’t process fully in your brain. All you saw was an open door.
“AEM-” You started to scream your husband's name, but the man with the knife to your throat pushed the knife further and grabbed your hair roughly. You cried, and Baelon wailed in your arms. The taller man put his hand on Baelon’s head and tried to pry him from you grip.
“NO!” You cried out, trying to pull him back, but it didn’t work. With a quick snap your boy was pried from you. The shorter man threw you back, causing you to hit your head against the chair you were previously rocking in.
Your head was fuzzy, and all you heard was the wails of your son, painful wails that slowly died down. When you sat up, you saw the men putting the tiny head of your son in a bag. Your whole world stopped, and just as the men escaped down the hall, you screamed.
Your chest ached, and your throat burned. You stare down at the body, slowly crawling to it as you shake your head and mutter small, inconsistent prayers to yourself. You reached out a hand, placing it on the body’s belly, rubbing it softly as if that would relieve some of the pain that was given to your innocent baby boy.
You choked on your own tears, wishing for nothing more than your own death in that moment. Screams erupted from your throat; Horrid, painful screams followed by sobs. This pain, this all consuming immeasurable pain you wished on no one. The feeling of your own blood on your hands as you stared at the decapitated body was sickening, but you couldn’t look away.
How could something so small hold so much blood? You thought to yourself, watching as the blood spilled from the clumsy cut.
Alicent was the first to arrive, followed by Aemond soon after. Alicent stared at the scene in front of her, and while she resented you (seeing you as a constant reminder of Rhaenyra’s blatant lie to her), the pain she felt for you was disgusting. She backed out of the room slowly and placed a hand on her stomach to ground herself.
Aemond couldn’t step into the room. He just stared down at you, his son's body. The thought that this headless, infants body was his own son’s, his baby boy’s-
He couldn’t move. The pain for him was nothing short of paralyzing. But what broke him the most was you.
You sobbed, violently sobbed as you placed your hands in your son's blood and tried to pull it back. As if that would fix everything. Aemond felt nauseous, seeing you so desperately cling to the idea that you could fix this. Once the realization started to settle that this was not helping, your body seemed to shut down. You laid down, holding your hands on your son's body as you sobbed.
No words were exchanged, not knowing what to say. Aemond leaned against the door frame, mind numb as he slowly slid down the frame. He stared at nothing, his mind replaying all the times he held the boy, watched him smile.
____________________________________________
Aemond stood next to you the following day, watching as your baby boy's body was burned on a pillar. He was numb, his face pale and full of so much grief that it sobered anyone up.
You were a mess. Tears and incoherent sobs escaped your throat, and you clung to Aemond. Aemond stayed still, gently holding you as if any small movement would cause the last shred of resolve to leave your body.
As the fire burned, you buried your face into Aemond’s chest, refusing to watch. Aemond let you, holding your head softly.
But Aemond stared. He watched as the wrapped body was consumed by the flames. He forced himself to watch as the flames consumed his son, his own retribution for not being there, for not helping you, for not holding his son one last time.
As he watched the ashes of the pyre falter, Aemond made a promise to himself.
He would kill Daemon Targaryen with his own hands.
Warnings: mild angst, misogyny, banter, pregnancy, childbirth, oral sex, p in v, fingering, orgasm denial, dry humping, overstimulation, brief lactation kink, breeding kink, manipulation (to get some), some good ol' tying up, slandering of the Gods lol
Author's note: this is the third and final part following And I dream of a grave and A curse for a curse but can be read as a standalone. Just keep in mind that Aemond did not cheat on his wife while in Harrenhal. He used Alys only for her visions.
Word count: 13k. Ye have to suffer for your smut darlin'
Her mother had come to King’s Landing three days after she gave birth. Peering through the door, the Princess didn’t know if the woman was more surprised to finally see a baby safely tucked between her daughter’s arms or to witness that she was still breathing. She had chosen to believe both.
Since she was a little girl, she had been instructed in what was coming, for her and all the girls like her: how to serve men, how to serve the Realm. She knew pregnancy could be a time of great distress, physical and otherwise, and for her, it turned out to be nothing more than that.
She spent the first moons plagued by sickness, glaring at the Maesters who told her that morning sickness was perfectly normal. It would've been, if only it had lasted the hours the sun was at its highest. Instead, she couldn’t keep down her breakfast, just like her lunch, or dinner. She had lost weight, she couldn’t stand any kind of smell with the risk of rushing to her pot and empty her stomach.
Then, on one fine morning, while she was walking the gardens with two of her maids, she had suddenly bent over, hissing with pain while clutching her maid’s arm, dreading the trickle running down her thighs.
The Maesters said occasional bleedings might happen, that she only needed to rest and take some tonic to strenghten her body. But that day signaled the end of her peace and the beginning of her confinement.
Because clearly, at the first sign of something going wrong, slipping out of his control, Aemond would panic, albeit showing none of it, standing as tall and stoic as ever and somehow more than he’d ever done now that the Conqueror’s Crown weighted on his head. But she knew better. She knew how to look through all his walls. She knew he was scared—for her, for the baby, for his sister, for his whole family. It was simply too much for a single person to carry all of that on their shoulders. And it was precisely for that reason that she didn’t object to any of his orders. After all, she couldn’t. He was the King now, even if he didn’t choose to style himself as such.
Thus, her chambers became her prison.
Cobwebs didn’t have time to grow because she was quick enough to point them out to the servants. She was aware of the slight drop in the stone tiles just behind the terrace, as of the strategic point where to linger to gain some cool breeze from the sea. She knew the baby liked to sleep upside down in the early afternoon, occasionally kicking hard as he, or she, settled comfortably in her womb.
Aemond had picked some books for her, mostly about history, having her yawning at the third page. She had tried needle work, putting all her good will into it for the sake of doing something, and she had deliberately chosen to believe she was undeniably good at it. But that was a very generous lie.
“What is that supposed to be exactly?” Aemond asked one day, peeking over her shoulder as he reached her on the terrace.
She didn’t look up, keeping her eyes fixed on her embroidery tambour, working the needle in and out. “Isn’t it obvious?”
He leaned down until she felt the long silver strands tickling her head and even without turning, she could feel him grimacing. “A bird?”
At that, she had raised her head, reading all the disbelief on his face. “It is a dragon. For the cradle.”
Aemond had simply furrowed his brow, unable for the life of him to consider what he saw as something even remotely resembling a dragon. But he thought better than to anger his pregnant wife, given her late sour spirit, but especially in light of how fiercely she had started to stick the needle in, likely picturing to stick it into him instead. He had built the most fake pleasant smile he could master and said “Very well. Excellent work, my love.”
“Thank you, husband.”
The trouble was that, as time went by, she only became sourer. She grew more and more uncomfortable, too tight in her own skin. Her back hurt, her breasts hurt, and she was starting to believe she was carrying a real dragon, with fangs and all; she had no other explanation for how hot she constantly felt, forced to lie in a thin white chemise all the time, despite the winds carrying the winter.
But maybe there was another reason why her spirits were so low and sour. She had come to learn that pregnancy affected every aspect of her life, including the most pleasant one.
She would grow wet for a kiss. She would close her legs and rub them together upon seeing him rise from the bathtub. She would moan into his mouth if he so much as grazed her nipples with his knuckles. But as she grew bigger and bigger, along with the discomfort, kisses and some intimate brushing were all she would get from him. Aemond had grown distant, not only with his presence, due to all the duties he had to fulfill wearing the Crown, but even when he was there, in their chambers, sleeping next to her, she felt him leagues and leagues away.
“Pregnancy is a very hard time for a woman.” The Dowager Queen had said to her “It is overwhelming to think that you are never alone and yet...somehow you are.”
She’d never understood what her good mother meant until she was confined to her chambers, alone with her thoughts and her fears. She didn’t expect Aemond to do something, this was women’s business. And she knew his reluctance to lie with her rested solely on concern and love for her.
No matter how much he craved to take her, he had decided to put his husband’s rights away for the delicate final moons until the baby was born. He still felt guilty, for Harrenhal, for the witch, for forsaking her only to get drunk on visions and prophecies. Yet, those visions turned out to be true. He had shut that voice in his head and tried to make amends. But they didn’t have the time to mend themselves together, to knit all the distrust and suspicions into something good; the baby was coming, and it seemed he or she did nothing but grow them more apart.
He saw how tired she was, how some days she couldn’t even get out of bed. And how useless he felt when he would catch her crying, like that night when he found her all alone on the terrace at the hour of the owl.
She was sitting on her chaise filled with cushions when Aemond walked around her. Given the state of his white shirt and hair, he had likely just awakened and hadn’t found her beside him.
“What are you doing out here? You will catch a cold.”
“I cannot sleep.” she had kept her eyes far, on the Black Water Bay, far from him. But he saw them anyway, her reddened eyes.
“You cannot stay here in your condition.” He said almost tiredly, but when she didn’t even blink at his words, he called her name, with the tone he used in the Throne Room.
“Aemond, please.” She whispered, turning her head. “I—” she bit her tongue, unwilling to put this on him, but she knew he wouldn’t let go until she was safely back in bed. So, she said “I don’t want to hear her.”
It took him less than a moment to understand what she meant. Helaena. Helaena who lost a child, who saw her flesh and blood horribly murdered before her eyes. Helaena who couldn’t stop wailing in the dead of night.
She had looked at him, seeing that torn thing, broken and raw like a split wound; shame and guilt and rage all at once. Then, he lowered himself onto his knees until he took her cold hands and squeezed them tight. His mouth opened, but she was faster. “Don’t say it.”
You cannot keep such a promise, you cannot keep us safe. No matter how many times you say it. But she wouldn’t take that solace away from him, not that plainly. The more he said it, the more he seemed to believe it. So be it.
“Is there anything I can do?” he asked, and there was a beautiful, heartbreaking desperation in his hushed voice. “Tell me what to do.”
She had built a convincing smile, running her hand through his loose hair and pushing some strands back. “Go back to sleep. I’m fine.”
Her spirits during the day would slightly improve. And between the Council and some hearings in the Throne Room, he always saved some time to go visit her in their chambers. She didn’t seem to enjoy being watched like a toddler, but deep down she cherished his concern. She cherished the way his hands would gently hold her own, or caress her hair, her belly. She found it hard to believe those hands could bestow such reverence and violence at the same time. And even in his absence, he managed to ensure she always had anything she needed. Even blackberries in early autumn.
“Myra, where have you been?” She asked in a late afternoon, when one of her most loyal maids entered her chambers after disappearing for the whole day.
The young girl had an awful look. She seemed exhausted, as if she had walked the entirety of Flea Bottom, twice. “Apologies, my Princess. It took me quite a while to find blackberries.”
“Seven Hells, it is only a craving. You did not have to go all the way through King’s Landing to find me blackberries.”
"No, I-I ought to.”
The Princess paused, frowning at the young girl. “Did someone else tell you that you ought to?”
“Well…yes…” the maid said, sinking her gaze to the floor “The King—uhm Prince Regent.”
She sighed deeply, and with heavy steps, she walked towards the terrace; her maid was immediately at her side to help her. “What did he tell you?” the Princess asked as they reached the chair outside.
The girl waited for her to sit, slowly and awkwardly given her big belly; then, a little timidly, she said “He…ordered me to go look for blackberries and not to…bother coming back if I didn’t find them.”
The Princess rolled her eyes in quite an unlady-like manner, “How in the name of Seven did he know about it?” She asked, grimacing as she desperately tried to find a comfortable position. “I have barely seen him this morning.”
The young maid helped her, fixing some cushions behind her back and whispered “The White Cloak at the door…I suspect he reports everything to his Grace.”
The notion didn’t seem to strike her that much, or maybe she was too tired, too uncomfortable and too hot to comment on the matter, or even scoff at it.
She grabbed a fan from her maid’s hands and unceremoniously shook her shoes off, placing her swollen feet on the cool tiles. Closing her eyes, she basked in that small relief; the floor was cold, the sun was about to set, and the baby was sleeping.
According to the Maesters, her time was close. She was eager to meet this little person but in truth, she just wanted it to end. She hated having no control over her body, her spirits, her marriage. She missed being a wife and being treated as such, not just as the mother of his child. She had come to think that, deep down, any woman felt that way, but they were forced to hide everything behind a joyful smile while sinking to their knees to thank the Mother. Wasn’t that the sole purpose of any girl in the world? To bleed on a birthing bed? Wasn’t that the way men measured women’s value?
She swallowed hard as the question spun in her head. Am I finally worthy of you, Aemond?
She wouldn’t dare ask him.
“What is it? Are you unwell?”
She was too lost in her thoughts to even hear his footsteps on the terrace. As her gaze flew up, she read the deep concern on his face, all lumped in the steep furrow between his eyebrows. He must’ve seen her grimacing, thinking she was in some pain. She was, but she was too much of a coward to tell him.
She resumed her fanning, averting her gaze and stretching her legs out further on the floor. “I feel like I’m boiling.”
“Yes, I can see that.” He deadpanned, raking his eye over her disheveled state; sprawled on that chair with her legs slightly open, her white chemise all crumpled and unbuttoned, and a bead of sweat on the forehead, in the crevice of her swollen breasts. He thought the times when a mere look at this woman would make him hard were gone once the novelty of having a wife, someone rightly and thoroughly his, had dissipated. He was wrong.
“I’m well aware of my lack of decency.” She replied, seeing how he was staring, the little inquiring curve in his eyebrow. “I’m afraid I care very little about decency at this moment. Blame it on your son.”
His lips curled up, watching her gather her loose hair with one hand while she kept fanning herself quickly with the other.
“Are you still inclined to believe for certain that it’s a boy?”
“I know it’s a boy. Only men can be this insufferable.”
That little smile on his lips lingered, deepened, and then he moved, going to stand behind her. “Let me.” He said, and took her hair between his hands. She couldn’t see what he was doing but got the gist as she felt his deft fingers moving and her neck free to get some air. When he walked around the chaise to sit beside her, she saw that his hair was loose. He had tied her hair with the black lace he always wore to prevent the silver strands from ending up in front of his eye.
She loved to see him like this: hair loose, eyepatch lost somewhere in a drawer, sitting next to her, even without saying a word. The sapphire seemed to match his eye, glowing a soft violet under the setting sun. She felt that familiar lump in her throat, as she stared at him, a restless thing flowing through her whole body, demanding to be released only to be trapped under her teeth, biting down her lower lip, starved and yearning.
“A little bird told me you put a hound on my trail.” she said at one point, shutting her little fan.
Aemond didn’t look surprised to acknowledge that she knew. He had actually ventured with himself about how long it would have taken her to realise he was spying on her every move.
“You are well aware of my duties now.” He said, turning his head to look at her. But not quite. His eye seemed to linger everywhere at once, fleeting, snatching a look here and there, her legs, her sweated neck, her belly…his own testament, as if she wasn’t one already.
You left your mark on her just as she did on you. Those were Alys’ words, at which he had ugly sneered. And she had laughed at the sight, eerily, as someone who owned the truth. I’m your spoil of war and yet, you speak to me ten paces away. What are you afraid of, Kinslayer? That your skin would burn like brimstone if you touched another woman?
“Besides,” he resumes “any lady would be flattered by her husband’s genuine concern.”
“You could flatter me in different ways.” was her prompt answer and she moved incredibly fast, given her impediment, getting close to him until she filled his nostrils. She smelled different since she was pregnant. A thick smell, musky. She tasted differently. Sweeter and somehow sourer. He swallowed at the mere memory. “We have talked about this.”
“And I’ve talked to the Maesters.”
His head spun around, forcing her to stifle a smile at his ever strictly reserved nature.
“They said there’s nothing wrong, or remotely dangerous, if we…engage in our conjugal duties.”
He tried to ignore her hand, her fingers traveling up his arm like a spider’s legs. “Did you need the Maesters to learn that?”
“No, but you do. You hang on their lips…I wish you hung on mine.”
Aemond heard her voice dropping a tone, and dropped his chin down, looking at her hand roving on his chest, shamelessly slipping beneath his dark green doublet, skin to skin. She glided on his planes slowly, making sure to trap one of his nipples in the little hollow between her index and middle.
“I don’t need them to know about my private matters.” He said mindlessly, trying to hold a grip on his thoughts.
“Seven Hells. It baffles me to witness how prudish you desperately want to appear while I perfectly know how debauched you really are, to the bone.”
“My debauchery is confined to these four walls.”
“Oh, is it? What about that time on our way to the Grand Sept?” She tilted her head, so she was talking almost in his ear. “Do you remember?”
Her hand on his chest was burning, or was it his own skin? His own flesh simmering wherever she touched him.
“Don’t do that.” She whispered when she saw his long legs cross. “Let me see. You have condemned me to do nothing else.”
His eye chased her hand as she grabbed his knee and pushed to uncross his legs, so that she could see, the outline of his cock through the breeches, see how he ached for her. “Do you remember what you did in the wheelhouse?” She asked again, looking at him; the sapphire was the only thing flashing violet now. His eye was pitch black.
“You put your hand beneath my gowns…” she said and her hand slid up against his thigh “you grabbed me, harshly.” And she did the same, forcing his mouth open and a shallow breath out of his throat. “And you grinned…because my garments were soaked.” he closed his eye for a moment, perhaps recalling, or maybe because her hand was moving, palming all his length through the breeches.
“And then you slipped your fingers underneath…” and again, she did just so, unbuckling his belt and sinking her hand in. He opened his eye, and basked in what he saw: that sort of silent, desperate plea in the little wrinkle between her eyebrows, in her heaving chest, in the way she was rubbing her legs together.
Thus, just when she was about to grab him, he grabbed her wrist instead and crashed his mouth against hers with a low growling sound. She could do nothing but moan, giving him open room to slip his tongue in and taste every corner, driving his body closer and closer, but not too much as to crush her.
She, on the other hand, felt free, finally, to roam, to rummage. Her hands grabbed and pulled everywhere, at his doublet, the collar, the buttons, the thin white shirt underneath it all, until everything was loose, and she was free to touch him, all the while making the sweetest wanton sounds, close to desperate whines. “Please, Aemond…” she begged freely, holding his face “just this once…please…”
He shushed her with another harsh kiss and with a free hand, he clutched her white nightgown into his fist, pulling up, enough to stick his arm between her legs. She spread them for him, panting with anticipation, and stopped breathing altogether when he cupped her core with the large palm of his hand. Aemond trapped her lower lip with his teeth, biting softly upon feeling how wet she was, dripping on his fingers, so much that he wished to fall on his knees and wipe it clean with his tongue.
“Please…” she breathed, barely rocking her hips to urge him to touch her.
“Hush.” he said, and curled his fingers, brushing his fingertips against her centre, gaining a delicious wince from her. “Tell me of the wheelhouse.”
She smiled breathlessly, her eyes hungry and heavy, full of lust. “It was the first time I wore green.” she started to tell. “We were still betrothed. I wanted to impress you.”
“Hmm. You certainly did.” He remarked, watching her closely while rubbing his index pad against her entrance, teasingly, making her squirm. “Go on.”
She felt like burning, her face hot for the sun, the baby, the ache in her lower belly, stirring and coiling. “You told the White Cloak to take another round…” she said, breathing with her mouth open. “You grabbed my waist and forced me on your lap.”
“And you pushed me away. Twice.” he’d laughed, flashing a grin that made her willing to shove him away, to pull him closer. “What a farse you put on.” he continued, leaving a chaste kiss on her neck that resulted in her writhing some more, pushing her pelvis against his hand. “I had to cover your mouth for your mewling. You were so fucking loud.”
It was then that he finally granted her some mercy, slipping one finger inside her drenched lips, spilling a long gasp from her.
“No. Not quite.” He observed cruelly and slid another finger, this time gaining a proper loud moan. “That’s more like it.”
His two fingers started to pump slowly, and yet she was making the lewdest sounds he’d ever spilled from her, arching her back as far as she could, scrunching her face almost in pain and pulling at his collar, twisting, as if he were torturing her instead of giving her pleasure. She made his cock stir painfully, his teeth grind for the ache, for the fact that she was coating his whole hand. “Easy now…” he warned her, his tone all husky. “You don’t want to come already, do you? ‘Tis the only thing you’ll get from me, sweetling…you better make it last.”
She whined in annoyance, forcing another grin on his ruthless lips, and with that same ruthlessness, he slowed his ministrations, only to cup one of her breasts with his free hand, squeezing softly until the thin, silky fabric slipped down, revealing her pink, swollen nipple. “I must say…I’m relieved you will summon a wet nurse…so these will be all mine.”
She had to stifle a breathless laugh at that. “Being jealous of your child is a bit too much, even for you…”
“Oh, my love” he crooned, freeing the other breast “I am jealous of the clothes on your skin.”
Wasting no time, he wrapped his lips around her nipple, causing her to arch against him once more, one hand flying down his shoulder, fisting his doublet, twisting it as he swirled his tongue and hummed with delight dripping from his tone, as if he were tasting honey, and the sweetest ever made.
His fingers resumed their frantic rhythm, sinking deep inside and stretching, hitting that special spot that made her sight go black, reduced to a mess of sweat coating every inch of her skin and a string of moans growing hoarse and high-pitched.
“Are you close? Hmm?” he rasped “How about another? Can you take another for me?”
He slipped a third finger in, causing her to wince and cling to his shoulders with her mouth open in a silent scream. “Good girl.” He praised at the sight. He wished he could savor it for a little longer, he wished to keep doing that again and again, until the sun went down and rose again, until there was nothing but ruin around them.
But she was so close now, he could feel it in her tensed arms around his shoulders, in her clenching walls around his hand, and quite frankly, the ache in his breeches was unbearable, twitching at every moan and squelching sound of his fingers inside her flesh.
She came loudly, curling her ankles on the ground and writhing in his hold as if in a delirium. He kept her still, his hand buried inside her, feeling the quick pulsing that rivaled the one in her heart. And he watched her, gasping for air and throwing her head back, utterly spent, hair all sticked to her forehead. In his eye she had never looked this beautiful.
He pulled his fingers out, making her wince slightly, and brought them to her mouth, smearing her spent desire on her own lips, like the final touch to a painting. And then he kissed her, humming at her bittersweet taste. He held her face gently, grabbing her jaw and angling her head to taste her better, eliciting a blissful sigh from the back of her throat that made his hardness throb. As if she had felt that, her hand had slipped between them with purpose, sinking past all his layers and taking hold of him.
She rejoiced in the little whimper he gave her, and started to work her hand up and down, making it impossible for him to kiss her any further, if not for a sloppy and panting mess of spit and teeth.
Given the unbearable pressure building past his navel, he knew he wouldn’t last long. And she knew that too. But she didn’t want to have him this way. Awkwardly, she stood up and spread his legs to make herself some room, but as soon as Aemond, despite the lack of blood in his mind, caught her intentions, he stopped her, grabbing her arms firmly.
“No…” he croaked. “Not on your knees.”
She couldn’t help the little surprise on her face. Aemond had never been this considerate, especially in bed. He could be gentle in his own way, subtly. Little hidden things in the way he would run his fingers through her hair once she had reached her peak, the way he would regain air once he’d spilled inside her, breathing into her neck and running his lips lazily against her skin. But most of the times, he was very diligent, all focused in giving her and himself the pleasure they both craved; he was somehow harsh, ruthless, a mirror of who he was outside the bedroom, possessed by some kind of urgency that would break her in the most beautiful and cruel way and put her back together at once.
But then again, she imagined the promise of his heir living inside her was affecting even one of the most ruthless of men.
She sat down again and watched him stand up, his breath labored and open-mouthed as he looked down at her, working the few laces of his breeches still tied. She didn’t need an invitation, an order, a mere tilt of his chin to sit upright and put her hands alongside his snatched waist.
She looked up, and he found himself swallowing hard, cursing silently at the sight of her looking straight into his eye with his cock a breath away from her, all hard and glistening on the tip. Shamefully, he thought that would have done it for him.
A coarse grunt left his lips as soon as she wrapped her mouth around it, teasingly swirling her tongue on the slit without ever averting her gaze from him. He hissed painfully when her lips started to travel along his length, trying with all his might to hold back and not spill into her mouth so soon.
She, on the other hand, seemed eager to watch him come undone, just as he had done to her a few moments earlier. She started to suck him eagerly, like a starved creature, because on all those nights and days when he had taken her apart, learning every inch of her and how to bend it to his will, she had done just the same.
She knew how to make him wince and moan openly, while on her knees on their bedroom floor or on a fucking terrace during a late afternoon, with likely anyone to walk on them at any moment. With the Gods watching.
She didn't care. The Gods didn't care for them anyway. Let them see to whom she fell to her knees.
He couldn’t stop looking, how pretty she was like this, swallowing him whole, up to the hilt, hitting her throat with a gagging sound. So lecherous, so holy.
He was so close he had to bite his lip to restrain himself, letting out a string of curses until he felt the pressure growing stronger, and then, he thought, he might as well have it his way.
“Stop…” he croaked, grabbing her cheek but delicately, slipping out of her mouth and running his thumb over her sore jaw. She closed her slicked mouth, a drop of spit running down her chin and she looked at him, with such devotion he thought he had nothing to envy the Gods.
“Let me…” he pleaded, wiping her chin clean with his finger. “Let me fuck your mouth, sweetling. Would you?”
A question that needed no answer. Indeed, he wasted no time and grabbed the back of her head, tilting it slightly up for a better angle. He sheathed himself all the way in, gasping deeply at feeling the hot walls of her mouth, her cheeks hollowing.
His fingers curled into her hair, but never in a hurtful way, enough to keep her still as he started to move his hips against her face back and forth, his open mouth quivering as the pleasure began to build where it left off.
“Fuck—” he cursed once, and then twice, fucking her mouth faster to chase his peak, pulling ever so slightly at her scalp until he went still altogether, pushed his waist hard against her, and grunted loudly, in a pretty uncharacteristic way, as his cock twitched and spilled down her throat until the last drop.
Panting harshly, he pulled himself out and watched her close her mouth, eyes fixed on him, working her cheeks and making no mystery of the white essence on her tongue before swallowing it, thoroughly.
Aemond let himself fall on that chaise and she watched, she drank that sight: his hair all disheveled and damp with sweat, a shade of pink on his cutting cheekbones as he slowly pulled himself together, breathing through his open mouth while buckling his belt and breeches.
“I think I’m going to take a bath.” She said at one point, clumsily standing up. He had mumbled something in return, still caught in the throes of what they had done, but before she got back inside, she turned and said “Oh, just so you know…all of this was a ploy.”
She smiled cunningly at his frowning. “I never had any cravings. And I knew about the White Cloak at the door since the first day you put him there. You are not as subtle as you think you are, my love.”
A man of few words, but loud actions.
Her pains came during a peaceful afternoon.
In haste, nursemaids began their frantic rounds in and out of the Princess’ rooms like soldiers, carrying hot water and boiled rags. The Dowager Queen abandoned her perch beside Queen Helaena, or what was left of her, and went to assist the Princess. Having borne four children, she had quite a bit of advice to dispense, things she had learned on her own skin, things that any Master would never have told her because oblivious and convinced they knew what happened to a woman's body at such a delicate time based on how deep they had buried their nose in an old dusty tome.
Alicent helped the Princess rise from the bed, clutched her arm firmly and helped her walk. She said it was vital to walk, that it would ease her pain and help the baby come sooner. She told her to squat when the pain hit. She rubbed her back and wiped the sweat off her face as if she were her own daughter. It felt like that. Even though the Princess seemed to face it all with a stiff lip, Alicent could see that she was scared and in terrible pain, that she probably wished for her mother to be there. She had wished the same, no matter how many times she had faced it.
“Your Grace?” The Princess asked after another wave of pain had come and gone.
“Yes, child?”
“Do you think your son would forgive me If I said this one is both the first and the last?”
The Queen had smiled at that. “If the Gods bless you with more children, it will be easier, I can assure you. The first time is always rough. But it shouldn’t be long now.”
Well, her good mother turned out to be wrong. Because the pain plagued her for a full night, giving her no peace. At the hour of the nightingale, the nursemaids forced her to bed, and she gladly went. She was exhausted, she could no longer walk without hissing at every step, and by that time she was so used to the pain she no longer whined or anything, only scrunched her face and ground her teeth.
The servants stripped her bare and replaced her sweat-soaked nightgown with a fresh one. They dabbed her face with a wet cloth, but she could barely register anything, floating into unconsciousness only to be brought back to the present as another pain choked her breath.
“Perhaps some Milk of the Poppy?” One of the nurses said at one point.
“No.” the Maester said. “She may need to start pushing any moment now. We need her vigil.”
Her heavy-lidded eyes opened, wandering helplessly around the room. Useless research, for she knew he wouldn’t be there. She didn’t expect him to be. The birthing bed was no place for men, save for the Maesters, although she was starting to doubt their real usefulness when all they could do was pull her nightgown up, take a close look and shake their heads. They might as well let Aemond be there.
She imagined he must’ve been waiting outside, or in the Council, and yet she ached to see him. She closed her eyes and searched for him in her mind, clutching the sheets in her fist as if she could clutch his hand instead. And then she felt someone’s hand closing around her own, loosening her grip. Alicent, smiling down at her, and holding her hand tight.
It was holding her good mother’s hand that, at the first light of dawn, she gave birth to her child. A boy, healthy and all screeching as soon as he was out of her womb, clad in blood and grease.
Aemond had decided to name the child Aenar, if it was a boy, after the first Targaryen Lord, and she couldn’t quite believe her eyes or force her tears back when he was finally admitted to their chambers and took their son in his arms for the first time.
Alicent was beaming at the sight, squeezing his arm. “Congratulations, my son.”
But Aemond didn’t seem to even register her mother’s words, or presence, utterly enraptured by his little creature. He cast a look at his wife, a secret little look that told her how proud he was of her, how relieving it was for both to have come this far after all that happened, to have this little thing, this little ounce of peace amidst all the chaos of war.
What she didn’t know at that time was that Aenar was not exactly a peaceful child.
She had believed there had finally come the time when she could be herself again. But from the earliest days, Aenar proved not to be an easy child to deal with. The newborn cried and cried for hours, plagued by belly aches, and seemingly able to calm down only when in his mother’s arms. They had obviously called on a wet nurse; highborn ladies did not feed their children themselves, let alone a Princess. But Aenar had categorically refused to latch onto his wet nurse’s breasts. Alicent had proposed to summon another one, but as they dawdled and wavered, the Princess felt her heart break into pieces each time she held her little baby in her arms, all red in the face, hungry and in pain, turning his head towards her cleavage, desperate for her milk. Thus, she had put aside ceremonial court and all of that and chose to feed him herself.
But it was a strenuous task. The Maesters had warned her it would be tiring, sleep depriving, but she really had no choice. She had to do it every three hours, sometimes less, because being latched onto her breast seemed the only thing that would prevent the baby from screaming at the top of his lungs all day long. The nursemaid had recommended fennel and chamomile for belly aches. And, instantly, Aemond had ordered an astounding amount of both to be delivered to the Red Keep’s kitchens.
Queen Alicent taught her to hold the baby on his stomach, to rock him, but not too fast. They told her to take several breaks during breastfeeding, to make the baby belch often and prevent air from his belly. In the first week after Aenar was born, her mind was all but a vessel of do this, do that. No, not this way. Don’t ever wake the baby when he’s sleeping. Try to sleep when he does. Don’t eat spicy dishes.
In the midst of all of this, Aemond turned more and more suffocating in all his well-hidden, self-consuming concern. A handful of white cloaks, the most trusted by Ser Criston, were constantly guarding the door, day and night. He had a secret passageway that led to his rooms walled up, and she could swear he slept with his dagger beneath the pillow. Evidently not at peace with such extreme measures, he had the cradle moved to his side of the bed, within his reach, so that every time she had to wake up because the baby was wailing, she had to walk around the bed and pray that she would not tumble to the floor in the dark.
However, she was at least grateful to have Aemond’s support, for the little he could do. If he wasn’t occupied with warfare or hearings, he spent all the time he had with her and their child. And in those moments, no matter how exhausted she was, she would always find the strength to smile at the view when he held their baby, tracing his long fingers over the velvety grizzled skin of Aenar’s small hands; even when he’d speak to him in Valyrian, at which she had frowned at first.
“You do realise he’s one week old?”
“”Tis never too soon.”
“Mh. What’s next? Bring him to the skies on dragonback?”
“I’ll have you know Vhagar is perfectly safe to—“
“Over my dead body.”
He had smiled and stood up, going to place the baby in her arms. Aenar immediately began to fuss, whining and turning his head against her chest. She had started to unbutton her chemise but then stopped, looking up, where Aemond stood still like a sentry, and watching.
She raised an eyebrow. “Am I putting up a show?”
“Usually, you do.” He drawled. “Am I not allowed to watch? It seems my son and I already share a few interests.”
She looked away, smiling, and then she freed her left breast, watching as the baby immediately latched onto it. A moment later, Aemond took her chin in his hand, forcing her to look at him. He stared at her, and she saw that familiar glint his eye.
He trailed his thumb over her lip, barely breaching inside. “Soon?” was all he asked.
“Soon.” Was all she answered.
The soreness and the bleeding were reducing, and she was back in her tight flesh.
But the Gods must have cursed them some more, because that “soon” never seemed to become “now”.
The sickness didn’t seem willing to leave the poor child alone, along with his parents and the entirety of the Red Keep who had to suffer through his heartbreaking cries day and night.
The Princess had started to feel hopeless and guilty, no matter how many times the nursemaids, and even Queen Alicent, told her it was not her fault, that it was natural. No matter how many times she tried to convince herself they were right. Her heart broke any time the baby cried, wriggling desperately in her arms, in Aemond’s, in the cradle. She would end up crying too as she tried to soothe him, caressing his back with her cheek resting on his timidly silver-haired head.
She was working herself up to exhaustion, often falling asleep with the baby still latched onto her breast. It was Aemond who would take the baby to the cradle, it was Aemond who would button her chemise and pull up the blankets.
She hit rock bottom two weeks after Aenar’s birth, when she realised she hadn’t bathed in four days. Even Aemond, she could swear, was starting to look a little ragged around the edges. You don’t want to be King and take decisions in the middle of a war only to come back to a screaming infant at night.
But then, like a curse lifting, the sickness stopped. Amidst all those days she had stopped counting or even being aware of which was which, Aenar stopped crying. She was ashamed to admit that the first night he slept peacefully in his cradle, she had gone to check on him five times, to see if he was still breathing.
She began to gradually return to her former self, able to enjoy motherhood with a more rested mind, at least. Physically, she still felt worn out, given how much time she spent breastfeeding or rocking the baby to sleep. But now she was strong enough to take the baby out, walking the gardens with her maids and smiling proudly as the court ladies stopped to congratulate themselves and say how beautiful her baby was.
By doing this, though, she also became aware that she had lived in a bubble for so long that she had almost forgotten there was a war raging, there were battles being fought across the realm.
Reality hits her one day when Alicent goes to visit her and her grandson, bringing the news of a very important victory near the Honeywine, a large river flowing in the Reach, thanks to Prince Daeron Targaryen who had arrived all victorious on that very morning, riding his blue scaled dragon, Tessarion.
The news stuns her for a moment. She had no idea of it, partly because she had been too caught up with Aenar, but also because Aemond had not told her. Yet her family came from the Reach, they lived there, not very far from the Honeywine; her older brother fought for the Green Army. Still, not a word from Aemond.
Taking advantage of Aenar sleeping and the fact that Alicent offered to watch him, she leaves her chambers and heads for the Council. There’s a bustle of lords coming out of the door when she gets there, barely paying her any attention as they hastily babble about armies and supplies and men; always more men to be sent to slaughter.
She stops at the door, widening her eyes at the silver head crossing the threshold, one she hadn’t seen in a long time. “Prince Daeron.”
The youngest son of Queen Alicent and late King Viserys was nothing but a boy. But war had taken its toll on him too. He stood like a man, a Prince, and more than anything, a skilled dragon rider.
“Princess.” He says, tilting his chin down.
She curtsies and sees an immediate gentle smile softening his Valyrian features. “I believe some congratulations are in order.”
“Well, in all fairness, you shall be the most celebrated, my Prince. I’ve just heard of your recent victory.”
His gentle smile lingers, but loses its sparkle. “I must say I much prefer to celebrate life…rather than…the death of innocent men and women.”
There can’t be objections to such a statement; she just nods and casts a distracted glance inside the Council.
“Please…” the Prince says then, making room to let her pass “I won’t keep you away from my brother.”
She turns her head and smiles, tightly. “I’m afraid it is your brother who keeps himself away from me.”
“Heavy is the head that wears the Crown.”
“Indeed.”
The Prince bows to her and leaves.
Closing the door behind her, she glances at Aemond sitting at the head of the table, in the King’s chair, with such effortlessness that he seems to have been born exclusively for that purpose.
“I thought I heard you.” he says absent-mindedly, scribbling down a small piece of parchment. She slowly walks to the windows, casting a single furtive glance down, but she can’t possibly make out what he’s writing, or to whom.
“How’s—"
“Aenar is fine.” She cuts him off. “He’s with your mother, sleeping.”
He stops scribbling, glancing up for a moment. Her voice is tight, cutting. He knows that tone. It’s the same one she used in Harrenhal, as if he should have fallen to his knees and be grateful for the mere fact that she was speaking to him. But he doesn’t have time today to circle around her like a coiling snake, so he goes straight to the point. “Is something the matter?”
“You didn’t tell me of the Honeywine.” She says after a moment, gazing at the Bay.
Aemond sighes, a sign that he was expecting such a question. “You were looking after our son.”
“And?” she’s quick to rebut, quick to reach him at the table and stare down at him. “You didn’t deem it appropriate to inform me of a battle raging in my family lands?”
“I am your family.” He says, stoically, as if common law, and she has to stifle a bitter laugh. The nerve of him. “That is a very lovely concept. Strange how it got lost on you in Harrenhal.”
“Enough!” he barks, and the sudden harshness makes the quill pierce through parchment. “I thought I’d made myself clear.” He warns. “I don’t want to hear another word about the witch. Ever.”
She obediently looks down, regretting having said that, but not entirely. Perhaps she has spent so much time beside him that she, too, can’t let go of her grudges.
“I did not tell you, for I did not want to upset you.” He says, resuming his collected tone. “You were worn out by the baby, I didn’t want to put more weight on your shoulders.”
She knows he’s sincere. Still, her nod is stiff as she looks away, biting her cheek. She is just so sick of it all. Of being regarded as a cunt to be bred at first and now a weakling nailed to a cradle with an infant sucking the life out of her. She knows she’s not the first, and she won’t be the last.
Aemond leaves the quill and stands up, circling until he’s close to her. “Your family is fine.” He tells her, lingering behind her. “Daeron spoke to your brother this morning.”
She keeps nodding, keeping her gaze down on the table, all scattered with maps and little dragon-shaped tokens, some black, some green. She frowns, letting warfare soothe her petty spirits. “What is this?”
“Our next move. A defense plan…which happens to be an attack plan too.”
“A pincher?”
She turns just in time to see the little surprise on his face. “My brother talked of nothing else when we were children. He slept with warfare books as pillows.”
“Hmm.” He muses, and takes a step closer, slipping his arm around her waist and resting his chin on her collarbone. “Show me.”
She shudders at his sudden proximity, at his breath blowing on her neck. She shudders at anything these days. A hand on her back, his legs fumbling beneath the covers and casually brushing against hers. She’s tight as a fiddle string.
“A pincher is nothing else but a decoy.” She explains. “You let your enemy believe they have you trapped…” and in saying this, she grabs his hand and moves it across the map. “And then…at the right moment…” she makes him hold a green token between his fingers and brings it near a little division of black ones “you strike on both flanks.” And with a swift flick of her wrist, his hand scatters all the black tokens across the table. To do so, she must lean over the table, accidentally brushing her lower back against his bulge. He’s not hard, yet, but it thrills her to feel the lightning quick effect she has on him.
“Hmm. Good. Very good.” He praises next to her ear as she withdraws her hand; his voice is so low it makes her spine shiver. But she keeps herself grounded and asks “When will this happen?”
“Soon.” he whispers, placing his hand flat on her stomach. “There’s another Small Council shortly but Aegon wanted to be present. They went to fetch him.”
“Well, then I shall retire to my chambers. I feel a bit lightheaded from all the thinking.”
He ignores her jab and keeps her still by the arm when she tries to move. There’s a little sly smirk pulling at his lips. “I have some time to spare.”
“And how do you propose we spend it?”
“Enough with your pantomimes. I can feel your legs squirming.”
Curse him.
He slips the other hand straight into her corset, cupping her breast and humming with delight at how full she is, how it fills his large hand entirely. “Are you wet for me, my love?”
His teeth sink down her lobe, and at the same time, he pinches her nipple between his thumb and index, forcing an indecorous whine out of her. “My, my…” he laughs darkly, torturing her sensitive skin until he feels something wet on his fingertips, probably milk. “I could make you come just by doing this.”
Powerless, she yields, leaning completely against him, rubbing her lower back for some friction. “What if someone enters?”
“We’ll make it quick.”
“But I don’t want it to be quick.” She pants, grabbing his hand on her breast and squeezing; the other crawls behind her back to try to feel him through his breeches.
Hissing, when she starts to palm him, he says “Then we let them watch. They get to see how pretty you look when you come on my fingers, or my cock. Which should it be?”
“Both. Anything.” She answers hastily, pulling at his collar to bring him close enough to kiss him. He hums contentedly when she does, twirling his tongue around hers. It soon gets messy, each of them fighting for dominance, winning and losing in turn, until he spins her around, so he can look at her and with both his hands, he seizes her gowns and pulls up, furiously rummaging through them.
“How many fucking layers have you on?”
“I’m not pregnant anymore.” she points out, unbuckling his belt.
“Pity. Perhaps I should fuck another one into you to keep you in your skimpy robes.”
“Don’t you dare, Aemond—”
“Gods be good, brother! That eager to make another one?”
They both startle like little children caught doing something naughty, turning their heads towards the door, where two servants are carrying King Aegon on a chair. Aemond sighs annoyingly, letting go of her gowns as she does with his belt, trying to compose herself.
“My King.” She says, greeting her good brother with a tight little smile.
Aegon’s appearance has improved since Rook’s Rest, just as the burnings, but he carries with him the smell of Milk of the Poppy and rotting skin everywhere he goes.
“Good-sister. What are you doing here? Apart from being ravished by my brother... should you not be breastfeeding?”
Aemond gives him a level stare and then looks at her, hoping she will not take the bait. Aegon and his wife never got along well, to say the least. Things had only escalated with time, to the point that whenever they found themselves in the same room, one of them would wisely leave, his wife most of the times, lest they start to hiss at each other like two cats fighting for territory.
“What if I intend to stay and attend the council?”
Aegon giggles, as the servants put down the chair, and after a quick glance below her neck he says “I’m afraid you would be a little distracting. And my brother is not one for sharing.”
Before she can ask what in the Seven he is blabbing about, Aemond takes her arm and makes her turn, shielding her from his brother and the Lords coming through the door.
“You should retire.” He curtly says.
“Are you taking his side again?” she asks, wriggling her arm to free herself from his hold.
“You’re leaking.” He informs her, flatly.
At that, she frowns and dips her chin down, watching the front of her dress practically soaked in milk. “Oh.”
“I shall join you when I’m done here.” He tells her, and lets her out through the side doors.
Aemond did not join her.
The council lasted until the evening, a recurring thing when Aegon attended. Aemond was stern and concise in his decisions. Aegon liked to laze around, enjoying the wine in his cup, rattling his younger brother’s nerves. Deep down, she was convinced that Aegon did not really want to attend the Council because really interested in what to do, but only to remind his brother that he was still breathing and that the Conqueror's Crown on Aemond's head was a temporary measure.
But it didn’t matter. She would join him for the banquet in honor of Prince Daeron.
She was thrilled to go. It was not a proper feast. Since Helaena had fallen into grief, the atmosphere within the walls of the Keep had become rather austere. But a banquet still meant an occasion for conviviality, and after weeks and weeks spent locked up within four walls, the Princess was eager to spend some time outside her chambers. She had felt like a terrible mother at the mere thought. She loved Aenar, how could she not? But she also loved herself, her family, her marriage, Aemond. Especially Aemond.
Once she had put the baby to sleep, she had ordered her maid to prepare one of her favorite dresses, a green one, and to tie her hair in an elegant braided bun. When she had looked in the mirror, she had almost grunted. The scarce and troubled hours of sleep were all evident in the dark circles under her eyes, but it was nothing a little egg-white couldn't temper.
When she arrived at the banquet, Aemond was already there, standing in his usual soldierly stance, intent on talking to his mother. She approached them from the side, Aemond's blind side precisely, so that when she announced herself, he had to turn his shoulder to look at her. He cast a glance at her hair, ran his eye over her entire figure. She wasn’t expecting any kind of sappy words, and certainly not in front of his mother, nor did she desire them. She could feast on that look alone.
Queen Alicent excused herself to give order about the banquet, and they were left alone, while some musicians gathered in a corner of the hall.
“You said you would join me. I thought they abducted you.”
“More or less.”
“Ah. Yes, I'm sure it must have been so hard for you to listen to the lords snapping like little soldiers at your command.”
“It pains me to acknowledge how little you know me, when you think I'd rather talk war with those wimps who can't even hold a sword than fuck my wife till dawn.”
“That was your plan?”
“We have some unfinished business, don’t we? And don’t play dumb. You’re wearing green. You’re not as subtle as you think you are either.”
“Good. I’m sick of subtleties. So, are you going to ask me to dance?”
Aemond rolled his eye and gave her a stare that told her he’d preferred to walk barefoot on lava.
“Still not fond of dancing, eh?”
Prince Daeron suddenly appeared between them, with his cheerful manner and his head of silver curls, dressed in dark green just like his older brother. “Strange. You were the only one listening to the lessons when we were children.”
“Yes, because you and Aegon acted as court jesters the whole time.”
“I’ll have you know, brother, I have refined my dancing skills in Oldtown. So…may I dance with my good sister?”
Aemond gave him a simple nod, and Daeron bowed to her gallantly, raising his palm up.
She kindly accepted the invitation and placed her hand on his. “Don’t sulk too much.” She whispered to her husband before following his brother.
Aemond watched closely as they started to dance, stealing all the attention, and despite that little primitive tug at the sight of his woman dancing with another man, even though that was his brother and there was absolutely nothing malicious in his or her intentions, he was glad to see her like this, spinning and twisting around instead of lying still in the cold with dread eating her alive.
When the dance ended, Daeron escorted the Princess back to Aemond and took his leave. “Remind me again,” she asked as she watched the young Prince leave “How is it that your brother is still unmarried?”
Aemond sighed deeply and took her arm to escort her to the table. “I’d give you one week before you’d get bored of him.”
While they waited for dinner, the lords and ladies of the court were obviously very eager to hear Prince Daeron. Alicent in the first place, after so much despair, and after being separated from her youngest son for years, seemed to smile with her eyes every time she heard him speak.
“Hear, hear!” one of the lords cheered after listening to Prince Daeron’s retelling of the Battle of the Honeywine. “A brave soldier and a brave dragon rider! I propose a toast.”
At once, everybody stood up, raising their glasses. “To Prince Daeron, to House Targaryen!”
“And to House Hightower.” The Prince proudly stated, raising his glass towards his mother.
As they sat back, the Queen ordered the servants to serve the dinner. The table was gradually filled with a great variety of dishes, many of them Prince Daeron's favourites, specifically ordered by his mother to make him feel at home. It had been weeks and weeks since such a banquet had been seen at King's Landing. Prince Daeron seemed very pleased and grateful, as did all those present who watched the rich dishes crowd the table, and lastly, the huge tray of fresh fruit that a servant laid in the middle.
“I can’t quite believe my eyes. Blackberries? This far in the season?” said Lady Bracken.
“I’m afraid that is entirely my fault.” The Princess chirped, catching Aemond’s attention from across the table.
“I had a sudden craving, while I was carrying Aenar.”
“I had one too with my first.” Lady Redwyne joined in. “Plums, specifically.”
“Did you find them agreeable, Princess?”
“Oh, very much indeed.” She stated, casting an innocent glance around, but lingering for just a moment longer on her husband. “I devoured so many…I still feel the taste on my tongue.”
Devious woman, he thought, fighting back his cursed smirk. He had half a mind to excuse themselves and retire to their chambers, if he managed to endure it all the way and not take her in the middle of a hallway.
She seemed able to read his mind, judging by the way she was looking at him, unfurling a napkin on her lap. He knew her well enough to foresee when she was in a teasing spirit, and he was all in for it.
But then, just when they were about to start eating, her trusted maid came in, going straight to the Princess. “Apologies your Grace.” she said to her ear “but the Princeling is awake.”
Aemond saw the concern instantly widening her eyes and then a shadow passing over her face. “Yes…” she said, and stood up talking to all the present. “My apologies. I must retire.”
“See?” said Lady Bracken as Aemond watched his wife leave the hall. “This is why I refused to breastfeed. No matter how my second would scream…”
By the time she had done breastfeeding, her chest hurt so much that the maid had to place some rags soaked in cold water directly on her nipples; the instant relief had made the Princess close her eyes and almost moan. She had planned to go back to the banquet as soon as Aenar had had his fill but as she gained relief by pressing those wet rags to her breasts, she realised her son wouldn’t let her get away that easily.
As soon as the maid had taken him, trying to put him to sleep, he had begun to fuss and wriggle, whining in what she knew would soon turn into a high-pitched, deaf inducing crying.
Perhaps he’s cursed too. She had thought exhaustingly, promptly kissing his silver little head.
She gave up on her plan to go back to the banquet and rocked the baby herself, pacing before the windows while whispering sweet soothing words.
As soon as he had dozed off, she put him in his crib and absent-mindedly grabbed a book from Aemond's desk, lazily leafing through it while rocking the cradle with the other hand.
Aemond finds her like this when he opens the door on his way back from the banquet. She looks up from the page and sees him striding purposefully towards her, snatching the little book in her hands and throwing it on the bed.
She’s shocked, to say the least. One might say he treats books far better than his subjects.
“What—“ she tries to say but he takes her hand and pulls, forcing her to stand up and follow his steady gait.
“Aemond?” she asks down the corridor, a girlish grin climbing on her lips. “Where are you taking me?”
He doesn’t bother to answer but she doesn’t have to wait long to find out. They stop before a door down the corridor opposite to their chambers, Aemond pushes her inside without so much grace and shuts the door behind them.
She looks around briefly; the room is warm, the fire in the hearth is lit, as the candles scattered all around. This is all familiar. “These are my old chambers…” she says with a little frown, turning to him.
“Quite the observer, wife.” He drawls, and takes a few steps. His stride is different now. Slow, contemplating, as his gaze raking over her, as if he in the first place doesn’t know why he brought her here and he’s assessing what to do. A war map, and he knows where all the faults lie.
“I thought we could spend some time together” he starts, walking past her to go sit near the fire “Alone.” he adds once he leisurely sits down, crossing his long legs and resting his hands on the armrests. “What better place than a vacant room? No one will come looking for us here.”
She tries as hard as she can to stop the little smirk at the corner of her lips; she walks closer, stopping right in front of him, staring down. “They might hear.”
“Hmm. And that is much of a trouble for you, isn’t it?” he asks with the most fake genuine tone, taking a cup from the nearby table, and then “You sucked my cock on a terrace and begged me to fuck you in the Small Council…I thought I told you to quit your act.”
She smiles openly now, watching the wine pouring in the cup, his eye fixed on the liquid as his eyebrow shots up. “Besides, I know exactly what to do to muffle your noises.”
“You should be proud of my noises.”
“I am.” He says, taking a sip of wine, his eye piercing through her above the cup’s brim. “But for once, Aegon is right. I’m not one for sharing.”
His arm moves to put the wine aside but she takes it, only to feel his hand pulling the cup away from her. “You cannot drink.”
“Fine.” She concedes, leaning on him. “I’ll have it my way.”
She holds his face and with her left hand she glides her fingers on the left side of his face, delicately but with purpose, pushing the eyepatch off. And then she kisses him, eagerly, licking his lips and then breaching inside to taste the wine on his tongue, on the roof of his mouth.
She sighs deeply when he locks his tongue with hers, and feels his lips curling.
“Did you hear it?” He says breaking the kiss, breathing into her mouth. “That one is my favorite.”
“Your favorite what?” She asks mindlessly, chasing his lips but to no use, because he tilts his head back, his cursed smirk ghosting.
“Noise. It’s a little thing…” he tells her, locking one hand around her neck “in the back of your throat, close to a sigh but not quite…” his fingers trails against her throat, chasing her swallowing “It tells me you’re dying to.”
“To do what?”
“Fall on your knees for me. Be a supplicant.”
She grabs the back of his neck, driving his head close and looks down at his arched mouth “You cannot live without God, can you?” She looks up, her mouth open to breathe “Seven of them seem to have cursed me. I had to find my own.”
His eye widens at that. He looks straight into her eyes, so devoted, so raw. She’s right. The Gods would curse her some more if they saw she looks at him the way she should look at the Gods.
“Then do it.”
“What?”
“Flatteries don’t work on me, sweetling. You should know that.” With his hand on her neck, he slightly pushes her away, making some distance between them. “You will have to show me.”
“What would you have me do?”
His hands let go of her completely, resting on the armchair. The gemstone glints blue, and yet it’s nowhere near the bright cursed thing in his eye. “Get on your knees for me. Now.”
She should be ashamed of the pull in her bones, the muscles willing to move on their own accord and fall to the ground. But why, why does it have to be sin? Why can it not be religion?
When her knees hit the ground, she sees his chest rise, his long fingers spreading flat on the armchair. But her eyes fly back to his face as soon as he speaks, as soon as he commands. “Take off your dress.”
His eye sinks down, watching her hands work the corset, steadily. It’s the only sound in the room, this tugging, at the dress. But she tugs at his cock too. She tugs between her own legs.
When the dress is nothing but a pool of green on the ground, she goes to pull down her white chemise, but she suddenly stops. Aemond uncrosses his legs and the air hitches in her throat as his hands go straight to his belt, unbuckling it.
He revels in the little lump in her throat. Perhaps later he will let her have what she’s craving, but not so soon. “Give me your wrists.”
“My—”
“Don’t make me say it again.”
Swallowing, she keeps her eyes on him and raises her hands, like an offering. Aemond takes off his belt and leans forward, enough to take her hands and cross her wrists. She shudders at the sharp tug when he wraps the leather around, tying them tight.
“On your feet.”
And up she goes, testing her hands briefly but finding soon that she cannot move them, at all.
“Come.”
It takes one swift movement of his leg, bending the knee while the other rests loosely on the ground, for her to get the gist and walk closer, sitting on his knee, sideways.
“No. Like this.” Quite harshly, he grabs her hips and turns her so that she’s straddling his thigh. He can hear her little gasp when he pushes his thigh firmly against her core. He can feel her warmth through the fabric, stirring his cock. But he pays it no mind, for now.
“What now?” She asks, poised precariously on his thigh.
Aemond tilts his head, and he just looks at her. In the spur of a moment, a boyish one that doesn’t sit well with how he’s built, he thinks he might be quite contented by merely looking at her. Because she’s beautiful and mine, mine, mine.
But his hands are burning, they might fray and wither if he doesn’t touch her. He unties her hair, running his fingers through them as they fall around her shoulders. The Maiden. The Mother. And yet something better, something worse. Because her eyes are hungry, her mouth is starving for air, for his flesh.
“You must toil to find God.” He says, and then he grins. A savage thing, full of promise. “Bring yourself to come.”
A flash of thrill lights up her face, darkens her eyes and Aemond tilts his head again, biding all the time in the world, for he knows she will.
Tentatively, she pushes her body down, against his thigh, feeling a timid shot of pleasure traveling up from her core, ending in a short, labored breath.
That noise, that might be his second favorite.
Soon, her hips start to move back and forth, each time trying to push herself down as hard as she can, making little breathless cries each time she fails to give herself the friction she needs. She has little balance due to her tied wrists, so she rests her palms on his chest to gain some leverage. And that seems to do the trick.
She tilts her head back, moving faster, doing little jumps on his thigh, panting harshly as sweat lumps on her forehead and pleasure coils in her belly.
Aemond hikes up her chemise, watches her cunt brushing back and forth against his leg, leaving a trail of wetness on the fabric of his breeches. He has to choke down a growl. “Gods, you’re soaking me…”
She looks down at him, her cheeks pink, her lips open in a little o. He can’t help himself. He sticks two fingers inside and how relishing it is that she waits for no invitation or order. She laps, twirls her tongue around his fingertips, sucks them.
“Look at you…” he croons, taking his fingers out, leaving a trail of saliva down her chin. “But you can’t, can you? Perhaps I should fuck you before a mirror, so you see. You see how pretty you are when you’re desperate for me.”
His hand travels down her neck, tossing her hair back and then grasping the strap of her chemise, pulling it down, revealing her swollen, turgid breast. He leans forward immediately, cupping it in his hand, and takes the nipple into his mouth, crooning contentedly and then some more when he feels her wince and cry out loud.
Her tied wrists writhe in their merciless hold and he stops her, gripping both her hands with one of his own, keeping her still, lapping and sucking at her nipple until he feels something wet and saccharine on his tongue, humming all the better. He grazes his teeth over the sensitive bud, and she cries out again, bucking violently against him, turning sloppy and frenzy as she feels the fall close.
He feels it too, feels her thighs trembling around him, and that’s when he takes her hips in a tight hold and forces her to stop altogether.
“Did you think I would make it so easy?” he asks spitefully, seeing her dazed expression. Wasting no time, he holds her firmly close to him and stands up. It takes him only two of his long steps to reach the bed and place her above. In a moment of illusive freedom, her tied wrists fly to his breeches, to his evident hardness, but he’s quick to stop her, bringing her arms above her head, keeping them there with a firm hold. “Stay still.”
“Aemond—“ she pleads.
“Hush. Spread your legs.”
She obliges, eager for him to do something, anything to stop the aching. Aemond wets his fingers on his tongue and brings them down, breaching inside her with two of them, watching her gasp, arch her back and twist her wrists in his hold, uselessly. “Easy…” he cruelly laughs “I have just started.”
But she hasn’t. She’s a few steps away from the precipice of her previous denied peak, it would take him so little to push her over the edge. Instead, his torture is so slow that the whole coiling in her belly falls apart and she must climb her peak again.
His two fingers slip in and out ever so easily, their wet sounds echoing through the room, mixed with her panted breaths and his own. He aches for her to touch him, he aches so much that his cock is pulsing, painfully, but this is just too thrilling. Now he knows exactly how she felt in Harrenhal, when she had him chained up to a chaise.
Her hips rock frantically against his hand, trying to speed him, to get there faster. Mumbling nonsense, her legs tense like iron, her cunt clenches and sucks his fingers in like a vice. “Yes…yes, please…Aemond…please don’t stop—‘m so close…”
And just like that, he slips his fingers out; a dark pleasure dances on his candle-lit features as she writhes and whines for the loss of his fingers, swinging her lower back and forth, desperate for the barest friction that would end her misery.
“Aemond, please…” she says, and even with only one eye, he can’t mistake the tears of frustration at the corners of her eyes.
“What, my love?”
“Plea—” she’s cut off by his hand, pushing his sticky fingers inside to make her clean up her mess.
“We said enough with subtleties, did we not? Speak. Tell me…what you need me to do?”
“Let me come please…please…”
At that, he finally lets her wrists go, and she almost winces in pain, for the time she had them tensed above her head. He stalls for a moment, unsure, running his eye over her whole body, sweating and feverish, and so beautifully plump because of motherhood. He unbuttons his doublet, and then his shirt, his breeches. He bares himself completely, catching her eyes following his deft hands everywhere, breathing heavily.
He kneels between her legs, spreading them. And it’s embarrassing, really, the way she tumbles as soon as he puts his tongue flat against her drenched folds. If only she cared.
It takes only a couple of twirls of his tongue around her lips, and she comes undone, shaking all over, canting her slit against his face. He helps her ride out her climax, by not stopping at all. Instead, he doubles his efforts like a man possessed, pushing his mouth open against her cunt as if he wished to devour it, sucking harshly until she whimpers hard, choking on a loud sob. “Aemond—wait—I can’t—”
She cannot take more so soon. But he’s utterly deaf to her complaints.
He feasts on her, lapping and dipping his tongue in, parting her folds to go as deep as he can, humming while drinking all of her; his voice reverberates through her flesh, it makes her bones rattle.
His long nose rubs against her bud and he looks up: she trashes about the sheets, cutting herself as the belt leather scratches her skin. She tries to push him away with her tied wrists, to no use. She clamps her legs around his head, in a desperate attempt to chase him away, sobbing for the unbearable stimulation. And yet…and yet her hips move on their own whim, bucking with sharp jolts until the wave starts to rise, higher and higher, and she drowns in it, letting go a high-pitched cry, clutching his scalp with both her tied hands, scraping, pushing him against her as she rides her peak against his face.
He swallows everything, licking her clean, moaning softly at feeling her pulsing on his tongue.
“Enough…I—Aemond you have to stop…” she rasps breathlessly.
“Why?” he asks, finally rising from where he had perched himself; he climbs on her, until he speaks to her face. “I am only making up to you. Wasn’t that what you wanted?”
She can smell herself on him, she can see herself, glistening on his mouth, chin, even his cheekbones.
“Answer me.” His hand grips her jaw “You said you wanted everything.”
She chokes down a whimper when he leans completely on her, feeling his cock against her cooling flesh, while he’s hot and hard and heavy.
“I will give you more.” He says, brushing a strand of her sweat-soaked hair from her temple. “I will give you another child. Keep you all aching and wet for me while you swell with my child. Do you think I don’t know? How you ached for me? D’you think I didn’t?” he presses himself down, so she can feel it thoroughly, furrowing her brow as her body already answers to his call.
“I can feel you in our bed…” he keeps rasping “rubbing your legs together. And you know how much that bothers me. Your pleasure is mine to take…and to give.”
Her lips part, gasping roughly. She was so hung on his lips that she hadn’t even registered that he had taken hold of himself, bending her knee on his left hip, and guided himself in.
She arches against him while he slowly sheathes himself all the way in, moaning with long-awaited relief. He stays still for a moment, adjusting, but also because he takes her wrists and sets her hands free.
Thrilling as it was, he wants her hands on him, he craves her touch.
He wants her to cling to his shoulders as she always does, digging her nails down.
He wants her to clamp her fingers on the back of his neck, scraping and pulling his hair to keep him close enough to moan into his mouth.
He wants her hands on his back, sliding down, to push him even deeper while rutting inside her.
