Lick My Wounds
Masterlist
Pairing: Dark!Aemond x Nameless servant
Content/Warning: DD;DNE, 18+, smut, non-con, dub-con, mentions of blood and injury, imbalanced abusive relationship, S/M type dynamic, fingering, p in v sex, references to rough sex, canonical sexism, pain play, slight emotional manipulation, angst, Aemond being dominant and a prick
Word count: 6.7K
Author’s note: I drew some inspiration from Consequences which is a tough but beautiful read by targaryenrealnessdarling. I strongly recommend it to anyone who can handle it.
Summary:
A young woman working in The Red Keep answers to The One-Eyed Prince’s every beck and call. He is cruel and selfish in his nature of using her. She finds one day, when she is cleaning an injury he obtained in the training yard, that she is inspired to pursue her own pleasure now that he is with little defenses.
The prince hisses a breath through his teeth.
“Careful,” he instructs in warning, his brow ever scrunched in anger and pain.
She nods softly and mumbles: “My apologies…”
Her hand then dips the bloodied sponge in the basin again. The warm water is comforting on the skin that is not cut and bloodied.
It was the first sound the prince had made since his preferred maidservant had started washing his wounds. As per his usual demeanor, he kept himself armoured stoically and devoid of any sign of discomfort. The only reaction he'd let slip once in a while beyond his control, was a twitch from his abdominal muscles.
He laid in his bed, propped up with a pillow behind his back, undressed, say for his loose cotton breeches. The pale, sculpted planes of his chest were stained red from several diagonal red slashes reaching from the bottom of his clavicle nearly to his nipple across his pectorals. Aemond's jaw was sewn tightly shut, and he kept his angry gaze out the window. He wasn't as much angry at the fact that he'd been injured in his training; rather his anger was directed at himself because he knew the fault had been his own. He had been overtired and still insisted on Cole to push him. One careless moment and a confident swing from Cole's flail had been all it took.
Aemond couldn't even recall the last time he'd been bested, and never before so profoundly at that. His nostrils flared in anger at the very thought of it as embarrassment swelled in his chest, tightening beneath his skin.
Her eyes wandered over her prince, careful not to disturb his already foul temperaments as she tended to his wounds. In truth, it ought to have been a maester who saw to heal him, but he had sent for her specifically.
He did every so often now, since he had first taken her that first time a couple moons ago.
If he was in a bad mood now, then one might say that night he had held a temper and wrath that was forceful and all consuming enough to bring the destruction of Valyria, had it been rebuilt.
She'd never come to know what it was that had brought him in such a state of anger. He had returned to his chambers as she was tending to her duties of replacing the towels and preparing the hearth. At first, when he'd slammed the doors open, causing her to jolt in surprise, she had been quick to collect herself, certain he'd demand her to make her leave. Instead, she was shocked and frightened when he grabbed her upper arm with a large hand and threw her on his bed. His eye had glared with rage and something curiously darker.
It had hurt and been brief. He hadn't even bothered undressing, making do with unlacing his trousers to release his manhood and forcefully press into her after having torn her smallclothes away. Any crying or pleading for him to stop had proven futile, and been met with either silence or demands for her to shut her mouth.
When the deed was done, he had pulled away without saying a word, nor meeting her gaze. Clarity of his indiscretion had set in and now whenever she thought back on it, she did so with a recent acknowledgement that he had been ashamed. Mayhaps not so much of his misdeed against her, but more so for the awareness of how unbecoming it was for him as a prince of the realm to act so depraved. Prince Aemond had turned his back to her as he tugged himself away again, breathing shallowly.
“Leave,” was all he had said, voice tense.
And so she did, pulling her skirts down, sniffling and with streaks of tears on her cheeks.
At the time, she'd been startled with dread and anxiety, certain that her fate had been sealed. Either word would spread of her misfortune and she'd be released of her duties, or the prince himself might see to it himself to end her life with his own bare hands to keep her silent. Not that she'd ever dare to utter a word of it to anyone. After all he'd been known to have a temper, and what was the life of a simple maidservant even worth to this royal family of dragons? A day passed and in the thinnest of hopes she'd assumed she'd seen the last of the one-eyed Prince. But sometime at noon, an elder servant, who had tutored her in her early days of employment, informed her that she'd been summoned to his chambers.
Once more, she was consumed by a darkening fear that told her he meant to kill her. Her hands had fidgeted with her skirts, before she'd taken to knocking at his doors, and was granted entry.
To her surprise and utter confusion, what met her was not the swift cutting steel of a blade. Nor was the prince in a murderous rage. He seemed somber and pragmatic in moods; he stood by his desk, looking over some documents that seemed more relevant to him than her presence. He didn't look at her immediately, but let the silence linger. Mayhaps to buy himself time.
At last he had revealed his intentions with her, when he gestured to a dark canister with a lid on the table next to him.
Moontea.
He had sought to take it upon himself to ensure that she–or rather he–would not suffer the consequences of his indiscretion from the day prior.
The last thing he needed was to stain his name with a bastard. The prince lifted his gaze, clasped his hands behind his back and told her to drink it all immediately as he watched. His gaze was stern and unmoved as he stood there, tall with a straight back like he was a commander preparing his troops for battle, stonecold and devoid of emotion. It was all so practical to him.
When she had finished gulping down the bitter drink, she was instructed to never utter a word of this to anyone.
She did not have to be told twice, as her imagination had already been busy with filling in the gaps of any dreadful implications of what might happen, should she misstep.
The young woman was relieved, though she remained shaken up by the whole situation for a long while after. She thought this ought to have been the last of it, which was a small comforting thought that lulled her to sleep at night for a while. Prince Aemond refrained from summoning her again, and the maidservant returned to her usual duties.
A week later, long after the initial stomach pains from the tea had subsided, she found herself once more in Prince Aemond's private apartments, in the midst of cleaning out the hearth. SHe was on her knees, her fingers had been blackened by soot as her hand swept the ashes away with the slender brush. She was alone in there, and assumed, –hoped– that she'd finish up before the prince would make his return.
But the thought had barely been concluded, when the doors clicked open and he stepped in without a word.
She kept her gaze down, and found herself holding her breath, and her heart thudding in her ears, as she heard his long, calm strides over the flagstones. He moved like everything was a calculation. She heard him walk past her to a distance where she knew he had noticed that it was her in the midst of tidying up his hearth, but he did not comment on it. A ridiculous thought passed through her mind that mayhaps he did not remember her. Maybe he had taken enjoyment from several girls in The Red Keep’s employment - she’d heard that his older brother was prone to such depravity after all, so why should the younger brother be any different?
Her gaze remained down as she carefully swept the remaining soot into the tray, straining herself not to rush her task as she was otherwise inclined to do, and listened as the prince took a few steps around the chambers. There was a sound of clasps being opened and a rustling of fabric, presumably from his doublet being opened and hung on a nearby chair. Then, she felt her heart pick up speed as she heard Aemond step slowly closer, and finally stopped a few feet behind her. She felt like a mouse cornered by a sleek, malicious cat that moved lazily, knowing it had all the time in the world.
Her movements slowed, and her lips parted, about to say something, though she wasn’t sure what. She didn’t get that far and everything in her paused, when she felt the one-eyed prince kneel down and brush the flat of his large hand over her backside.
Her breath hitched.
“My Prince…?” She asked, turning her head slightly.
“Quiet,” he demanded, without raising his voice, and let his hand travel down further.
“Don’t look at me,” was the next command, as he used his other hand to press at her cheek, forcing her to gaze straight ahead into the hearth again.
Her skirts were hiked up over her hips, and she felt a familiar fear set in, as her smallclothes were pulled down to her knees with deft fingers. Those same fingers now traced over the seam of her sex, teasing her, urging a whimpering sound from her lips, while his other hand kept a steady firm hold on her left buttock.
She heard a breath leave Aemond. He sounded relieved or rather appreciative from her reaction. As his fingers toyed with her, prodding, swiping, circling, she was ashamed to feel her body react with involuntary wetness. Her cunt clenched around nothing, aching for further stimuli, and her thighs shivered ever so slightly. Despite the humiliation of being so exposed in such a degrading position, she couldn’t help but let out a small pleased groan.
The prince seemed to take this as permission, and it wasn’t long before the maidservant heard the unlacing of fabric, and then felt the warm press of his cockhead against her. She had given a pained moan when he had sheathed himself inside her, inch by inch, and started fucking her while she remained on her sore knees, and her gaze remained straight ahead into the dark hearth. The movements were steady at first as he held her hips, but it didn’t take long for Aemond to speed up, his fingers digging into the bare flesh of her hips. He had given growling groans through gritted teeth, as he took what he wanted from her tight, wet heat, his hips slapping against the back of her thighs. The young woman was torn between a shameful embarrassment from feeling herself grow more and more wet from each thrust and depraved sound from the prince as he took her, and from just the sheer primal pleasure of it, making her crave more. This was different from the first time he’d taken her; he was still rough with her, but more controlled, less frantic, less angry. She was actually able to find some sort of enjoyment in it, even if it was unwelcome. Part of her was glad that he had ordered her to be quiet, as she feared she might have otherwise lewdly begged him not to stop.
Aemond’s breath grew labored and his movements sloppy, –one of his tells that she’d come to grow very familiar with– and it wasn’t long before he pulled out of her with a loud, frustrated growl. She gasped at the loss of his girth inside of her, and felt her heart beat fast, not from fear, but from frustration at being robbed of the sensation of his cock. Her ears were met by a new squelching sound, and she felt a soft brush of swift knuckles against her backside. She realized he was stroking himself to finish, and not long after heard Aemond groan lowly as the fisting of his cock resulted in his warm fluids spilling on the bareness of her arse, and lower back.
Aemond panted softly, staying still with left hand on her arse. She blushed as she imagined he was taking in the sight of his pearly essence dripping over the curves of her backside. When the prince had recollected himself, he had asked her to tell her name.
Once given that, he had informed her that she was to return to his chambers the next evening in the same hour.
She had not needed him to elaborate on why.
So it was that these nightly visits, where the prince took ownership of her body, became a regular occurrence. She was no fool to consider herself a lover of him. That would've implied they were equals in some way, shape or form. She was merely his plaything, an outlet for him to take his frustrations out on when rage had taken over him, or a practical instrument for his pleasures whenever the mood would strike in the late hours.
He was almost always rough with her, and the first few times he'd thrust himself into her, she'd cried and whimpered, resulting in berating demands that she keep her voice down, with no regard for her comfort. Eventually she had grown somewhat accustomed to the brutish nature of their trysts. Any bruise or bitemark he left on her was always strategically placed on areas where they wouldn't be seen when she was dressed for her duties. She had an inkling that it excited him to know they were there while everyone else remained oblivious; like she carried him with her everywhere.
His personal mark to remind her that she was his.
In the beginning, she had soothed herself with the fact that despite the roughness of their encounters they were at the very least more often than not brief. It was not difficult to figure out that the prince was rather inexperienced and as a result, a mixture of the vigor of youth and his own selfish ways manifested in rather short sessions. He held little regard for her pleasure when he had her under him, and she had not the mind to be indignant or hurt by it, as she came to see these secret endeavors as merely another chore added to her employment.
It was her responsibility to wipe dust from surfaces, light the candles, clean out the hearth, fill cups during supper and now, to lay beneath the second born son of King Viserys, taking his seed either on her skin or on her tongue.
As the times that Prince Aemond summoned her to his bed became more frequent, he started lasting longer, relishing in taking his time with her, and his movements were found to be less hurried and uncoordinated when he rutted into her. And much to her own surprise she experienced once in a while, when she screamed into his sheets, that the screams weren't always brought on from pain.
Aemond had been intrigued by these new sounds and reactions that he was able to pull out of her, and it didn't take him long to make it a regular occurrence to have her peak as well, when he fucked her.
Though she knew she ought to be grateful in some twisted way for this newfound interest in her pleasures, she always kept in mind that it had nothing to do with what pleased her and everything to do with a selfish, egotistical fixation from the prince.
“Peak for me,” he'd tell her, while rubbing an eager thumb around that sensitive, swollen spot at the crown of her sex while he snapped his hips against hers.
“Come undone for me, you little slut,” he hissed and pressed his thumb harder in a punishing pressure that caused her to cry out.
“You love this, don't you? You love how your prince fucks this tight cunt of yours,” he taunted, letting his lips and teeth trace over her neck.
“You touch yourself when I'm not around…” Aemond murmured.
“You think about me. Admit it,” he hissed, his relentless movements never seizing.
“Y-Yes,” she rasped.
He was a calculated, menacing, fearsome creature, always keeping her at his beck and call at all times. When he didn't summon her to use her body, there could at times pass days between, where he ignored her, making her think he'd lost interest in it, or mayhaps found another girl to take pleasure from. These unpredictable intervals always kept her on her toes, and made anxiety bloom inside of her, though she could never quite comprehend why. When he then finally rid himself of restraint and called upon her again, she would be relieved. Even when it would hurt.
But right now, the prince seemed stripped of his cruel nature. Or at least unable to bring it forth in his state of injury. The animal was subdued.
His chest heaves softly as she gingerly washes the wound on his chest with the damp sponge.
“Does it hurt?” She asks gently, eyes flickering up to meet his.
Aemond kept his gaze aimed at the window with the view over Maegor's Holdfast.
He made a distinct hum that she'd come to learn a while back meant ‘no’.
The maidservant purses her lips and resumes her labor. It had been with grand surprise and fright to see him when he had barged into his rooms as she was just finishing up prepping his bed with fresh sheets. Aemond's doublet had been torn to shreds at the chest region, leaving the torn bit flopping downwards and open to reveal a large, scratched, diagonal wound that dripped with blood from the middle of his chest as if he'd been attempted mauled by a shadowcat. The most frightening thing of all though, was his face that had been twisted into a wrathful scowl, nostrils flaring.
When he had found her to be the one in here, he started seemingly calculating her fate behind his eye. From where she stood, she thought that he could have demanded her to leave or just as easily thrown her out the window and both options seemed equally possible. But instead he had told her sternly to fetch supplies to clean his injury, as he'd started angrily pulling off his ruined garment.
She'd found it a bit odd that he'd sent for her rather than a maester, but she reckoned that it ought to be about pride – that he'd prefer the lesser evil of having her, whom he regarded so lowly, to see him in such vulnerable state, rather than a maester who may or may not let his tongue slip once out of Aemond's sight. He knew for a fact that she knew how to keep a secret.
Her eyes travel over the pale skin taut over the prince's abdominal and pectoral muscles, as she washes away the dried blood. A familiar, inconvenient warmth gathered in the lowest most part of her belly. Every so often Aemond's hand twitched at his side; the only tell that revealed the discomfort from having the wound cleaned. It wouldn't surprise her if that twitch, if let unrestrained, was the first sign of how he'd felt inclined to strike her, or shoot out for her neck in frustration.
But she wasn't afraid. He looked anything but frightening right now with his hair loose around his shoulders, upper body bare and skin slightly red and inflamed where he had been hit. When they were alone, he usually had his eye patch discarded, as did he now. Some small, insolent part of her almost felt a twinge of pride at the thought that few people, besides her, had seen the bareness of his left eye socket and the blue sapphire that was lodged within. It was his good eye that was turned to her as he kept his gaze turned to the side.
She could have sworn he looked disappointed.
When the excess blood was removed and his skin clean, she left the sponge in the basin on the floor, the water having been dyed red, took a clean cotton cloth, and started ever so gingerly dapping the sensitive area free from moisture.
She keeps her eyes switching places between on the wound and on his face, aware of any subtle change in reaction, any sign of pain. Or anger.
He keeps that stern look, remaining still like a statue that refuses to acknowledge it's been cracked. Some frustrated sighs leave his nose once in a while, and as if accepting defeat, he leans his head fully back against the dark headboard with a small thud.
“There,” she says softly and discards the cloth near the basin once she is done. The young woman’s hand searches the pocket in the front of her apron, and pulls out a small lidded glass jar with a white-ish substance inside.
“Once it's fully dried, this should be rubbed on. It will ease the tightness and haste the healing,” she explains and places the small container on the nightstand.
The prince gave the item a quick careless glance, before he turned his face away again.
No response. She interprets the silence as his way of dismissing her, and so she starts shifting slightly in her seat on the edge of the bed, ready to leave.
“I failed,” his words cause her movements to come to a halt. Aemond still stared at something, or nothing outside the window.
“I have not committed such a folly since I was but a young boy”.
It almost sounds like he was in the midst of talking to himself.
The maidservant licks her lips and straightens her dress. Her gaze fixes on somewhere next to his face.
“... Everybody makes mistakes, my prince”.
She was certain he was going to scream at her, lash out and break something in anger.
He merely scoffs, and at last turns his head to look at her with an icy stare. The organic, living eye is colder than the gemstone in the other socket.
“Not me”. The words come stone cold with a low vibrato from deep within.
“I have to be better”.
Aemond's hand curls into a fist at his side.
“Better than him. T’is I that hold the reins to the largest dragon in the world, t’is I who have dedicated years to the sword, — I am better suited, t’is I who should be–”
His jaw screws shut and he looks away, like his final words might invoke the wrath of the gods, had they been spoken aloud. Or at the very least be regarded as treason.
The maid swiftly recovers from her confusion upon realizing that he was not speaking about besting Ser Criston Cole in combat.
Her tongue swipes out over her bottom lip as she attempts to find the words - if words were even what was needed from her in this instant.
But before she can even gather her thoughts, her gaze shoots up to her prince's once more, at the sound of a mocking scoff.
“No matter,” Aemond smiles bitterly while shaking his head softly in rebuff.
“What would you know of what I speak of? You hold nothing to your name… You have the freedom of being no one. No responsibilities. No more, no less”.
His words sting, but she still regards it as her duty to say something.
“My responsibilities lie here, My Prince,” she states.
That makes him chuckle jeeringly and look back at her with staidness.
“In this keep or in this bed?” He countered sharply.
“Any one maid or whore could do. Do not think yourself so unequaled”.
There is an uncharacteristic sheen on the prince's one good eye as he delivers these venomous words.
She swallows visibly, with a knot in her stomach.
Aemond looks at her for a moment like he would somehow find salvage to his anguish in this feeble, lowborn creature. He hums a sound, seemingly regretful of his mutterings. Not because he has hurt her feelings, but simply because he has spoken too plainly of his own inner turmoil. He ought to have these matters kept to himself behind lock and key, not sputtered out at lowborn staff he coincidentally uses for his own pleasure on occasion.
His gaze averts hers again, and he has rebuilt the wall around him again within seconds.
“No matter,” is all he has left to say. It is enough for her to understand that she is dismissed and he has no use for her anymore.
Still, she finds herself uncharacteristically unwilling to move. She sits there on the edge of the bed, incapable of shaking the image of the prince teary eyed and wounded. There is a pathological need within her to ease his troubles, even if it comes at the cost of her own honor. Yet again, what was honor to her, in relation to everything she'd allowed him to do to her body up until this point?
She had submitted herself to Aemond The Fierce long ago, at the risk of her own reputation and employment. Mayhaps even her salvation. It would not surprise her if The Seven had abandoned her long ago.
There was a twitch at Aemond's jaw when he found that she was taking a fraction of a second too long to leave. He let it be when she finally stood up, the mattress easing as her weight left the bed.
However, his head turns to her at an unexpected movement in his peripheral vision. He watches as the young woman unties the apron she had shown up in, letting it fall to the floor. Next her hands move behind her back to unlace the outermost layer of her servant's dress.
She watches him watch her.
The change in his demeanor is microscopical, but she knows that he is caught by surprise. Yet he does not demand her to leave or scold her for her insolence, nor even ask her whatever she is doing. There is a tension behind his gaze; an apparent edge that is the princely, dutiful part of him that knows she is going against his wishes, but there is also a growing hunger beneath it that she has become all too familiar with.
Aemond stays silent as she undresses, watching her with a predatorial curiosity, waiting to see what she'll do next. His hand twitches, instinctually eager to touch her. Her heart speeds up in pace and she is unable to look away from the one-eyed prince's stare. It's as if for every bit of garment she rids herself of, he takes a bite of her, set on devouring her with his gaze alone.
His lone eye watches her with an intensity that betrays the intrigue he feels from her actions. He had always been the one to disrobe her when the urge to take her had been gravitational. On occasion he could also be inclined to demand her to undress herself, while sitting back to watch her, not too unlike what was conspiring now. But never had she allowed herself to free herself of her clothing unprompted and on her own accord. If he were being honest, Aemond wasn’t entirely sure that he found her initiative particularly distasteful. He could not recall how many times he had summoned her to his quarters, only to press her to the softness of his bed, force open her thighs, pull off whatever barrier of fabric that kept them apart, so he could press either his cock or his tongue down to her aching sex. On a rare occasion, the taste of her had intoxicated him so much, that he had merely stroken himself to finish in his hand while he’d eagerly feasted on her cunt.
But no matter what thrill he brought upon her, and what delightful little sounds he elicited from her, it was always him with the upper hand, always him that set the stage, always him that forced her to his knees and pried open her lips so his cock could slide in past them.
His hand flexes, tempted to protest against her current actions, but his body and damned curiosity betrayed him.
He wishes to see what she will do next.
The young woman abandons the outer dress of her uniform, leaving her in a simple, smooth underdress. At first, Aemond believes she is to rid herself of that as well, but he is proven wrong when her hands nudge down over her hips, rolling down her smallclothes beneath her slip and kicking them off along with her shoes.
She feels a fluttering in her lower belly from seeing how his abdominal muscles tense under her fingers, as she leans down and starts gingerly unlacing his breeches. That he even allows her to do so unprompted, makes her chest swell with newfound confidence.
She bites her lip when she finds that under her hands he is already swelled to half hardness, which makes her equally excited and relieved.
Aemond lifts his hips just enough to allow her to pull down the breeches. It is the closest thing she has ever been to feeling in charge of anything. His cock rises smoothly when she releases it from its confides, standing at full vigor.
Despite the nature of pride and cruelty he usually carries himself with, when he is in this type of mood, he remains looking uncharacteristically soft and vulnerable, lying there with a big scratch to his chest, letting her undress him.
The mattress dips when she straddles his hips, a knee on either side. She has his girth in a gentle grasp beneath her slip when she lowers herself. There is no need for further preparing as Aemond hisses in a small breath upon realizing how wet she is.
He hadn’t even touched her.
That little whore.
His hands instinctively place on her hips, instantly grounding her and reminding her that he has a say in this matter as well. The feeling of her soft, warm flesh under his palms allows him to remember his own dominant nature. But he does not push her off or roll over to hover over her, not yet.
A soft moan leaves her parted lips as she sinks down, taking him whole, shivering as his cock pokes that lovely spot inside of her. Aemond's fingers squeeze her hips in reflex. She had never been on top before, and he's unsure if he's ever felt as deeply rooted inside of her before. Her hands balance carefully on Aemond's sternum, mindful not to touch the raw, inflamed skin on his chest, when she starts rolling her hips. She moans softly, and Aemond's breath drags in and out of his nose, nostrils flaring as if he is hanging by a thread in an attempt at keeping himself from thrusting up into her.
He notices her nipples are hard beneath the soft fabric of her slip, and his cock throbs inside of her from the sight. She likes this.
Aemond finally allows himself to breathe through his mouth as he loses himself in this new sensation of being held down by her weight on his lap. He is transfixed to take in every little detail of her and how her body reacts, noting every difference he has not before allowed himself to appreciate.
He observes how the skin on her chest blushes softly, the bounce of her breasts, how her hips grind back and forth on him for friction, the way her lips part, and eyes turn hazy in ecstasy. Aemond's eye remains unblinking and locked on her, with an analytical edge that seems malplaced, the situation taken into account. His fascination knows no bounds, and he is surprised to find that he enjoys the tempo she has set. She moves infuriatingly slow as if she fears he might break, should she decide to ride him with greater zest.
The very idea is ludicrous, as he himself has never once been the shadow of gentle with her, nor ever slowed down when he buried himself between her thighs.
The pace she sets goes uninterrupted by Aemond, despite his inclination to flip her over and slam into her with force as he'd done so many times before. The skin on his damaged chest is tight and aching, making it another obstacle for him in his wish to move aggressively. His jaw is tense with the urge to take control, while another foreign part of him takes grand pleasure in lying back, watching how she moves on him, taking her pleasure all for herself. His cock throbs inside of her, when his mind wraps around those thoughts.
She has another rush go through her, when she feels Aemond's hands squeeze on her hips, unsure whether it is appreciative or in frustration.
Her eyes lock on the one amethyst eye of the prince, watching every reaction from him. She wants to be extraordinarily aware of his pleasure, and likewise if she has ticked him off and he any minute can decide to throw her off of him and punish her. But she is not. She is too caught up with herself and how the insides of her bloom with warmth and sparks of something grander she urges to chase. Aemond's eyelid flutters softly, and his lips part in awe.
“Ah…” she moans silkily and finds herself picking up speed, her fingers prickling lightly as they press into his abs.
The front of her slip has a few specks of moisture manifest in the front from moisture. Her throat stretches when she groans out and finds new confidence that inspires her to move faster, bouncing on him with more vitality.
The sounds of wet squelches and faint slaps of skin meeting skin grow more insistent. Aemond groans—it is nearly another growl—and his fingers dig into her hips with bruising force, causing the young maid to gasp in pain.
She does not mind it.
The Targaryen prince visibly grits his teeth, feeling at the brink of madness by how her tight walls squeeze and flutter around him.
Out of seemingly nowhere, she is caught by surprise and gasps when Aemond's hands leave her hips to grasp firmly around her wrists. That surprise swiftly morphs into shock; the last thing she had expected was for him to place her open palms on his wounded chest where the flail had opened his skin.
He hisses and his face contorts in a twisted grimace of pain and pleasure.
“M-My Prince…?!” She stutters out, eyes wide in shock, and lets her movements falter her. Her hands are moistened by sticky blood as small tears reopen where the wounds had dried.
“Don't fucking stop,” is the response that is snarled back at her. Aemond glares daggers at her, but there is something almost pleading by his command. Equally, he tries desperately to thrust up into her when her movements slow, chasing that sweet friction.
She is dumbfounded by the entire situation, but soon recovers and resumes what she started. Her mouth drips with moans and mewls of a lewd nature that Aemond has not had the privilege of hearing before, no matter how deeply he'd fucked her before.
With his hands still holding her wrists in a firm, unyielding grasp, he presses her hands hard down on his bruised chest, making him elicit a groan of both pain and something more sinful.
She pants heavily and watches as Aemond uses her to hurt him in a way that seemed to bring him ecstasy. Instead of pulling away, she leans into it, as the new placement of her hands on his chest gives her better leverage.
She could not comprehend that he enjoyed it. And what was even more shameful was the fact that every time he rasped out these pained groans, her cunt squeezed around him on primal impulse.
The muscles in Aemond's jaw strains, his teeth gritt when he bares them and his eye squeezes shut, head tilting harshly back in the pillow.
Her wrists ache under the harsh grasp of his hands that squeeze tighter. For a moment she worries her arms might snap and break like twigs.
But the concern vanishes as the tension in her belly grows tighter and throbbed, telling her she was at her brink. She bounces and grinds down on her prince, allowing her to rub her sensitive spot against him, and his cock to stroke against that delicious area inside of her.
Her breathing and shameless moans betray her, and it is not long before she squeezes tightly around Aemond one final time, and throws her head back in a moan as she surrenders herself completely.
In turn the prince growls angrily and throws her off of him, letting her back hit the mattress. She gasps in shock, feeling her heart jump in her throat. Before she comes to think of any means to escape what she assumed was his imminent wrath, she finds Aemond hovering over her, his right hand stroking himself tightly. He pants from excursion and with his left hand throws the bottom of her underdress up over her knees, baring her sex that is red, swollen and glistens with her juices. The very sight of it made him give a low groan.
A final tense, strained groan escapes the prince when he spills his pearly fluids over the glorious sight of her cunt.
A small sound squeaks out of the mess of a maidservant that was neither a gasp not a groan, but something that hovered in between the two.
Aemond pants, hair tousled in such a state that he, with the addition of the bloodied bruise on his chest, looked more a feral wildling than a noble Targaryen prince. He holds her legs open with one hand on her upright knee, gazing over her with a look in his eye that she had a hard time deciphering.
For a moment her hands uncurl before her face, and she is without breath for a second upon seeing the blood that has stained her skin.
The prince's breath steadies slowly, gaze traveling up to her face. The ferocity in his gaze had returned to the usual somber, icy stare that she knew too well. And yet, there was an unspoken change; how could there not be? She had done things to him that she'd never thought he'd ever allow her during their trysts.
He says nothing, but instead lets go of her knee and turns his back to her.
Aemond's wound had been stained by new fresh blood and he scoffs upon realizing it with irritation.
The prince sat down with his back turned to her as he pulled his breeches back up once more. She lays, propped up on her elbows, and watches his back muscles move under the skin that was unharmed, pale and pristine.
“Are you just going to sit there?” His words come clipped without turning to look at her.
“Get over here and help me clean this up again. Then leave after,” he instructs.
She swallows and does as she is told. When she tries to reach for her discarded clothes Aemond tells her to leave them be, and so she sits back down on the edge of the bed, this time scantily clad in nothing but her underdress, and starts gently cleaning his wound again.
The water that the sponge soaked up was chilled past room temperature but the prince was unbothered by it – Unbothered by all of it. She, on the other hand, feels a little on edge by the thought of anyone stepping in and seeing her in this state of undress. If he took note of the tension in her, he does not comment on it. He never does.
“I need you back here tomorrow by evenfall,” he suddenly says, causing her to pause and look to his eye.
“Bring more of that ointment. I reckon I'll be needing more of it,” he speaks pragmatically.
She nodded.
“I will, my prince”.
She resumes tending to the red wound and has to stop herself from cracking the tiniest of smiles.
