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𝐏𝐔𝐒𝐇 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐏𝐔𝐋𝐋

Aemond Targaryen x war prize!reader

Part 1 & Part 2

Pairing ⊹ ࣪ ˖ Enemies & Lovers

tw ⊹ ࣪ ˖ 18+, NSFW, porn with a storyline, explicit sexual content, sex without protection, creampie, fingering, oral sex (f!recieving), saliva, injuries & physical strain, violence, dubious/complex power dynamics, enemies to/& lovers, emotional angst & separation, Aemond is still very him

Summary ⊹ ࣪ ˖ Crossing the line that was supposed to settle things. Instead, it made the game infinitely more dangerous. Bound by shared scars and an unspoken truce, a river-born emissary and the Prince Regent attempt to navigate the treacherous waters of the Red Keep without letting the court—or each other—see them bleed. But the boundary between enemy and sanctuary blurs beyond repair.

Word count ⊹ ࣪ ˖ 8k & last part

Notes ⊹ ࣪ ˖ I didn't expect the last part 3 to be this long. I'll admit, I shed a fucking tear when I finished. I've grown attached to this and I hope the readers do as well. This one isn't proofread. And I couldn’t make him dark and possessive, pls forgive me. Thank you so much, everyone. Reblogs & comments are greatly appreciated

Aemond did not make it halfway down the shadowed gallery before the truth crashed upon him like thick armor: walking away had been the only choice he had left.

Behind him, the door of the Maidenvault had closed already. On his lips, the faint ghost of her breath and the warmth of her mouth still lingered, infuriating in its persistence. He struck his jaw with the heel of his palm as if he could physically banish the touch.

He was a dragon-rider, a prince of the realm, and the sharpest blade in the Red Keep. Despite all of it, a single, quiet girl had managed to turn his own mind into an unsafe place to inhabit.

In his chambers, sleep would not take him.

He tried and failed. Aemond unbuckled his sword belt and set it onto the table, pacing the cold stone between the hearth and the arched window. By midnight, he had opened a treatise on Valyrian strategy only to read the same four lines without absorbing a single word. He shut the tome so hard the dust danced in the candlelight.

He did not allow himself the luxury of romanticizing what had happened in the room. He thought only of consequences.

Storm's End. The marriage alliance Otto was already drafting with Lord Baratheon. The inevitable march south. He was going to have to leave, and the Red Keep was a pit of vipers. if he allowed himself to simply take what he desired—if he kept you as a mere lady-in-waiting tucked safely under Helaena's wing—the court would devour you the moment Vhagar's wings cleared Blackwater Bay. Otto would see a disposable hostage and marry you off to some landless knight in the Reach. Aegon would forget your name. Alicent would quietly erase you.

He would not make you pay for loving him.

The prince pulled a fresh scroll across the oak desk and dipped his quill into dark ink. He had spent his life learning how to prepare for war. Now, for the first time, he was learning how to prepare the person he loved to survive it.

By the fourth hour after midnight, the parchment was covered in his sharp, slanted hand. He mapped your leverage, your knowledge of the Riverlands' crossings and hidden keeps, and the legal standing required to make you unassailable. He was not writing a love letter; he was building you a fortress out of royal decrees and military precedent.

When the gray light of dawn finally flowed through the high glass, Aemond rolled the parchment tight and tied it with black leather. He buckled his sword back around his waist, his lone eye cold and resolute.

He did not need to plead with his grandfather, nor beg his mother. He needed to give Otto a reason to agree—to make the proposal so politically advantageous that refusing it would prove inconvenient for the Hand. He needed to make you too valuable to discard.

He turned on his heel and strode out into the chilly morning air, heading down toward the armory to find Ser Criston Cole.

Deep in the armory's chill depths, the air clung cold with the stench of steel, lamp oil, and stone rot. Ser Criston Cole sat unaccompanied, the disciplined rasp of whetstone on iron breaking the stillness.

He did not look up when the thud of riding boots echoed through the archway. He knew the cadence of Aemond's stride better than anyone in the Red Keep.

"You are early," Criston noted, unhurriedly wiping down the edge of his broadsword.

Aemond did not offer a greeting. He stopped beside the wooden workbench, his silhouette falling long over the weapon rack. "When I leave for Storm's End," he said, "my mother will lose what little patience she has left. My grandsire will find a marriage in the Reach to rid the court of her."

Criston set the whetstone down. His brown eyes shifted from the blade to Aemond's rigid profile. He knew his pupil's tells—the slight pull in his scar, the unnatural stiffness in his posture.

"And you intend to forbid it?" he questioned.

"I intend to give them a reason why they cannot."

The Lord Commander leaned his frame against the workbench, crossing his arms over his chest. "A ward from a fallen house is an easy thing to discard, my prince. How do you propose to make the Hand hold his quill?"

"She needs a standing in this court," Aemond answered. "One that does not depend on my presence. Something that belongs to the Crown."

"She is a lady-in-waiting to your sister," Criston countered. "What standing could she possibly claim?"

"The Riverlands...she knows the region better than any scout in our vanguard. She knows the houses, the roads, the local customs, and which families still hold alliances. She has the knowledge of where supplies can be moved when the autumn rains flood the lower passes."

Criston stared at the prince for a long beat, peeling back the layers of strategy until he reached the raw, unspoken truth beneath. "You are not doing this for the war."

Prince Aemond gave no retort, no defensive threat, and no royal command. He merely let the silence answer for him instead.

"You are doing it because you are leaving," the knight pushed, "and you do not trust this keep to leave her untouched."

Aemond turned his gaze to the Lord Commander, his single eye unyielding. "Does the reason alter the utility?"

Ser Criston let out a short, cynical breath, a subtle tilt touching his mouth. "No, it does not."

He straightened up, turning the idea over in his mind. "If she is to sit near the war council, she cannot remain a lady in velvet. We give her a title rooted in her own bloodline. The Crown's Emissary to the Riverlands. A wartime appointment, granted under the King's authority, with my direct sponsorship as Lord Commander. Otto cannot dismantle a Crown appointment backed by the Kingsguard without undermining the realm's military posture."

Aemond felt the tight knot in his chest loosen—just an inch. "Then make the request to the Hand."

"I will."

Criston picked up a leather-wrapped practice blade from the rack and tossed it onto the table between them. "But if you want her to carry the Crown's seal into this court, parchment won't save her when the political tides turn. She needs more than a title, my lord. She needs to know how to stand her ground."

Aemond looked down at the dark wrapping of the practice hilt. "She will train."

"Under my eye," Criston added firmly. He adjusted his sword belt tight around his waist with a decisive clack of iron. "And understand this. Once she carries the Crown's seal, she will no longer be shielded by your favor. She will have to stand on her own."

"That is the point."

The sound of Aemond's words had barely stilled into the damp stone before frantic footsteps scrambled down the outer gallery steps. A guard burst through the archway, out of breath, clutching a blood-spotted raven scroll bound with the seal of House Bracken.

"My lord Prince...Lord Commander," the guard panted, offering the news with shaking hands. "From the Riverlands. The Brackens and Blackwoods...open slaughter at the Burning Mill. The valley is ablaze."

The prince took the scroll, his eye sweeping over the crimson-tinted ink. The quiet timeline he had envisioned—weeks of careful council maneuvering, slow lessons in the yard, a measured transition—vanished in a single stroke of bad blood. War had not waited for his preparations.

Queen Helaena sat in the sun-dappled courtyard, her fingers absently brushing the delicate petals of a pale rose while princess Jaehaera played quietly nearby. You sat beside her on the stone bench, still haunted by the memory of the previous night—by the breathless heat of Aemond's mouth, followed immediately by his abrupt disappearance.

The heavy sound of familiar boots hummed along the garden gallery.

Helaena did not look up, but her voice drifted gentle and light through the warm air. "A knife is safer when it is sharpened before the dark comes."

You turned toward her, frowning. "Your Grace?"

Her pale eyes flicked to you, unnervingly clear. "Not for him. For what comes after."

Aemond stopped next to the bench before you could ask. Beneath his lone eye, shades lay dark, and his shoulders bearing the bone-deep weariness of a man who had spent the night pacing flagstones.

"I require your lady-in-waiting," he said in a gravelly rasp.

The dreamer blinked up at her brother slowly, her hands coming to rest over the pale rose in her lap. "Of course. She has work to do."

Aemond's gaze swept over you, distant and unreadable. He held out no hand, offered no greeting, but expected you to follow him. "Come."

He led you through the stone passageways toward his private study, stepping inside and shutting the door with a stale thud.

The moment you were hidden from the keep's eyes, the anger that had been simmering in your chest all morning boiled over. You turned on him before he could even start to form his words.

"Why did you leave?"

Aemond didn't seem to have an answer for it at all.

"Last night," you reminded, crossing into his space, your voice laced with quiet fury. "You kissed me in the dark. You held me against the wall, and then you walked away without a word."

The prince stared down at you. For a fleeting second, his firm composure faltered. His hand came up—instinctive, unbidden—his calloused thumb coming to rest against the curve of your jaw. He leaned down, his gaze dropping to your lips with a hunger so sharp it made you weak in the knees.

You thought he was going to claim your mouth again. Instead, his jaw flexed hard, his fingers lingering on your skin before he forced his hand back to his side.

"Because if I had stayed," he said, the words dragged through his gritted teeth, "I would have forgotten what I was supposed to do."

"And what are you supposed to do?"

"Keep you alive."

The words fell between you, dull and bleak. Before you could digest them, he moved toward the narrow opening overlooking the Red Keep. "You're going to train...with Ser Criston."

You stared at his back, disbelieving. "I beg your pardon?"

"You will learn the blade. Dagger or sword. Whichever suits your hand."

"Aemond, what are you talking about?" You took a step toward him, anger flaring again. "I am Helaena's lady-in-waiting. I am not a guard, nor am I your soldier. Why are you suddenly ordering me into the yard?"

"Because when I leave this city," he said, "I will not have my eye on you."

The air froze in your throat. "Then don't leave me," your voice raised, but not enough to lose your decorum.

"I cannot."

"You mean you cannot stay."

"No." The phrase cut like cold iron. "The Riverlands are burning. And I am called to Storm's Ends."

"You speak as though I am some helpless object you must lock away."

"I speak as a man who knows what men do when they believe no one is watching."

The quietness that followed was suffocating. You stared up at him, breathless.

"I have not slept," Aemond added, his voice cracking at the edge. "I spent the entire night making arrangements."

"For what?" you demanded. "For me?"

"Yes."

"What arrangements now, Aemond?"

He reached for you once more, his long fingers catching the side of your neck, tilting your head up. He leaned down until his breath was warm against your mouth, his lips hovering a whisper away from yours—so close you could taste the desperate restraint in him.

"Trust me," he breathed into the small space between your lips.

"On what?"

"On this."

You waited for the kiss, for his mouth to claim yours, for the relief of his touch.

Aemond's thumb brushed across your lower lip. Then, with a ragged exhale, he pulled back entirely. he released your neck, stepping out o your reach before you could touch him.

"Report to the outer yard at dawn. You are to be trained around your existing obligations," he spoke, his voice turning detached, and absolute as he turned his back to you and picked up his parchment scrolls. "Ser Criston will be waiting."

The morning damp had not yet cleared from the outer yard when the dirt claimed your knees for the third time.

High above, shadow-draped against the archway of the upper gallery, Aemond stood watching. His arms were folded behind his back, his eye pinned to the small, miserable spectacle below. Your boots slipped on the wet earth; your palms were raw, red, and weeping where the coarse grip of the practice dagger had torn the skin. Around the periphery of the yard, half a dozen guards leaned against the rack, their quiet mocking carried away by the cold wind.

A rustle of heavy silk signaled company before her voice ever broke the silence.

"What do you think this is, Aemond?"

Queen Alicent stopped beside her son, her hands tucked tight into her embroidered sleeves. She did not look at him; her eyes were fixed down in the yard, watching Ser Criston knock your wrist aside with a wooden snap.

Aemond did not answer.

"You think a title will make her free," Alicent said. "An invisible ward survives a keep like this. A woman with a title and the Crown's seal becomes a target. You have pulled her out of the shadows and given every lord in this court a reason to look at her."

"She cannot be kept forever," Aemond replied, his eye never leaving the dirt below.

"Then do not mistake exposure for freedom," the dowager queen countered. She turned her head slightly, peering up at his unblinking side profile. "You brought her into council so the realm would see her usefulness. A status so they would respect her. A weapon in her hand so she could defend herself. And yet every choice you make puts another mark upon her back."

Aemond's grip tightened behind his back, his leather gloves creaking. He did not concede, but behind his teeth, no answer waited.

Below, Criston's voice cut sharp through the damp air. "Again."

You raised the blade as your shoulders ached.

"Stance is too narrow," Criston corrected, stepping forward. He didn't use cruelty, only the uncaring competence of a veteran. With a quick flick of his wooden arm-guard, he caught your inner forearm.

His strike was clean and your grip failed.

You went down hard, your knees striking the packed earth with a sickening thud, the iron dagger flying from your numb fingers to land two paces away in the mud. For a horrible second, a vast silence descended over the yard.

The prince moved before his mind could stop him. He took two ringing steps toward the top of the stone stairs, his hand moving naturally to the hilt of his sword.

"Let her get up."

The Lord Commander didn't even turn around. He stood over you, his eyes fixed on your shaking frame, his voice echoing up toward the archway.

"She has had enough."

"No," Criston replied, finally casting a measured glance toward the gallery. "She has had enough of falling. That is not the same thing."

Aemond stood froze at the top of the landing, forced to stand witness as you dragged yourself off the ground.

You didn't rise for Criston. You didn't rise for the guards watching from the gallery wall. You pushed yourself up through sheer pride, the dirt smearing across your skirts as you stood on trembling legs.

Then, you looked up.

Your eyes met Aemond's through the early mist, catching him suspended halfway down the gallery stairs. The realization hit you like a slap: he had been up there the entire time, calculating your humiliation from the high stone.

You bent on the ground, snatched the fallen dagger from the mud, and looked Criston straight in the eye. Then, you turned toward the staircase and threw the weapon down.

The iron struck the cobblestones with a deafening, metallic CLANG.

"I am finished," you spat.

You pivoted on your heel and walked out of the yard, ignoring Criston's silence and the whispers of the guard.

The sound of quick, frantic boots followed you into the shaded gallery. You didn't slow down, but the prince's long stride caught up effortlessly, his hand reaching out to catch the sleeve of your dress.

"Stop," he commanded.

You whirled on him, tearing your arm from his grip, your face burning with an anger that made him halt a step back.

"You held my face in the dark like I was something fragile," you spoke, "and sent me to be beaten in a yard this morning."

"That is not—"

"You keep deciding what I need without ever asking me what I want!"

"If I had asked," he rasped, his voice dropping into a harsh whisper, "would you have agreed?"

"No," you hissed.

"Then I did not have time to ask."

"Yet you always have time to command."

The peacefulness of Queen Helaena's solar felt like a world apart from the bitter dirt of the training yard and the stinging ache Aemond had left behind in the hall.

You sat stiffly on the edge of a velvet settee, your knees throbbing under your skirts, your raw palms bound in fresh strips of linen. Your jaw was still tight with anger, the tone of his voice ringing in your ears: I did not have time to ask.

Across the sunlit room, Princess Jaehaera played on the rug, lining up wooden blocks while Helaena sat by the glass, her thin fingers threading spools of muted silk through an embroidery frame. She did not ask about the dust on your hem or the blood seeping through the bandages. She only turned her eyes toward you, her voice sounding soft and detached over the quiet hum of the room.

"The first shell is always the hardest to leave," she muttered.

You looked up, your hands folded awkwardly in your lap. "Did you require something?"

Helaena offered no explanation. She set her needle down and looked at your wrapped wrists with a certain meaning.

Desperate to anchor yourself—to cling to the predictable routine of the only life you understood in this castle—you forced yourself up. "I will prepare the children's afternoon tea, my queen. And the gowns for tonight's feast require sorting."

Your fingers stung sharply as you reached for the wicker linen basket. You bit back a hiss, having your spine straight, determined to prove you were not easily broken—that you still belonged here, safe in the domestic warmth of Helaena's shadow.

Before you could lift the basket, a pair of slender hands rested gently over yours. Helaena eased the wicker handles from your hand, setting the basket back onto the table with a rustle.

"You need not do that today."

You glanced at her soft features, "I am your lady-in-waiting, my queen. It is my duty."

"Yes," she whispered, taking your bandaged hand in her own with surprising warmth. "But you are not only that."

The dreamer gently pulled you back down beside her on the settee, putting her embroidery frame aside. She did not ask of armies, nor did she press about the prince who had left you bruised in the dirt. Instead, her eyes rested on yours with a grounding stillness.

"Tell me of your home," she asked. "Before the dragon came."

The firmness in your body unspooled by the question. You spoke not of keeps or river crossings, but of tiny, forgotten truths—the smell of wet earth along the riverbank after autumn rains, the wild lavender that clung to your childhood castle, and the distant baying of your father's hounds at dusk.

Helaena simply listened, her hands resting over yours, creating a rare sanctuary in the Red Keep where you were neither an asset, a hostage, nor a pawn. You were just a person being remembered.

"Keep those memories close," the Queen reminded as the golden afternoon light turned to ash outside the window. "The court will try to replace them with names on a map."

By nightfall, the sanctuary dissolved into the loud splendor of the Great Hall. The news had spread through the keep like wildfire—whispers of a Crown seal granted to a river-born captive, an unprecedented appointment of a Ward's Emissary signed under Ser Criston Cole's military authority.

As you walked into the hall beside Helaena, dressed in high-collared dark silk that hid the linen bandaging your wrists, the change in the air was immediate. Yesterday, courtiers had brushed past you without a glance. Tonight, the hall fell into a heavy murmur as you passed. You felt the discerning gaze of Ser Otto Hightower from the high table, and noticed the movement of silk as noblewomen talked behind painted fans.

"The Riverlands Emissary," one lord muttered.

"The prince's quiet shadow," another insulted.

You kept your chin high against the tide of their scrutiny, holding close to the memory of the wet earth and wild flowers like armor. As the hours stretched on, the edge of the feast gradually dulled, the court's speculation blurring into a backdrop of music and wine-laced chatter. Helaena remained steadily beside you through it all, a calm anchor untouched by the malice.

When the hour finally grew late and the Queen rose, she did not ask you to accompany her further. She paused in the hall outside the doors, her pale eyes dropping to the faint pink stain that had begun to seep through the dark fabric of your sleeve.

"Retreat to your chambers," she ordered, "tend to your hands. We will choose the embroidery tomorrow."

You bowed your head, unable to hide the relief that washed over you. Leaving the mutters of the feast behind, you returned to the solitude of your own bedchamber, shutting out the court, the title, and the weight of the day as you prepared to cleanse the dried blood from your hands.

The bolt clicked into place, and the quietness of your chamber rushed into the fill the space where the court's whispers had been.

You stood before the basin, trying to unwind the cloth from your hands. The fabric had dried against the torn skin of your palms, and every tug pulled a sickening pain up your forearms. You hissed through your teeth, forced to stop, leaning your head on the cool stone wall.

The day felt like an awful burden pressing on your sternum. Criston's wooden blade knocking your joints loose. The dirt on your knees. Aemond watching from the gallery with that specific stare. And then the Great Hall—the hungry eyes of lords who looked at you not as a person, but as a status Aemond had pinned to your chest.

You are not only that, Helaena had said.

You wanted to believe her. But right now, your body pained with the proof of what this castle was doing to you.

Three measured taps sounded on your oak door.

You didn't move right away, but the silence outside stayed patient. When you finally lifted the latch, Aemond stood in the dim light.

He had shed his pride, his sword, and his boots. His silver hair fell loose over his shoulders, his black linen shirt undone at the collar, exposing the hollow of his throat. He looked haggard, dark lines carved deep beneath his eye—stripped of the Prince Regent persona he wore in the yard.

His gaze dropped to you bare, weeping hands immediately.

"You should not be here," you said, tight with lingering bitterness.

"I know."

"I am still furious with you."

His jaw flexed. "I know."

"You watched me fall," you resumed. "You stood up there and let him tear my hands apart."

Aemond took a step across the threshold, shutting the door behind him with a snap. "I watched you throw the blade down," he corrected, "and I watched you walk away."

He didn't give you a grand apology or excuses. He only stepped toward the washbasin, picked up the clean cloth, and wet it in the warm water. Then he turned to you and pointed to the edge of the bed.

"Sit."

You hesitated, but the exhaustion in your bones won out. You sat on the edge of the mattress as Aemond sank to one knee before you—bringing himself level with your lap. He took your wrist in his hand, his grip steady enough to ease your tremors, but careful not to press against your bruises.

He began to clean the dirt and dried blood from your palms. His movements were slow and devoid of harshness he showed in the yard. When you winced as the linen touched a raw tear, his thumb stroked the uninjured skin of your wrist in an instinctual rhythm to keep you still.

"It hurts," you complained.

Aemond didn't look up. "Hmm." He set the cloth aside, raising your hand to his mouth.

He didn't kiss you with theatrical romance; he pressed his lips hard over the center of your raw palm, the heat of his mouth soaking directly into the sharp ache of the wound. He held his lips there for a long breath, inhaling slowly, as if he could pull the inflammation out of your skin and take it into his own chest.

He moved his mouth to the base of your thumb, then to the dark bruise of your inner wrist, pressing heavy kisses into every place you had been struck.

"You don't have to..."

"Allow me for once," he rasped against your skin. His single eye lifted, dark and possessive under his silvery lashes. "You are tense everywhere. Your shoulders. Your knees."

"Because I spent four hours in the dirt."

"I'm aware." He kissed the pulse point at your wrist again, staying until he felt your heart slow its frantic pace. "Let me take it out of you."

His long fingers pulled for the laces of your gown, loosening the dark fabric. But as his knuckles brushed the bare skin above your waist, his hand stilled.

Aemond looked uncertain. Not afraid—Aemond Targaryen knew no fear—but uncertain. The unyielding edge of his posture eased, his touch remaining light against your ribs without pressing forward.

"If you want me to leave," he asked quietly. "Say so."

You looked at him then. The prince who had commanded you into the yard that morning had vanished. There was only the man kneeling in the firelight, offering you the absolute control the rest of the keep had spent the entire day stealing from you.

Your bandaged fingers tightened against his shoulder, holding him in place.

"Stay."

He stripped away the fabric with painstaking slowness, taking care that your arms and hands bore none of the effort. He supported his own weight entirely, guiding you back onto the soft furs of the bed, ensuring your sore, wrapped palms rested unburdened on the pillows.

He shed his tunic, the consuming heat of his skin pressing over yours. Where Criston's blade had left you stiff and aching, Aemond brought a steadying warmth. His mouth moved down to your neck, over the curve of your collarbone, and along your tits, using the slow pressure of his lips and teeth to coax the tension out of your body.

When he settled between your thighs, he did not reach for his breeches. He gathered your legs gently, lifting your knees to drape over his shoulders, taking your burden onto himself.

"Focus on my tongue," he muttered as his breath caressed the skin of your inner thigh.

He spat his saliva upon your cunt, only to trace it back with his lips. Then his mouth was fully on you.

A ragged gasp tore from your throat, your hips bucking upward. He worked with a ruthless devotion. His tongue traced deliberate strokes that left you unraveling the pain from your body. There was no rush in him, no demand for you to brace yourself or lift your hands to hold him.

"Mhmm—yes-ffuck"

Spreading you open as he buries his face between your legs like a starving man, licking through your folds and sucking messily on your soaked core. He groaned against your cunt before lowering a little, the tip of his tongue pushing into your entrance.

The stinging in your hands, the bruises blooming on your knees—all of it melted away into a tightening ache low in your gut. Your bandaged hands twitched against the furs, wanting to reach for him, to drag your fingers through the thick spill of his silver strands.

"Don't move," he moaned, "keep your hands still."

You can feel how soaked you are, the obscene wet sounds filling into the room from between your legs. Aemond drank in every ragged hitch of your moans, grinding his hardening cock against the mattress.

He pushed one finger slowly inside you, stretching you bare as a fresh shudder rippled through your core. His eye burned with an unspent heat as he added a second, his thumb coming to rub soft circles over your sensitive center, curling his fingers upward inside you with a steady pace.

"Mhm...much better?" He worked his fingers with a quiet precision, driving them in and out with a sloppy sound that made your hips lift helplessly off the mattress.

You whimpered, your nails digging onto his shoulders as he found that swollen nerve deep inside, curling his knuckles to milk breathless cries from your lips. "There, right there—its so good" He gave you no room to rest, coaxing your body into a desperate heat until you were slick against his hand.

Only when your inner walls were throbbing around his knuckles did he draw his fingers back. He untied his breeches with a low exhale, freeing his cock before aligning himself against your opening.

He nudged inside in one deep slide that earned him a roll from your eyes, filled with pleasure. "Oh—gods, fuck me."

The warmth inside you was scalding, wrapping around him like velvet. Aemond groaned, his jaw clenching hard as he buried himself to the hilt, stretching you so completely that your body tilted instinctively into the pressure. He paused for a moment, letting your body adjust to the length of him filling you to capacity.

"Aemond...m-move, fuck me now," you begged.

"I have you," he murmured, laying his head to the side of your neck.

He began to change the pace. His cock plunging deep inside you, over and over that made the bedframe groan against the wall. Every sharp slide inside you hit that aching center, sending waves of pleasure tearing straight up your spine.

"You fuck me so well—ah"

His chest over yours, slick with sweat, his silver hands falling like a curtain around your faces. He cupped the back of your neck, swallowing your cries as his hips snapped forward with an exacting rhythm.

"Stay mine," he moaned against your bruised lips, his thrusts turning faster, harder, urging you higher with every wet impact. "Yard or court. hall or bed. Mine."

"Sȳris īlon gaomā—rizlī ao daorūbila." (You make us feel so good—I'll leave you with child.) The friction built into an explosive fire that consumed your whole body. Your inner walls clamped around his shaft, the intense milking pulling a guttural groan from deep in his throat. Driven over the edge, his cock jerked inside as the hot wave of cum flooded into you.

Only when his chest stopped heaving did he carefully roll onto his side, pulling your flushed body toward his chest and wrapping the heavy furs over you both. His hand draped over your waist, his thumb making absent arcs across your skin.

In the dark, he reached down, carefully threading his fingers through yours—he pressed a quiet kiss to the crown of your head, his breath comforting on your hairline. "Sleep for now."

You closed your eyes, letting the warmth from his body dull your pain to a tender soreness, if only until dawn.

Thin, silver ribbons of gray light stole thru the high stones, bringing with it the early morning's unrelenting cold.

When your eyes fluttered open, the space beside you was empty, the furs cooled where his body had been. You lay still for a moment, acutely aware of the fading throb returning to your palms, the ache of last night in your hips, and the feel of his touch still mapped on you.

Aemond stood near the dying embers of the hearth, his back turned to the bed. He was nearly dressed already—his black tunic buttoned, his coat pulled over his shoulders. Even his silver hair was gathered back. It was almost impossible to reconcile this man with the one who had knelt before you in the dark, pressing his mouth to your cunt and burying himself there.

You pulled the furs higher over your bare chests, "You are leaving."

His hand stilled over the breeches. He did not turn around right away. "Well, eventually."

"I thought you might already have gone."

"I considered it."

The keep outside was beginning to stir—faint footsteps in the distant corridor, the muted calls of guards on the battlements—reminding you both of the court, and the wars waiting beyond the walls.

Without the softened shadows of the hearth fire, his eye turned sharp and dark once again beneath his pale lashes. The Prince Regent was back, his face a carved mask of duty and control, yet there was a subtle look in his expression that betrayed him.

"Do you regret it?"

He looked down at you lying among the tangled sheets, seeming every bit of his. "Why? Do you?"

The question hung in the cold wind, dangerously heavy. You glanced up at the line of his throat, the scar running down his cheek, and felt the terrifying truth of what you had done.

"I don't know," you confessed softly.

Aemond simply absorbed the words, accepting the honesty for what it was. "Neither do I."

By mid-morning, the summons arrived.

The climb to the Tower of the Hand was long, every step jarring the pain in your bruised knees. But by the time you arrived at Ser Otto Hightower's study, your spine was rigid, your bandaged hands hidden in the folds of your skirts.

The Hand sat behind a massive mahogany table stacked high with raven scrolls, ledgers, and detailed maps of the Riverlands. The morning ray cast sharp angles across his aged face as he dipped a quill into the inkpot. He let you stand in the silence while the scratch of iron nib on parchment filled the room.

When he finally set the quill aside, his gray eyes lifted to yours, dissecting you. "You have become remarkably important in a very short span of time."

You kept your face blank, meeting him half way. "I serve at the pleasure of the royal family, Lord Hand."

"A lady-in-waiting yesterday. A Crown emissary today." Otto leaned forward, resting his steepled fingers on the edge of the mahogany. "And tomorrow?"

"Whatever my duty to the Crown demands."

A dry exhale escaped Otto's nose—neither a smile nor a laugh, but the sound of a man assessing a new placed piece on a chessboard.

"Duty is a convenient shroud," his eyes dropping briefly to the white linen wrapped around your hands. "Do not mistake the prince's affection for political protection. Affection is the first thing men notice. And the first thing their enemies exploit."

The warning lasted sour between you, full with the implication that he knew—or guessed—exactly what had transpired behind your bolted door before dawn. But you did not flinch. You did not lower your eyes, nor did you offer him the satisfaction of a flush on your neck.

"Then perhaps, Lord Hand," you replied, "you should judge me by what I can do rather than whom I am seen beside."

Otto kept silent for a suspended time. A careful re-evaluation took place in the dryness of his gaze. He observed a woman acquiring the fatal language of the Red Keep much more quickly than he had anticipated, rather than a terrified hostage or a temporary plaything to be thrown away.

"We shall see," Otto said, gesturing dismissively toward the door. "You are to leave."

Leaving the shadow of the Hand's tower felt like stepping out from underwater. The keep was loud with its usual midday rhythm—servants hurrying through vaulted pathways, low clatter from the kitchens, the clink of armor along the yard—but the moment you pushed open the door to Queen Helaena's solar, the noise fell away entirely.

Here, the sun filtered through the windows, casting gold grids on the rug. Jaehaera sat in a patch of light, stacking wooden blocks into small towers only to knock them down a solemn sigh. Helaena sat by the light, surrounded by open spools of dyed silk—shaded of subtle moss, sea glass, and dark copper.

The contrast was dizzying. An hour ago you had been standing before Otto Hightower, arguing your worth on a political chessboard; now, the world shrank back down to the hum of a sewing room.

You moved to sit by the chair near the queen. Your movements were slow and guarded not to pull at the cloth on your wrists, but the burn of yesterday had settled into a manageable fatigue. You picked for the basket, sorting through the tangled ribbons of thread and arranging the ivory needles in neat rows.

Helaena did not ask about your sudden summons to her grandsire. She pulled up a strand of silk, running the fine thread through her touch.

"This color is too deep for spring leaves," she mused, her voice like a feather on a draft. "It belongs to autumn. When everything is preparing to rest."

"It is still very pretty, my queen," you forced your tone into an even cadence as you handed her an ivory frame.

"Pretty?" She repeated, "yes. I suppose it is."

For a long time, you worked side by side. In the clam of the dreamer's presence, the memory of morning—Aemond's parting look, Otto's threats—started to feel almost like a thought you had dreamed in another life.

As the sun dipped lower, casting long shades on the floor, Helaena set her embroidery frame down in her lap. Her hands rested over it perfectly still. "Did you sleep?"

The thread you were holding paused midway between your fingers. "I...I rested. The night was very peaceful."

Helaena turned her head toward the high collar of your dress designed to hide the marks and bites beneath. She stared into your eyes with an eerie certainty that seemed to see right through the silk and the lies.

"You smell like Aemond."

The air rushed straight out of your lungs. The cold dread streaming down your spine as your heart hammered against your ribs. You sat utterly exposed under her words, scared that one wrong word would shatter the precarious sanctuary of the room.

"Dragons are difficult to hide, you know," she added, sounding soft and untroubled into the gathering light. "Even when they try to tread cautiously."

She gave no scolding or any promise of judgement. Rather, she left you standing in the suffocating quiet of your own pulse. Down on the rug, Jaehaera' s wooden tower tumbled with a hollow clatter, breaking the spell. As you knelt to gather the scattered blocks for the little princess, your heart realized that in a keep crawling with enemies, the Queen had been the only genuine mercy you had been given from the start.

Life in the Red Keep did not suddenly change within that afternoon. That was perhaps the most peculiar part.

The court continued moving around you as though nothing extraordinary had happened under the cover of dusk. Bells still marked the hours, servants carried laundry through the galleries, and Princess Jaehaera threw her wooden dragons across the floor, expecting you to retrieve them. You stayed the Queen's lady-in-waiting, dressing her in the mornings, accompanying her through the shined gardens, and learning which cups she preferred for tea without ever needing to ask. You did not abandon the life you had been given because Aemond had paved you another; instead, the two began to weave together.

At dawn, you belonged to the dirt of the yard. You were still terrible at first, but as the weeks merged into one another, you stopped falling quite so dramatically. Criston's correcting grew less harsh, and Aemond—standing high in the gallery—did something far more harder than apologize.

He changed.

When you stumbled, he no longer stepped forward to intervene. He watched you with his arms folded behind his coat, keeping his mouth shut and letting you learn to stand on your own.

The morning you finally disarmed one of Criston's younger squires, your eyes flew to the gallery. Aemond was there. He gave you a one slow nod.

You found yourself smiling anyway.

The intimacy that grew between you was not built on grand declarations, but on stolen repetitions. A kiss caught in a dim passage while servants moved to the other way; his mouth brushing your temple behind the tall screen in Helaena's solar while you held a spool of thread; his hand in yours under the oak of the war council table while lords argued over troop movements.

One evening, you found him leaning on the stone beside your chamber door.

"You are late," you said as you unlocked the heavy door.

"I was occupied."

You raised an eyebrow, stepping inside. "I dislike that answer when you give it to me."

The shadow of a smile touching his sharp jaw. "I taught you to use it."

"Then I regret learning it."

"Please," he let out a small laugh, stepping past the threshold and closing the door behind him.

He began sleeping in your chamber once in a while. Neither of you spoke about it the first time he stayed. He simply unbuckled his sword, set it beside the bed, and lay down next to you as if the decision had already been made somewhere beyond words. You learned how he took his tea; he learned that you hated being disturbed before sunrise. He started leaving hefty histories on your table without explanation, and you began stealing his leather gloves. He always noticed but never asked for them back.

On the nights he stayed, the control he maintained throughout the day broke behind your bolted room. Their encounters were intense and consuming—a pleading routine in the night that left you trembling under him. He would press you deep into the furs, his mouth sucking on your tits as he filled you, swallowing your moans into his throat. Afterwards, slick with cum and sweat, he would stay anchored inside you, assuring to leave a part of him inside.

Yet the contradiction between you remained enticing and uncomfortable. He was still the prince who had ridden out to bring war to your doorstep; you were still the river-born captive who held his gaze without fear. You were lovers now, yes, but you were still bound to a war that hadn't paused just because you shared a bed.

The morning of Aemond's departure arrived below a sky the color of forged iron.

Vhagar's presence could be felt long before she was seen. The great beast stirred beyond the outer walls, her enormous wings beating against the air with a sound that vibrated straight through the castle and into the soles of your boots. Servants hurried through the corridors in hushed panic; guards gathered along the battlements, their eyes focused on the massive shadow moving along the dawn.

The summons arrived at your doorstep, brought by a taciturn guard who escorted you up the winding stair to Aemond's private patio.

The polite pretense of a final strategy briefing vanished into the breeze as the pine entrance snapped tight before you. Spreads of scrolls and detailed maps lay weighted down by iron daggers on his desk. Aemond stood by his armor stand, already clad in his riding leathers, wool cloak draped over one shoulder, and his silver hair pulled away from his face.

Aemond looked at the sound of the latch, his eye going over your posture.

"You are armed," he noted, his gaze settling on the small steel blade at your hip.

"Ser Criston told me to carry it," you replied, keeping your head high as you walked into the center of the room. "And you never told me to hesitate."

"I suppose I did."

"So why are you staring as though you regret teaching me?"

"I am considering whether you have become insufferable."

A faint, wry smile decorated your lips despite the knot in your chest tangling even more. "You have only yourself to blame."

A breath of amusement left him before his expression settled back into a somber absence. He reached beneath his cloak and loosened a blade from his own belt. It was not a courtly weapon dripping in silver, but a functional dagger—its leather hilt worn smooth from years of his own grip, the pommel carved into a dragon's head with a dark ruby for an eye.

He stepped out from behind the desk, holding the weapon across his palm.

"I expect you never to need it," Aemond spoke, "but if you do, make certain whoever stands opposite you will answer to me when I return."

You stared at the dark leather, your pulse hammering in your chest. Slowly, you reached out and accepted the blade. The metal still held the warmth of his touch.

You tried it in your hands, trying to call the defensive humor that had kept you alive in this keep for moths. "Is that a promise?" you questioned, forcing a mocking curve to your mouth. "What has made you so soft?"

You meant it as a jest—a pathetic attempt to keep the forming tears from crushing you both.

Aemond did not rise to the bait. He only watched you knowingly.

"You."

Your fingers stilled around the hilt. The clever retort died instantly on your tongue.

Aemond closed the distance between you, the fabric of his cloak brushing yours. He leaned down, taking the leather sheath from your hands, and fastening it firmly to your belt himself, his knuckles brushed against your waist with care.

"You have made me soft," he resumed quietly, his hand tracing the strap before locking the buckle in place. "You question everything I say. You expect answers where I once gave orders. You have somehow convinced me that ravens are worth sending."

"You still hate writing. And you will still give orders...then perhaps I have not changed you very much," you said, looking up into his face.

"No," Aemond murmured, his hand moving up to cup the side of your neck. "You have."

He could not kiss you with ruinous hunger. But he leaned and pressed his lips to the center of your forehead, holding them there for a heavy breath—a reverent mark left on your skin.

When he pulled back, the silence in the solar was deafening.

Beyond the courtyard, Vhagar let out an earth-shaking roar that set the glass rumbling in its lead frames. Time had run out.

Aemond dropped his hand, stepping back with his shoulders straightening, the armor of the Prince Regent sliding back into place. You lifted your chin in answer, taking a pace back.

"Farewell, my lady," he said, a formal cadence as he pulled open the door to the corridor where the guards waited.

"My prince."

He walked out without looking back, his boots echoing down the spiral stairs.

You moved to his solar windows, placing your hands on the sill. Down in the yard, the massive shadow of Vhagar swept across the cobbles as the ancient dragon unfurled her wings, rising into the pale grey sky. Aemond was a solitary silhouette upon her back, heading south toward Storm's End.

For one fleeting moment, Vhagar circled above the Red Keep, her vast shadow swallowing the castle whole.

Your hands slid down to the blade, your fingers curling around the worn leather.

Then the dragon turned toward the horizon, and disappeared into the clouds.

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