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The Small Council

Hi my sweet baby angels,

Here is the long overdue Aemond fic I promised all those moons ago. I hope you enjoy it, this one was definitely interesting to write. Writing someone as calculated as Aemond was a different kind of difficult, but using the dialogue from the show with Alicent did help quite a bit. Please let me know what you think! (Also if anyone can point me in the direction of making those cool like three gif/pic banner things cool authors put on their fics that would be so great love you bye.)

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Summary: A brief conversation between the Queen Dowager and the Prince Regent brings you unexpectedly to the precipice of action.

WC: 5.0k

Warnings: 18+, sex (p in v), oral (f!recieving), multiple orgasm, cheating, no use of y/n, public sex, implied fem!reader

Aemond Targaryen x Mistress!Reader

Aemond remained seated at the head of the council table, exuding an air of effortless authority. The chamber had begun to empty, the scrape of chairs and measured footsteps fading into the corridor beyond. Only the crackle of the hearth and the rustle of parchment lingered in the stillness. His fingers drummed idly against the carved wood, his expression unreadable as he watched the last figures depart.

Alicent was nearly at the door, walking beside Ser Criston, her hands clasped tightly, her posture poised yet rigid. Afternoon light streamed through the high windows, casting sharp angles across the chamber floor.

“Mother? A word.”

His voice cut through the space, measured—a command rather than a request.

Alicent halted, her lips pressing together as if steeling herself. Then, slowly, she turned, her gaze unreadable as she stepped back toward him. “I caution you, Aemond—boldness is one thing, but—”

“I am relieving you of your place on the small council.”

Silence stretched between them, taut as a drawn bowstring. Alicent did not waver. “You know very well I represented your father in his final years and have counseled Aegon.”

“Capably so.” Aemond’s tone was even, unruffled. “Father is dead. Aegon is… mmm.” He exhaled through his nose, tilting his head slightly as though considering his phrasing. “You served the realm well in its time of need. That need has ended. You are no longer obliged.”

Alicent’s chin lifted, her gaze sharpening. “It is not a matter of obligation. This council is in need of a tempering voice.”

Aemond’s mouth twitched, something too faint to be a smirk but just as dismissive. “We have more than enough of those, if you ask me.”

Her shoulders squared. “You have the recklessness of ease. And its arrogance. Neither of which befits a king.”

His fingers stilled against the table. He did not flinch, did not betray so much as a flicker of reaction, but something shifted in the air between them. “I release you from your seat, such as it was. I trust you’ll find contentment in more... domestic pursuits.”

Alicent stepped forward then, close enough that the afternoon light slanting through the chamber windows cast a gentle glow over her face. She reached out, fingertips light as they pressed to his cheek—a touch meant to soothe, perhaps, or to remind.

“Have the indignities of your childhood not yet been sufficiently avenged?”

Aemond’s hand caught her wrist, his grip firm, but not unkind. The moment stretched, heavy with words unspoken. Then, slowly, Alicent pulled away. She did not look back as she turned, nor did she speak. Aemond stood, movements smooth, deliberate, and watched as she disappeared beyond the threshold.

“You have the gratitude of the Crown,” he said at last, though the words were spoken to the empty air.

The door closed behind her, leaving him alone in the hush of the chamber, the afternoon light stretching long across the stone. Aemond exhaled, long and slow, before turning back toward the window. He clasped his hands behind his back, posture rigid as he gazed out over King’s Landing. The city stretched before him, its streets winding and endless, its people moving below like ants, oblivious to the shifting of power within the Red Keep. The faint sound of the door opening again caught his ear, but he did not turn. He already knew who it was.

You hesitated in the doorway, the soft click of the latch settling into place behind you. He did not turn. You had not expected him to. Still, a quiet unease curled in your stomach as you took a measured step forward, the train of your gown whispering against the stone floor.

“My prince.”

His only response was a slow inhale through his nose. “My lady.”

He still did not look at you, his gaze fixed on the sprawl of the city below. That suited you just fine. You had no desire to meet his eye just yet, not after overhearing what had passed between him and the Dowager Queen. You had not lingered to eavesdrop—not intentionally, at least—but whispers carried through these halls like a restless wind. And you had learned long ago that it was wiser to listen than to be caught unprepared.

“You’re troubled,” you said, choosing your words carefully.

That earned you something—a quiet exhale, almost a laugh, though it held no true mirth. “What keen insight,” he murmured, finally turning to face you.

Aemond’s gaze swept over you, cool and assessing, and though you stood still beneath it, you felt the weight of it settle on your skin. You were no one of great consequence, no rival, no threat—merely a courtier, the wife of another lord. But you had remained in the Red Keep long past what was necessary, and he had noticed.

He noticed everything.

“Shall I presume you were listening at the door?”

The corner of your mouth lifted, though you did not dare call it a smile. “No, my prince. The halls carry sound.”

His expression did not shift, though something in his gaze sharpened. “And what have you come to tell me?”

You hesitated only a moment before lowering your head, a gesture of deference, though not entirely without purpose. “Only that I thought you might appreciate the presence of one who has no quarrel with you.”

Aemond studied you for a long moment, the afternoon light cutting across his features, sharpening the angles of his face. His silence was weighty, deliberate, yet you did not move.

“You believe I am in need of comfort,” he murmured, stepping forward.

You did not step back. “I believe you are in need of company.”

A breath passed between you, heavy with something unspoken. The chamber was empty now. The smallfolk below were nothing more than distant echoes. The day stretched before you, uncertain yet light.

His lips curved, slow and deliberate. “Then stay.”

You stepped closer, the soft rustle of your pale yellow skirts barely breaking the silence between you. Aemond remained as he was—tall, composed, hands still clasped behind his back—but you saw the shift in his gaze, the way his eye flickered over you in quiet recognition.

“You wear yellow,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, edged with something more thoughtful than before.

You tilted your head slightly, watching him. “Should I not?”

His lips twitched, the barest ghost of amusement, though it never fully formed. “It does not suit your purpose.”

A small smile found its way to your lips. “And what do you think my purpose is?”

Aemond did not answer immediately. He let the silence linger, his eye sweeping over you—your gown, your posture, the way you stood before him without hesitation. It was a game, this dance between you. Yours was a connection made in the quiet corners of the castle, in the moments stolen between duty and discretion. He had taken you first out of spite, his own cold, calculated revenge against a man who had slighted him. But what had begun as punishment had not ended so cleanly.

It was not hatred that brought you here tonight.

Aemond finally turned fully to face you, the sunlight catching on the sharp planes of his face, throwing half of it into shadow. “You came to me of your own will,” he said, a statement rather than a question.

You hummed lightly, a sound that was neither confirmation nor denial. “Would you like to believe that?”

His gaze darkened slightly, though not with anger. With something else, something heavier, something that had long since settled between you both.

“I believe,” Aemond said, voice low, “that you should be more careful of whose company you keep.”

You lifted a brow. “And yet, here I stand.”

A pause. A slow breath. Aemond reached out, fingers brushing against the fabric of your sleeve—light, testing. Not claiming, not yet.

“You should go,” he said, but the words carried no weight.

“I should,” you agreed, though neither of you moved.

Another long silence stretched between you, the kind that always came before you surrendered to what had long since become inevitable.

His fingers curled around your wrist, firm but deliberate, drawing you just a fraction closer. Your breath shallowed, your pulse quickening as his thumb brushed idly along the inside of your wrist. He was warm, even through his gloves. You knew that touch well.

“You wear yellow,” he murmured again, this time with something close to satisfaction. “Like a wife meant to be untouched.”

You let your lips part slightly, watching him, waiting.

Aemond tilted his head, considering. Then, his grip tightened ever so slightly, guiding your hand to rest against his chest, just over the slow, steady beat of his heart.

“And yet,” he murmured, his voice dropping to something almost intimate, almost soft, “we both know better.”

You watched him, feeling the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath your palm, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat betraying none of the control he so carefully maintained. There was something intoxicating about the way Aemond looked at you—like he already owned you, like you had always been meant to stand before him like this, close enough for him to touch, close enough for him to take.

His eye flickered downward, tracing the shape of your fingers splayed against the black leather of his tunic before he released your wrist, the warmth of his touch lingering even after he pulled away. Without a word, he turned and moved back toward the head of the council table, settling into the chair with a quiet ease, as if he belonged nowhere else.

You lingered a moment longer before following, stepping forward until you reached the table. The cold stone bit into your palms as you leaned back against it, shifting just enough to let your skirts sweep over the edge. You hovered between standing and sitting, the table supporting just enough of your weight to suggest ease without fully surrendering to it. Instead, you turned your head to face him, meeting his gaze from where he sat at the head of the table. Not quite relaxed, but not so formal either. A silent challenge.

Aemond studied you from his seat, his fingers tapping idly against the wood. “You make yourself comfortable.”

You shifted slightly, the fabric of your gown whispering against the stone. “Should I not?”

The ghost of a smirk crossed his lips. “You enjoy testing me.”

You exhaled lightly, not quite a laugh, tilting your head. “Do I?”

Aemond said nothing, only watched you, the sunlight filtering through the high windows casting shifting shadows across his face. You had known him long enough to understand what that silence meant. He was considering you, weighing your presence, deciding what he wanted from you today

And you would give it to him.

His eye flickered down, a slow sweep of your gown, the delicate fabric stretched over your form in soft, yielding folds. The color was warm, too gentle against the harsh stone of the council chamber, against the cold weight of the crownless throne he had claimed.

“You do not wear this color for me,”he murmured, almost idly.

Your fingers curled against the edge of the table, the cool bite of stone grounding you. “No,” you admitted. “But that does not mean I did not come for you.”

Aemond hummed low in his throat, a sound of acknowledgment, of something almost pleased. He leaned forward slightly, resting an arm against the table, his gaze steady. “Say it, then.”

You arched a brow. “Say what, my prince?”

His lips curved, though the amusement did not quite reach his eye. “That you came for me.”

You inhaled slowly, letting the tension stretch between you, letting it coil and settle before you finally spoke.

“I came for you.”

Aemond’s fingers stilled against the wood, his gaze dark and knowing. He did not move at first, only let the weight of your words settle before he pushed his chair back slightly, rising to his feet once more.

His presence was suffocating in the best way, the sheer weight of him as he stood before you, close enough to touch, close enough to remind you of exactly why you were here.

His gloved hand lifted, fingers grazing along the curve of your jaw, featherlight but deliberate.

“And what shall I do with you, now that you have?”

Your breath hitched, the heat of his touch seeping through the delicate barrier of your composure. The chamber, vast and cold, felt smaller with him towering over you, the air between you charged and heavy. Aemond’s fingers trailed from your jaw to the delicate line of your neck, his thumb pressing gently against the pulse fluttering just beneath your skin—a subtle reminder of the power he held over you.

Your eyes did not leave his, refusing to grant him the satisfaction of your surrender, even as your body betrayed you, leaning just a fraction closer to the warmth radiating from him.

“What shall you do with me, my prince?” you murmured, your voice a low hum that barely bridged the distance between you.

Aemond’s lips twitched, the barest hint of a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “I could send you back to your lord husband,” he said, the words a dark promise, “make you walk these halls with the knowledge of where your loyalties truly lie.”

The suggestion sent a thrill down your spine, the dangerous game you played with him only stoking the fire that had long since consumed your common sense. “And if I said my loyalty was to you?”

Aemond’s eye narrowed, a flicker of satisfaction mingled with possessiveness tightening his grip ever so slightly. “Then I would say you have chosen wisely.”

You felt his other hand settle at your waist, pulling you off the table’s edge until you were flush against him, the hard planes of his body pressing into your softer curves. The cold stone was forgotten, replaced by the searing heat of him, of the knowledge that, for now, you were his alone.

“I have chosen you,” you confessed, voice breathless against the sharp lines of his jaw. “Again and again.”

His lips found yours, the kiss consuming, leaving no room for second thoughts or regrets. Aemond’s fingers tightened at your waist, pulling you impossibly closer as his mouth moved over yours—demanding, claiming. Each press and pull was a reminder of what you had surrendered to him, of what he had taken from your husband, of the way you had given yourself willingly.

When he finally pulled back, his breathing was as measured as ever, but his eye was dark, his gaze heavy-lidded and intent.

“You come to me in secret,” he murmured, his thumb brushing along your lower lip, swollen from his kiss. “And yet, I think you wish to be caught.”

You held his gaze, defiance and desire mingling in the depths of your eyes. “Perhaps I do,” you whispered. “Or perhaps I trust you to protect what is yours.”

The words struck a chord in him, a gleam of something dangerous and possessive lighting his gaze. Aemond’s hands slid down, gripping your hips firmly as he lifted you onto the edge of the council table, the hard stone pressing into the backs of your thighs through the thin fabric of your gown.

He stepped between your legs, his presence overwhelming, your skirts tangling around his knees as he closed the space between you. Aemond’s fingers splayed against your back, pulling you forward, leaving no room for hesitation or modesty.

“I will protect what is mine,” he vowed, his voice a rasp against your ear, the words sending a shiver of anticipation racing down your spine. “And you, my lady, are very much mine.”

Your hands found their way into his hair, fingers tangling in the silvery strands as you pulled him into another kiss, this one slower, deeper, the taste of possession mingling with the thrill of secrecy.

He pulled away for a moment, his expression that of a determined man. Yours was tinged with confusion, but the confusion ceased when his face soon disappeared beneath the fabric, and other sensations began to take over.

Your fingers tightened in Aemond's hair as his mouth found the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. A soft gasp escaped your lips, the sound echoing in the empty chamber. His touch was deliberate, calculated, each press of his lips and scrape of his teeth designed to unravel you piece by piece.

The yellow fabric of your gown pooled around your waist, a stark contrast to the dark leather of his gloves as he gripped your hips, holding you steady against the unforgiving edge of the table. You could feel the heat of his breath against your skin, the anticipation building with each passing moment.

"Aemond," you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper.

He paused, lifting his gaze to meet yours. In the afternoon light, you could see the intensity burning in his eye, the raw desire etched into every line of his face.

"Patience," Aemond murmured against your skin, his voice low and commanding. "You came to me. Now you'll take what I give you."

His words sent a shiver through you, a mix of anticipation and surrender. You relaxed back onto your elbows, the cold stone of the table a stark contrast to the heat building within you. Aemond's hands slid along your thighs, pushing them further apart as he settled between them.

The first touch of his tongue against you drew a soft gasp from your lips. Your head fell back, eyes fluttering closed as he worked you with deliberate, measured strokes. Each movement was calculated, designed to build your pleasure slowly, inexorably.

Aemond's grip on your hips tightened, holding you in place as your body began to tremble.

Your fingers curled against the smooth surface of the table, seeking purchase as Aemond's ministrations intensified. The cool stone beneath you was a stark contrast to the heat of his mouth, the warmth of his hands as they held you steady. Your breath came in short, shaky gasps, each exhale threatening to form his name.

Aemond worked with the same focused determination he applied to all his pursuits. His tongue moved in deliberate patterns, alternating between long, languid strokes and quick, precise flicks that sent jolts of pleasure coursing through your body. You could feel the tension building, coiling tighter with each passing moment.

A soft whimper escaped your lips as he pulled away briefly, his breath hot against your sensitive skin. "Look at me," he commanded, his voice low and rough with desire.

Your eyes met Aemond's, his gaze burning with an intensity that made your breath catch in your throat. Sunlight streamed through the windows, casting shadows across his face, deepening the hollows of his features and lending an almost predatory gleam to his eye.

"Good," he murmured, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "I want you to watch as I undo you."

Without breaking eye contact, he lowered his head once more. The first touch of his tongue against you was electric, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips. Your fingers curled against the table's edge, knuckles white with the effort of maintaining your composure.

Aemond's technique was relentless, each stroke of his tongue precise and measured. He knew your body well, knew exactly how to build your pleasure to dizzying heights.

Your breath hitched as Aemond's tongue swirled against your most sensitive spot. The tension within you coiled tighter, threatening to snap at any moment. Your hips strained against his grip, seeking more, always more.

"Aemond," you gasped, your voice a breathless plea. "Please..."

He hummed against you, the vibration sending a shudder through your entire body. His eye remained fixed on yours, dark with desire and something deeper, something possessive.

You could feel yourself teetering on the edge, every nerve alight with sensation. Aemond's movements became more focused, more insistent. His fingers dug into your thighs, sure to leave marks—a reminder of this moment, of your surrender to him.

The pressure built to an almost unbearable level.

Your body trembled on the edge of release, every muscle taut with anticipation. Aemond's gaze remained locked on yours, intense and unyielding, as he drove you closer and closer to the precipice.

With a final, deliberate stroke of his tongue, the tension within you shattered. A cry tore from your throat as waves of pleasure crashed over you, your back arching off the cold stone table. Aemond's grip on your thighs tightened, holding you steady as he worked you through your climax, drawing out every last shudder and gasp.

Your breath came in ragged gasps as you lay sprawled across the council table, the aftershocks of pleasure still rippling through your body. The rustle of fabric and the soft clink of metal drew your attention back to Aemond. He stood between your parted thighs, his fingers working deftly at the fastenings of his breeches. His eye never left yours, dark with desire and something deeper, more possessive.

"Did you think we were finished?" he murmured, his voice low and rough with want.

A shiver ran through you at his words, anticipation coiling in your belly despite your recent release. You pushed yourself up onto your elbows, watching as he freed himself from the confines of his clothing. The golden light spilling through the windows carved over the planes of his body, accentuating the lean muscle beneath pale skin.

Aemond's hands slid along your thighs, pushing them further apart as he stepped closer. The heat of his body radiated against you, a stark contrast to the cool stone beneath. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your hips as he pulled you to the edge of the table, leaving you exposed and vulnerable before him.

"Tell me you want this," he commanded, his voice low and husky.

You met his gaze, defiance mingling with desire in your eyes. "You know I do."

A ghost of a smirk played at the corners of his mouth. "Say it."

Your breath caught in your throat as you felt him press against you, the promise of what was to come sending a shiver down your spine. "I want you, Aemond," you breathed. "Only you."

With a single, powerful thrust, he buried himself inside you.

A gasp tore from your throat as Aemond filled you completely, the sudden stretch and fullness overwhelming your senses. Your fingers scrabbled for support against the smooth stone of the table, seeking something to ground you as pleasure and pain mingled in equal measure.

Aemond remained still for a moment, his eye fixed on your face, drinking in every flicker of emotion that passed across your features. His hands gripped your hips tightly, holding you in place as your body adjusted to his intrusion.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice low and rough.

You forced your eyes open, meeting his intense gaze. In that moment, with his silver hair gleaming and his eye burning with desire, he looked every inch the dragon prince he was.

Slowly, deliberately, Aemond began to move. Each thrust was measured, controlled, driving deep before withdrawing almost completely. The pace he set was torturous, building the tension within you with agonizing precision. Your breath came in short, sharp gasps, each exhale threatening to form his name.

"Is this what you came for?" Aemond murmured, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down your spine. "To be taken on the council table, like the whore you are?"

A whimper escaped your lips, equal parts humiliation and arousal flooding through you at his words. "Yes," you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper.

His grip on your hips tightened, fingers digging into soft flesh as he increased his pace. The sound of skin against skin echoed in the empty chamber, a rhythmic counterpoint to your gasps and moans.

Aemond's thrusts grew more forceful, driving deeper with each movement. The table beneath you creaked in protest, the sound mingling with your breathless cries. Your fingers curled against the smooth stone, seeking purchase as pleasure built within you once more.

"Look at you," Aemond growled, his eye raking over your flushed skin and parted lips. "Spread out before me like an offering. Tell me, does your husband know how eagerly you come to me?"

His words sent a tremor through you, mortification and desire coiling tight in your belly. "No," you gasped, the word slipping out in a breathless plea.

Aemond's lips curved into a satisfied smirk. "Good. Let him wonder why you return to him with bruises on your hips and my name on your lips."

Aemond’s words sent a heated rush through you, the thrill of his dominance laced with something illicit and intoxicating. His possessiveness only fueled your arousal, each thrust driving you closer to the edge. The cold stone of the table bit into your skin, a stark contrast to the heat building within you.

Aemond's pace increased, his movements becoming more forceful, more desperate. His eye remained fixed on your face, drinking in every gasp and moan that fell from your lips. One hand left your hip, sliding up your body to grasp at your breast through the thin fabric of your gown.

"Mine," he growled, his fingers kneading the soft flesh. "Say it."

"Yours," you gasped, arching into his touch. "I'm yours, Aemond."

A low groan rumbled in his chest at your words.

Aemond's thrusts grew more erratic, his composure finally slipping as he chased his release. Your own pleasure built rapidly, coiling tighter with each powerful movement. The table creaked beneath you, the sound barely registering over the pounding of your heart and your breathless cries.

"Look at me," Aemond commanded, his voice rough with exertion.

You forced your eyes open, meeting his intense gaze. The single eye that remained to him burned with an almost feverish light, desire and possessiveness warring in its depths. His silver hair clung to his forehead, damp with sweat, and his lips were parted as he panted with each thrust.

The tension within you reached its breaking point. With a cry that echoed through the empty chamber, you shattered.

Pleasure crashed over you in waves, your body arching off the cold stone as your release overtook you. Aemond's grip on your hips tightened, holding you steady as he continued to drive into you, prolonging your ecstasy with each powerful thrust.

His own climax followed soon after, a low groan tearing from his throat as he buried himself deep inside you. You felt the heat of his release, your inner walls clenching around him as the aftershocks of your own pleasure rippled through you.

For a long moment, the only sound in the chamber was your shared labored breathing. Aemond remained buried within you, his body a warm weight pressing you into the unforgiving surface of the table. His eye never left yours, the intensity of his gaze unwavering even in the aftermath of your shared passion.

Finally, he withdrew, the loss of his warmth leaving you aching for more.

Aemond stepped back, his movements precise as he adjusted his clothing. You remained sprawled across the council table, your chest heaving as you caught your breath. The yellow fabric of your gown was crumpled and askew, a stark reminder of what had just transpired.

"Stand up," Aemond commanded, his voice low and even once more.

You pushed yourself up on shaky arms, sliding off the edge of the table. Your legs trembled beneath you as you smoothed down your skirts, trying to regain some semblance of composure. Aemond watched you with a critical eye, his gaze sweeping over your disheveled appearance.

"You'll need to fix your hair before you leave," he remarked, a hint of satisfaction coloring his tone. "We wouldn't want anyone to suspect."

A wry smile tugged at your lips."Of course not," you murmured, your fingers working to tame your tousled hair. "Though I suspect the marks on my hips may be harder to explain away."

Aemond's lips curved into a smirk, satisfaction gleaming in his eye. "Good. Let them serve as a reminder of where your true loyalties lie."

He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to cup your cheek. His touch was gentler now, almost tender, though the possessiveness remained. "You wear yellow like an innocent," he murmured, his thumb brushing along your lower lip. "But we both know the truth of what lies beneath."

You leaned into his touch, your eyes meeting his. "And what truth is that, my prince?"

Aemond's gaze darkened, his grip tightening ever so slightly. "That you belong to me. In all ways that matter.”

A shiver ran through you at his words, desire and something deeper coiling in your belly. "Yes," you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper. "I am yours."

Aemond's thumb traced the curve of your jaw, his touch feather-light yet possessive. "Good," he murmured, satisfaction coloring his tone. "Remember that when you return to your husband's bed."

The reminder of your marital obligations sent a pang of guilt through you, quickly overshadowed by the thrill of your illicit liaison. Aemond's hand dropped from your face, and you immediately felt the loss of his warmth.

"Go," he commanded, stepping back. "Before someone comes looking for you.”

You nodded, taking a moment to smooth your skirts and adjust your hair one final time. As you turned to leave, Aemond's voice stopped you.

"One more thing," Aemond said, his voice low and commanding.

You paused at the door, turning back to face him. Aemond stood tall and imposing, his eye gleaming in the flickering candlelight.

"Next time," he said, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down your spine, "wear green."

A small smile played at the corners of your mouth as understanding dawned. Green, the color of House Hightower - his mother's house. A subtle rebellion against your husband's loyalties, and a clear sign of where your allegiances truly lay.

"As you wish, my prince," you murmured, dipping into a curtsy.

As you slipped out of the chamber and into the afternoon halls of the Red Keep, Aemond’s gaze seared into your back. The weight of your shared secret clung to you like a cloak, a whispered promise and a lingering threat, impossible to shake.

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