#aemond hotd

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

Unabashed

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

@buckybarnesb-tch @castellomargot @eddieslut69 @emmaisafictionwhore @eponaartemisa

@hb8301 @jamespotterismydaddy @justbelljust @minholy223 @mochi-rose

@natty2017 @nenelysian @nixiefics @primonizzutto @qyburnsghost

[phantasyfictionist]

The Witch

Aemond Targaryen x Female Witch Oneshot

Prince Regent Aemond Targaryen is injured at Harrenhal and wakes in an unfamiliar bed. The beautiful yet strange woman who has been tending him claims to be a witch. What happens makes him question what is real and what isn’t.

Word Count 3127

Warnings: MDNI 18+; Smut; Mutual Masturbation; Edging; P in V sex; Dragonriding; Female takes the lead and makes Aemond whimper and beg; No name or description of female.

Not beta read. Any mistakes are mine.

Prince Aemond Targaryen wakes with a start, confusion and a flicker of fear clouding his thoughts as he finds himself lying naked in a bed that is not his own, in a room far removed from the familiar confines of the Red Keep. For a moment, he feels the rare vulnerability of being unarmed and exposed, his usual certainty stripped away.

The smell of damp stone fills his nostrils, while the slow, irregular drips of water echo off the unseen floor. When he tries to raise himself, a sharp pain lances through his lower back, forcing him still. His hand trembles as it finds rough cloth wrapped tightly around his trim waist.

The prince claws at his memories, desperate to recall how he came to be here, but his mind offers only fog and silence.

Wanting his clothes and sword, he is about to rise again when shadows move in the hall beneath the heavy chamber door. The door opens slowly, and by the light of a single flickering candle, Aemond makes out a woman entering the room.

Recognition flashes through him. He recalls seeing her as he collapsed to the floor.

He watches silently as the woman, clad in a long white nightdress and barefoot, slips into the room and shuts the door behind her.

“Where am I? Who are you?” He demands.

She tilts her head. “Don’t you remember, my prince?”

“This is Harrenhal.”

His brow furrows as he fights to recall. He and Vhagar easily dispatched the guards. He killed the Strongs. Then he saw a woman standing there, watching him. Then weakness, blood, falling to the floor, and pleading for her help. He hums in frustration when he cannot recall any more.

He watches the woman set the candle holder on a table by the door and walk toward his bedside.

“Who are you?”

“Didn’t your uncle tell you?” She smiles as she poses her question.

“Tell me who you are,” he commands, confusion and growing impatience evident in his voice as he manages to sit up slightly, wincing in pain. He cannot quell the frustration that swells within him, driven by a need to regain control of this unfamiliar situation.

“I’m a witch,” she replies airily, unfazed by his annoyance.

“Speak plainly, woman, and tell me your name,” Aemond demands, his anger rising. He will not be left guessing.

With a humorous lilt in her voice, she says, “I’m no woman at all. I’m a barn owl cursed to live in human form.”

“You’ll learn my name in time,” she tells him as she stands beside the bed. “But we have no need tonight.”

She places her knee on the bed, looming above him, and peels the blanket away. Her fingers trace the bandage at his waist—gentle, assured, claiming. The heat of her skin sparks along his side, and he holds his breath, nerves raw, utterly captive to her touch.

“What do you think you’re doing?” He demands, now annoyed with her silly talk and impertinence.

“I’m checking to make sure you haven’t opened your wound with your fussing,” she replies, her tone calm and practical.

“Stop that,” Aemond orders. “Go and fetch the maester to tend me.”

The strange woman chuckles. “There is no maester here,” she informs him. “Who do you think has been tending to you?”

“I cleaned and dressed your wound,” she continues. “I’ve spoon-fed broth into your mouth, bathed you, and changed your sheets these past days.”

There is no anger or annoyance in her voice; she is simply stating a fact, and Aemond feels somewhat sheepish for his sternness.

Finished checking his bandages, she sits on the bed beside him. She examines his face for a moment before placing her palm on his forehead.

“Good, you have no fever,” she remarks.

She leans forward, inching closer to his face, the air thick with a longing he cannot name. The weak candlelight barely touches her features, illuminating the haunting depths of her gaze. Her eyes glint, sharp and unblinking, impossible to read, and yet they seem to strip him bare, seeing him in ways no one ever has. He cannot guess her age. Her breath is warm against his cheek, and he is suddenly aware of the wild, uncertain tension that crackles in the space between them.

Her gaze pierces him as if she sees not only his face but every secret he thought was safely hidden. Beneath her stare, he feels a chill crawl along his spine, as if his entire being has been laid bare before her silent judgment.

“You should never wear an eyepatch,” she says, gazing down at him. “Your sapphire eye is too pretty to hide.”

Aemond lies still under her stare as she brushes loose blond hair from his forehead. He offers no complaint as her fingertips graze his skin, tracing his jawline, then the scar on his cheek. Each touch lingers, and he wonders if she can sense the way his pulse quickens beneath her fingers.

He cannot help but press his face into her palm when she cups his cheek.

What little he can make out of her in the darkness seems beautiful to him. His eye lingers on the softness of her lips, and he wonders what it would be like to kiss her.

As if she read his mind, the mystery woman closes the distance, her gaze locking with his for a heartbeat longer, just enough to make his anticipation almost unbearable. She finally presses her lips to his in the lightest of kisses. He closes his eyes and delights in the suppleness of her lips as she glides across his regal features, barely grazing his warm skin.

His cheek still rests in her palm when she finds his scar in the dimly lit chamber, and he can’t hold back a sigh as her lips brush his old wound. The pain from the wound in his back absent with her touch.

When she rests her forehead against his, his trembling hand grasps her wrist, fearing she will pull away or, worse, leave him.

For a breathless moment, he allows himself to whisper, "Don’t go." The words surprise even him, but she only smiles, her eyes softening.

A low, soft laugh vibrates against his skin before she kisses his forehead like his mother would. Now cradling his face in both hands, she softly caresses his face with her thumbs.

“You’re safe here,” she tells him, her voice pleasing to his ear. “I will not leave you unless you tell me to go.”

A barely murmured “Stay” falls from his lips without thought, laden with a rawness he cannot hide.

Aemond feels her lips on his again, and what begins as gentle gradually deepens with growing hunger. He’s enthralled by her shift from motherly to a lover’s kiss. His cock twitches with a growing ache for this strange woman who annoyed him only moments before.

As their tongues dance and delve, her hand slides down to his bare chest and over the finely muscled planes of his torso.

His arm glides around her waist, determined to pull her closer, needing to hold her to him. He grabs hold of the rougher fabric of a lowborn woman’s nightdress, trying to reclaim some measure of dominance, but she is quicker. With effortless confidence, she twists free, reminding him who is truly in control tonight.

His mystery woman tugs her wrist from his grasp as her mouth glides down his neck, leaving a trail of wet kisses along the way. Her hair tickles his skin as her mouth finds his breast, her tongue swirling around his pebbled skin.

Aemond can’t suppress a sharp intake of breath as she palms his growing bulge beneath the blanket covering his lower body. He thinks he sees a smile spread across her face as she flings back the covers, then spits into the palm of her hand and takes his soft shaft in her gentle grip.

A low whimper escapes him as she begins to work her hand up and down the growing length of his cock.

She sits on her heels beside him on the bed with her nightdress bunched up near her waist.

“Give me your hand,” she tells him.

He complies, willing to do anything she tells him so long as she does not remove her hand from his hardening shaft.

She guides his calloused hand, worn from years of sword practice and gripping Vhagar’s reins, beneath her nightdress and between her spread thighs as she kneels beside him. Soon, his fingers find the warm, wet place between her legs. She grinds her hips on his hand, stimulating herself as she strokes his manhood.

“You have such a lovely cock, my prince,” she tells him as she leisurely rubs her thumb over the leaking tip of his fully hardened shaft.    

She gives a low, throaty laugh as Aemond begins to thrust his hips upward, desperate to chase the pleasure she so expertly doles out and denies. She pins him with a knowing, almost wicked smile, her eyes glinting with amusement.

“Tsk, tsk.” Her voice is velvet and steel, the soft admonishment sending a shiver through him. She slows her hand, letting his need crest and fall, reminding him that it is she who decides the rhythm, the reward.

“Not yet.”

Aemond’s groan is pure frustration, raw and needy. When she removes her hand from his cock, the loss is almost unbearable—a sharp ache of yearning that leaves him trembling.

She leans down, claiming his mouth in a kiss that is all hunger and domination, her lips devouring his, her tongue tangling with his own. He arches up, straining to reciprocate, but she keeps control easily, grinding her hips against his hand, letting him feel the heat of her arousal, without giving him what he wants.

She pulls back just enough to let their breaths mingle, her eyes locked on his. “Do you wish me to continue?” she teases, the question rhetorical. Her power over him is absolute, and they both know it.

“Please, yes,” he murmurs, his voice stripped of all princely command, reduced to pleading. “Do not stop.”

The witch rewards him with a slow, deliberate movement, lifting herself and swinging a leg over his pelvis. She settles her wet heat over his engorged shaft, but instead of granting him entry, she torments him with slow, slick strokes, sliding his cock through her folds, coating him, but never taking him in. Each pass is a promise and a denial, feeding the ache that grows inside him.

Aemond breathes in sharply, his body rigid with anticipation. The heat of her, the torturous slowness of her movements, drives him to the edge of madness. He clutches the sheet, every muscle taut, his need mounting with every teasing grind of her hips.

“I saw you in the flames,” she murmurs to him. “I saw you come to Harrenhal long before you flew here on your dragon.”

He barely hears her, so intent on chasing his release.

Her nightdress is bunched around her hips, spilling over the place where their bodies almost, but do not truly, join. She plants her hands on either side of his torso, pinning him beneath her, moving with infuriating patience, drawing out his need until it is almost agony.

He tries to slide his hand under her nightdress, wanting to seize her hips and force her to give him what he craves, wanting her to move faster. But she catches his wrists, her grip iron and inescapable, and pins them on either side of his head. Her face hovers over his, eyes bright and unreadable.

“Not yet,” she chides him, the way a mother would a child. She stills her hips, letting him feel her heat, her weight, her unwavering control. His pulse hammers in his throat; the loss of agency is dizzying and more arousing than he could have imagined.

He whimpers, the sound shameful and unguarded, pride dissolving beneath the relentless tide of want. The loss of control terrifies him, and yet, he cannot help but crave it, cannot help but crave her.

She leans down, her mouth finding his chest, kissing and licking the sweat-slick skin. Her teeth graze his pebbled flesh, making him gasp.

“Please,” he begs, his whiny voice desperate. “Please, let me touch you.”

She ignores his plea at first, continuing to mark his skin with her mouth, staking her claim. When she finally sits up, her weight settling atop his cock, he groans, every nerve in his body straining for more.

With deliberate slowness, she gathers her nightdress in her hands, lifting it over her head and baring herself to him. The garment falls away, and for a moment, she sits astride him, regal and commanding in the candlelight.

“Since you’re being so good for me,” she says, the threat of denial still in her tone, “you can touch me.”

His hands, released from her grip, find their way to her thighs, trembling with anticipation. He moves them reverently to her waist, then up her torso to her breasts, cupping and caressing, desperate to please her, desperate for more.

She resumes her slow, sensual movements, guiding his hands where she wants them, keeping the pace excruciatingly slow, making him yield to her every whim. He rolls her pebbled peaks between his fingers, drawing a shiver and a satisfied moan from her.

"Umm, I like that," she whispers, rewarding his obedience with a brief quickening of her hips, but just as swiftly returning to her torturous rhythm—reminding him, again, who truly commands this night.      

Ameond feels his release building, and he tries to grasp her hips to increase her pace.  But his attempts are only rewarded with the stilling of her hips and a wicked laugh.

“No, I'm not ready yet,” she tells him. “You have to wait for me.”

He whimpers again, biting his lip to keep from begging her.

She leans down over him, her tits dangling over his mouth. He greedily captures a firm peak with his lips and begins to suckle like a child, lost in the need to please her.

Pride surges through him as she moans with pleasure.

He lavishes his attention on one breast, then the other, lips and tongue working to please her. His need to please her nearly rivals the ache building inside him.

“Do you want me to fuck you?”

“Yes, do it,” he begs. “Please…”

The witch lifts herself up enough to guide the tip of his engorged shaft to her entrance.

Aemond shamelessly whimpers as her wet heat envelops his cock.

She sinks down on his length with agonizing slowness until their bodies are truly joined.

She grabs hold of Aemond’s wrist and guides it back between her legs until his fingers are on her stimulated pearl.

“Rub here while I ride your cock,” she instructs him.

She rides him with wild abandon at last, granting him the pace he’s craved.

One hand grips her hip, his fingers digging into her flesh while he continues to work between her legs.

The sounds of their fucking fill the room's dark void, drowning out the drips of water from the leaking ceiling.

Now she welcomes each thrust of his hips as she rides her dragon prince.

“Wait for me,” she tells him, breathily, panting from her exertion.

Aemond tries desperately to hold back his peak, not wanting to disappoint her.

“Give me your seed, dragon prince,” she says between pants for breath. She reaches behind her and finds Aemond’s heavy stones. She cups them in her hand, gently fondling them as the heat building deep in her belly snaps, sending bolts of pleasure through her body and making her cry out in the darkness.

The combination of her hot cunt squeezing his cock and her hand teasing his stones is too much for him, finally triggering the explosion of euphoria that he’s been chasing.

His shaft begins to twitch inside her, and he cannot hold back the loud moan in his throat, and his cock shoots his seed towards her womb.

“Yes, yes, my prince,” she cries out. “Fill me with your seed.”

When both are spent, she collapses atop his chest, their bodies slick with sweat and need, both panting heavily, his length still nestled within her. For a long moment, neither speaks. Their heartbeats thunder in sync, filling the silence with something raw and secret. In the darkness, he dares to believe she might be the only soul to truly see him, to hold him as he is, not as a prince, but as a man laid bare.

They lie like this, with one long arm around her, holding her to him until he softens and slips out of her.

“You did so well, my dragon prince,” she praises him. “I knew you would.”

After a few moments, she pushes herself up and rolls off of him to lie at his side. She gently cradles his head to her breast and murmurs, “Your dragon seed will take in my womb.

“I will carry your child,” she tells him.

As some semblance of reason begins to return, he briefly questions how she could know this. But the solace and comfort he feels in her arms push any rational thoughts away.

Eventually, she reaches around him for her nightdress and holds it in her grasp.

Aemond tries to hold onto her, not wanting her to dress and leave him.

“Stay,” he whines, desperate for her to lie with him longer.

The witch cups his chin in her hand, her face mere inches from his, and says, “You should leave this place and never return.”

Confused, his eye searches her face. “Why?”

“Because if you don’t, you’ll die here.”

Giving him a tender kiss on his forehead, she says, “You should rest now.”

Prince Regent Aemond Targaryen bolts upright in bed, a sharp, stabbing pain lancing through his lower back makes him hiss.

Panting hard and utterly spent, Aemond finds himself covered in a sheen of sweat and naked in a bed that is not his own, in a room far from the Red Keep's confines.

His hand trembles as it finds rough cloth wrapped tightly around his trim waist.

Just then, the heavy door to the damp chamber begins to open, and a woman in a purple gown enters, balancing a tray in her hand.

“You’re awake,” she says in a familiar voice with a pleasing lilt.

His eye widens in disbelief at how she could be in the doorway, fully dressed, when she had been lying beside him only moments ago.

He winces when he tries to move.

“Now don’t fuss, my prince,” she chides him gently. “You’ll reopen your wound.”

Tagged by request - @yaash19 & @sylasthegrim

[bobateababe]

my Aemond obsession returns again

[leftoverp1zza]

Aemond 'runway model extraordinaire' Targaryen I'm so obsessed with his sassy walk and slutty waist.

@volklana @thenameswinter99 @suntizme @zaldritzosrose

[eternoct-void]

We've got Bishop Alicent officiating a wedding before a Rhaenicent kiss scene.

[theleavesofwesteros]

Aemond Targaryen x Tyrell!Wife!Reader - fireside

A/N: ummm hey guys :)) I'm back in the fucking building!!!! I wrote one (1) aemond fanfic like 2 years ago and looking back, it is despicably bad (in my humble opinion) so it is not to be spoken about. However, this has been something that has been on my mind for a long time (yap session incoming). I was deeply, deeply besotted with aemond for since I first saw him, but it waned a lottt after season 2 fully aired and it's been basically gone for a year now. However, I still find his character fascinating, and I have this very fond trope of him being married for alliance but actually being very fond of his wife and them being very amicable towards one another! I just like to think of him getting someone who likes him

@cafekitsune thanksss :))

CW/TW: Arranged Marriage (but they're kinda happy with it!), talk of baby, Aemond (he's kind of a warning in itself bc he's like a creepy lurker (but he's dreamy and mysterious so we allow it)), burgeoning relationship (left open to interpretation, I think)??, maybe OOC Aemond? it's been a longgg time since I've tried to venture into his head

Reader is a Tyrell, but this is really the only description given (idk, I just see him with a Tyrell (like Margaery), plus I feel like alliance wise for team green, it makes sense???

(most famous gif of all time, i'm not immune)

“You seem displeased.”

“… Mm?” Distractedly slipped from your husband’s softly puckered lips, his gaze set on a book.

He was in his chambers, sat by the fire, reading something (you could wager with great confidence that it would be a history of Old Valyria) in not nearly enough light.

“I was announced in, but you have barely lifted your head in order to greet me.” You replied, just as quietly as he seemed to like to speak.

He finally raised his head, lone eye settling onto you.

“Mm. Good eve, lady wife.”

“And to you, too, husband. However, as I said, it does not seem to be a pleasant one for you.”

He hummed, settling back in his chair somewhat. Still, as always, his rigid posture was maintained, always seeming a touch too on guard.

“Will you share with me? What ails you tonight?” You prodded once more.

He scoffed softly, but you knew it wasn’t necessarily at you. In fact, it rarely was. From where you saw it, your arrangement was the least of his problems. It even usually aided him more than anything.

“Simply more of the same, wife. My brother being… a cunt.”

You hummed in return, looking over him as you opted to sit in the settee next to his armchair, turning to face him.

“He is still your brother. And king, now. ‘Tis what your family wanted.”

“King… what does it matter? He is- They are all fools. I could be… I would be better.” He whispered, even quieter than his usual, venom seeping through.

“You do not mean that. You love your mother… and Helaena.”

His lip quirked slightly at that.

“Even when you exclude them, the worst of my family remains. You are not wrong, my quarrel is not with them.”

You nodded softly, looking around his chambers. He liked them dark, with only a fire usually lit, or a spare candle or two. You could try your hand at guessing as to why, perhaps something to do with his eyepatch (and what lay beneath it), but you did not wish to bring up such topics with him. It was a rarity he sometimes took it off in front of you. There was a pitcher of wine at his side, as there was in every room in the Red Keep. However, unlike the pitcher likely sitting empty in his elder brother’s room, Aemond’s was just under full. He liked to sit with his goblet of wine, sipping on it throughout his long reading hours.

“Have you written to Highgarden?” He murmured, looking to you.

You were wearing a rather simple dress, its most distinctive features being the green fabric and embroidered flowers in golden thread. The colours you’d had to adopt upon marrying into the House Targaryen had been greatly different initially, with their black and red, but it had recently come to pass that your favoured green had become the chosen colour of the King, and so many of your dresses from home had gone back into your daily wear.

“I have. I write to my family every day, as you know.”

“Mm… indeed. Your lord father is still pleased with what he is being offered?”

You sighed softly, reaching over to place your hand gently over his forearm.

“There has been no discontent mentioned as of yet, Aemond. You wish for in-fighting when our Houses are allied… there is already discontent in the Kingdoms. All because of your family.”

His gaze turned sharp at your words and his body stiffened.

“Most wives would not dare question what their husbands tell them. And they would not go spreading around what has been told to them in confidence.”

“I have not been spreading your words.” You insisted, standing straighter, too.

“Good, for it would be treason. I would not be able to reason against the sentence granted to you… no matter what.” His gaze fell briefly.

“You would not let me be killed, husband. You need the alliance, at the very least. You and your brother. I only have brothers, as you know.”

“Mm. A shame.” He said, lip quirking softly again. “I suppose it helps that you are not the worst kind of company.”

“Yes. Beautiful, and I could have already told you off to the King for treason.”

“You jest, dear lady. You need this alliance.” He said, repeating your words from earlier.

“Do I? Whatever for? I am planning for no future conflict, and neither is my family.”

“For the access to rich fabrics, of course. They reach King’s Landing quicker.”

It was the hint of a smile that gave him away. It was moments like these where you were reminded just how young he was. He was barely any older than you. Yet here you were, married, and him playing at war even though he was nothing but a game piece being moved around the board to earn his House a politically important ally.

“I jest, wife. I know full well it is not the fabrics. ‘Tis the silks that interest you.”

“The wine has gone to your head, I rather think, my love.” You said, allowing yourself the gentle name as you let a small smile cross your face.

“Nonsense. All of your favourites come from Lys. I shall take you for a promenade through the Royal Gardens the next time they are set to come into port, and show you the ship as it comes in. You shall see.”

“You know where my favourites come from?” You murmured, pleasantly surprised.

“Mm. It is not hard, think not too much of it. A lady of Highgarden can only like such things. Moreover, I must know what to spend our gold in, no? Efficient is one of the most important traits the Master of Coin can possess.”

“You claim yourself to be the Master of Coin now?”

He let an amused huff escape him at your disbelieving tone, lifting your hand to gently kiss your knuckles. It was a rarity, but it was quite pleasant when he did it, you thought.

“Tell me, how is the babe?” He asked quietly, his gaze dropping once more to where it had before, to your abdomen.

Your gaze joined his.

“It is still early, husband. Just as I told you yesterday. The pregnancy is just barely beginning to show on me.”

“… Still. What do you think?” He whispered, free hand moving to pull his eyepatch off, as if in a trance.

You’d noticed it, ever since you’d told him the news. He removed his eyepatch most often when you spoke of the babe, especially when he looked towards your stomach. Almost as if he wished to be in the baby’s presence with nothing but honesty and purity in the room. You never startled at the sight of him without it.

“What do I think?”

“Yes. About how the babe is today.”

“I rather think they’re perfectly well, husband.”

He hummed, moving your joined hands to your stomach.

“I shall find an egg for them.” He murmured fiercely, eye set on where your child was currently resting safely.

“I know, my love.” You whispered, understanding all that those words carried for him.

He looked back up, gaze meeting yours.

“I should like for you to remain here tonight. With me.”

He had been asking that of you more often, as well.

“As you wish, husband.”

“Let us retire, then. Rest is important for you now.”

“You shall be up at dawn no matter what, yes?”

His lip quirked as he stood, helping you up.

“The Master of Coin is always busy, sweet wife. A prince of House Targaryen, even more so.”  

[iressasmailbox]

their school subjects!

if aerion is allowed in a lab, all hell will break loose

[credits to etheral_da on tt]