Summary - There was no greater joy that Aemond could think of than having a babe with the niece he had always adored. From watching your belly swell to pushing the very child out, he worshipped you; his queen, his love.
Warnings - Smut. Targcest (uncle and niece), P in V, oral (f receiving), fingering, riding, pregnancy sex, lactation kink, breeding kink, mummy kink, blood, childbirth, fear of medieval birthing practices, crying, Aemond loves his wife and new little one. Reader is described as having silver hair and violet eyes but no mention of skin colour. Translations: ‘ñuha jorrāeliarzy’ = my beloved, 'gevie' = beautiful, 'avy jorrāelan' = i love you, 'jorrāelagon valzȳrys' = my dear husband, ābrazȳrys = wife. "Dōna valītsos" = sweet boy. “Issa taoba” = my boy.
WC: 10.1K
Part 1 & Part 2 - Can be read as stand alone
Swiftly, you found that your favourite thing about married life was lazing in bed. Not for the passions that were shared or the secrets that whispered like crisp sheets, but for the leisure of not having to rise.
Aemond was the king, he was charged to serve from dawn to dusk.
While you were the queen, you had little to do bar attend a council meeting once a week, and see that your marital duties were happening regularly. That was of course, no issue.
The issue was your uncle leaving you at the first cock's crow to tilt with Criston.
"Stay." You begged, eyes still fluttering with sleep as you sat up, watching him brush his hair.
"I cannot."
"You do not want me."
He sighed, and sat himself at the edge of the bed. "That is not it, you well know."
You folded your arms over your chest petulantly. "Well, it is how you make me feel."
Your husband rolled his eye. "My love-"
The covers dropped from your chest, leaving your breasts exposed to the gathering morning light. "Please?"
The sight was a captivating one that could arouse even those with the strongest resolve, long silver hair waved and messy, violet eyes begging, sweet lips jutting out in a pout, nipples perky with the morrow's fresh air.
His grace shut his eye and stood up, regretting indulging you by dressing at the bedside.
"You never did play fair. Not in childhood, and most certainly not now."
He strode across the chamber, grabbing his eye patch and placing it on quickly. His large hand then reached for his belt and scabbard, buckling them around his waist.
The queen remained sat up, exposed, undesired. You rolled your eyes and collapsed back into the bed, pulling the covers over yourself.
That show along with a few choice words had worked to pull him into the comfort of your sheets many a time in the past two moons of your marriage, but now your uncle had gotten stricter. Said his training would turn "lacklustre" should he continue to forgo it.
It was a petty excuse that annoyed you to no end.
"Aemond." You groaned, without much point to it.
The sound of his boots clicking against the stone floor got louder, and he stopped at the edge of the large oak bed, reaching out a hand to scratch at your scalp.
"I will see you when we break fast."
You grumbled and turned away from him.
"Really? Come, your king demands a kiss."
The covers rustled when you bunched your legs up beneath them. "Will he take my head if I refuse?"
Aemond scoffed and braced his hands on the edge of the bed, leaning over to kiss your cheek.
The corners of his lips were upturned in victory. He strode through the ghostly halls to the yard, and began his bouts with Ser Criston.
By the time he had finished, the hot summer sun was high in the sky, and his forehead was damp with sweat.
He had barely begun his walk up the keep's step when the Grand Maester's assistant blocked his path.
"Her grace has fainted."
The king's gaze darkened. "Where is she?"
"Your chambers, my king. Her maids found her laid on the ground, dazed."
Aemond all but sprinted to the holdfast. He stormed through the open door of the king's rooms, eye locking on your figure laid in bed, smiling like sunshine as if you had not scared your husband to the edge of death.
"What has happened?" He asked as he came to the bedside, hand reaching out to cup your face. His question was mildly for Orwyle but mainly aimed towards you and your odd grin.
You took his hand and placed it on your belly, looking up at him with joy all over your face.
It took him an embarrassing amount of time to catch your meaning.
His eyebrows raised and his mouth opened just slightly, before he shared your wide grin. "Truly?"
There was a quick nod like your head was a spring, and immediately, he embraced you, completely uncaring to the fact that Orwyle was right next to him.
You were going to have a babe… he was going to be a father.
"You have made me the happiest man in the realm." He murmured into your hair, pressing kisses against your crown.
A soft giggle left your mouth, arms raising to wrap his shoulders.
The king was smiling brightly — a rather unsettling sight — when he pulled back, smoothing down your silken silver hair.
"You are alright after fainting?" He asked softly, turning his head to the Grand Maester for confirmation, expression growing serious
Orwyle nodded his head pensively. "The queen is uninjured. Fainting is common in the beginnings of pregnancy."
Aemond hummed and looked back at you his smile finding footing once again. His lips pecked yours.
That evening you laid in bed. Naked, after being worshipped so attentively that moving sent thrums of pleasure through your very body.
Your husband was laid on his side, eye level with your belly, gently tracing around your navel, pressing kisses in its vicinity.
His hair was tangled in your hand as you scratched at his scalp.
"I cannot wait for you to be round…" He murmured with a tone you would call wistful, pressing his forehead against your stomach.
"You wish me fat?"
"I wish the babe to have a spacious place to grow." He quipped back, and you chuckled.
That made him grin again, pressing his ear to your middle as if listening for a heartbeat, the arm tight around you rubbed slow circles on your back.
After you had lost consciousness, Orwyle felt your stomach a bit longer than you assumed necessary, tapped it with a sheepskin instrument, and decided that your womb was strong.
While that was happening, the other maesters began pouring over moon charts, and decided that you had gotten with child within two weeks of marriage, leaving you two moons along.
They said that you should be due at the dawn of spring.
Aemond pressed a long, wet kiss to your navel.
"Shall we have a prince?" He nuzzled his nose against your belly, eye shut. "Or a little princess?"
The sound of rustling covers followed by a soft yawn, and then you finally spoke. "I know not. You wish for a son, I assume?"
"No." He murmured quietly, climbing back up to be eye to eye with you, cupping your cheek. "I wish for a daughter."
An incredulous huff left you, lazily tilting your head into his hand. "You have want for a daughter?"
"Why would I ever choose a son with my face over a daughter with yours?"
You rolled your violet eyes to the heavens, making a show of it as you leaned your forehead against his.
A hand raised to his face, fingers stroking his scar. "I would not mind a son with your handsome face."
He huffed softly, smiling with a tired and vulnerable aura only ever yours to witness. "Well, I would prefer one with yours, if my queen would indulge me this once."
Soon after — a month to be exact — your nausea set in.
Many things caused it; the scent of the city, of eggs, of wine, and of your husband.
Early one night, while the sun still bled along the horizon, he had returned to your chambers and held you from behind. It was a few seconds between smelling the rosemary in his hair and having bile rise in your throat. The king swiftly stopped oiling his tresses.
As of recent, the queen was most commonly found on the hard stone floor, with a book in her lap and a chamberpot at her side.
The sight saddened your husband greatly.
"What do you think, my darling?" He asked with raised eyebrows, thumb gently stroking over the large rubies along your collarbone.
"They are nice." You replied hoarsely, leaning your head against his shoulder.
It was unlike you to not perk up at the sight of jewels. He had been showering you with them nearly daily, and you seemed careless to it. The nausea was dimming your light.
"Nice?" He repeated dully as he gently rubbed your stomach.
You nodded. He sighed.
"Then I shall continue my quest to find better than just 'nice'. And to search high and low for a cure to this sickness you so suffer from."
Thankfully, your vomiting subsided rather quickly after that morning.
And as the illness left, the evidence grew.
The babe was four months by the time your belly began to show.
It was only a slight bump, but a bump all the same. The king was utterly delighted by it.
"Look at you." Hot lips kissed behind your ear, the sound of clicking heels deserting your rooms in the background because your maids ran at the sight of your husband.
"The image of the mother." He smirked as he cupped your belly over the thin chemise, pressing kisses to your shoulder with great pride.
His compliments seemed to have grown even more creative as the proof of his seed inside of you got larger and larger.
The unending protection around you doubled as your belly endeavoured to do the same.
Your uncle had become more obsessed and possessive of you since the bump had appeared. The proof of your coupling and his ownership was there for all to see, and he would be damned if anyone would dare to attempt to take what was rightly his.
At five moons, your nameday came.
Each and every year, your uncle went out of his way to spoil you. Allowance spent on jewels, chasing his mother around, begging her to throw something in celebration of you.
Now that he was the king, the realm and its coffers were at his disposal. No expense was spared.
He threw a large tourney in your honour, sat in the royal box and held your hand as if you were going to disappear, and made a pointed effort to dismiss every man who claimed that pregnant women should not look upon such violence.
As the crowd roared for another tilt, he looked over and smiled — just slightly, careful as ever — reaching his free hand to cup your cheek. "Happy?"
You nodded. He always made you feel like the centre of the world.
By the sixth moon of your pregnancy, the king was ravenous.
Day and night, atop and below, anytime he could have you, he would.
Such great hips and thighs, and such amazing swollen breasts so tender to the touch were not to be wasted.
His cheek was carefully nuzzled in the valley between your tits as he caressed one with gentle fingers.
Fucking was becoming a careful business now, yet it left him more breathless than ever.
"Do you think the babe presses against your cunt? I swear it has gotten even tighter."
You chuckled with an indolent breath, hand on his back, still and calm.
"No… I think them sat on my bladder. I cannot go ten minutes without needing to piss."
The king hummed and untucked his head from your bosom, pressing a kiss to your cheek as his hand splayed out over your bump. "Naughty princess, bothering her mummy so soon."
A soft huff left you, far more amused than exasperated. "We do not know if she is a princess-"
The words were cut off with a kick to your belly that felt more like a punch beneath your husband's hand. Before you had felt flutters and slight movement… but never a proper kick.
Aemond's mouth was slightly opened, then he grinned, tapping the spot to urge another jab — like a boy finding a funny new toy. "Regardless of whether or not the child has a cock… we know that it is a dragon."
The following moon came and went swiftly. Now, you had a babe of seven moons thrashing inside of you.
They did so especially whenever you took to the skies on Vermithor — whom you were desperately struggling to climb onto by now — as if they could feel their ancestry through the flesh of their mother.
They also enjoyed kicking when you were in council.
It was nice, like having a friend with a secret language that was shared only between the two of you.
It was often, these days to see the queen smiling down at her belly, ignoring the lords at the table happily. The king joined in her joy, and would stop his usual pacing to feel the kicks of the child.
"My little dragon." He whispered in the dead of night, not wanting to spoil your sleep. "Kepa loves you."
He had begun talking to your stomach the moment he had found out about your pregnancy, but the conversations had been growing lengthier of late.
"You shall be born into warmest embrace."
He kissed your navel, eye shut, completely absorbed in the moment.
"There is no woman more quintessential to be your mother." His long fingers traced the slight, silver stretch marks that had latterly appeared.
"You…" His forehead pressed against your swollen belly. "Are my heir. My realm."
That was taken with a prompt thump to his temple. He breathed out in amusement.
"I shall allow you to sleep in peace. My apologies."
As the child expanded, so too did the extent of your exhaustion. Most especially during court. An uncomfortably padded chair combined with the weight of a dragon pressing on your pelvis had your hips sore and your eyelids drooping.
Oftentimes the king would return from whatever midday task he had to change clothes or freshen himself, and you would be asleep so deeply that you resembled a dead body.
He liked to place a hand to your belly and a finger to your upper lip, to ensure you were breathing, and to let his heir know that muña was alright, just a bit weary. He would peck your lips, order food for your due waking, and continue with his day.
Perhaps his grace's favourite part of your pregnancy was how insatiable you were.
Morn, noon, and night, you would have him on his knees, working you with his fingers, or his cock. Whatever he would give, you would take.
Your uncle gave it all. He never could deny you… but now, as you whined in want, belly swollen with his seed and love, he took your pleasure more seriously than his duties as the king.
Laying on your back during the act had become painful. Being bent over a piece of furniture was no longer possible, and taking him on your hands and knees always had you more focused on not losing your balance than the actual sensations.
To say the least, you were at your wit's end of trying to get your fill and being too frustrated to finish.
You all but smacked your husband when he pulled you on top of him.
"I know, I know!" He replied quickly when he saw the look on your face, adjusting you to spread your legs widely as he slipped a practiced finger between your thighs to rub at your pearl.
Riding was far too tiring. You had no intention of doing so.
"I will accommodate you. Move as you like, sweet wife. I shall bear your weight."
Those words were met with a swift scoff. You looked down at him with boredom in your eyes.
The king sighed. "If you do not want to, you do not have to."
Your eyes rolled, and you planted your palms firmly on his chest. "I did not say that."
That made your husband sigh in victory, and he helped you lower over his hardened cock slowly, the pair of you making relieved sounds of pleasure.
By the end of the minutes, there were reddened marks on your hips, but they were completely worth it.
That night, you fell asleep spent with a smile on your face.
The next few evenings and mornings you spent coupling in that way.
During such intimacy, feelings your husband had thought he would be able to keep buried had bubbled to the surface.
They disgusted him as much as they filled him with arousal.
It happened first when you were sat on his face, your glorious cunt on his lips, and your full thighs in his hands.
Your fist was tugging at his hair as you moaned his name beautifully.
"Mummy." He had groaned against your core.
Immediately, he realised and stilled. You had not heard, thanks be to the gods.
A loud, angry whine left your throat as you pulled his hair, losing the ecstasy you were so close to. Though sense quickly came over you, assuming he needed air, you gripped the headboard to help you stand on your knees.
The king was beneath you, breath heaving. He swore he had ascended to the seventh heaven.
The queen above him, swollen breasts and belly, a wanton blush across her face as she brushed her thumb over his forehead.
"Aemond? My darling?"
He nodded, mouth parted as he licked your arousal from the corners of his lips.
"Sit down."
You obeyed.
After, you laid naked on the bed, on your side, uncovered and in lazy conversation with your husband.
"The Baratheons have passed their days of glory."
You murmured lazily, playing with a strand of silver hair with one hand as your other rested on your belly, brushing the barely-there dimple that used to be your bellybutton. "Lord Borros is a fat idiot… he cannot even read."
Your husband hummed, placing his hairbrush down and joining you on the bed.
His hands found your breasts and bump as if they were magnetic.
"Aemond. Are you even listening to me?"
The king blinked slowly. The scolding tone was making this worse.
Every part of him burned with embarrassment, but he needed to expose this part of himself when he was in control, lest he ruin an intimate moment.
"Wife… I feel I must discuss something with you."
Covers rustled as he intertwined your legs, eyes focused on your nipples, then back at your face.
A knit formed between your eyebrows as you lazily brushed his upper abs.
The king did not want you to think him perverted, even though that is what he truly was.
Thoughts of you with child — with his child —, praising him, had run through his mind since that first day your pleasures had been discovered in the library when you were four and ten. When that raunchy book lay forgotten on the windowsill as your uncle learned to rub your pearl the way that made you gasp.
"Mm, what?" You replied with a yawn, laying your head onto the fluffed red pillows.
His hand was still on your belly — resting over your own — while his other gently caressed your tender breast, circling the hardened, enlarged nipple.
"You have the body of a mother now… you have for some months."
"Is that a problem?" You teased dryly, knowing it was not. He loved your bigger breasts, wider hips, rounder arse, and thicker thighs.
"Not in the least." A soft sigh escaped him as he moved both his gaze and hand from your tit to your face. The king cupped your cheek and laid his head on the pillow as well.
"On the contrary, in fact. It- I suppose I enjoy being beneath you, while you are in this state."
"Really?" You murmured sarcastically, too tired to catch his drift, tracing circles over his bicep lazily.
Aemond nodded, about to speak again in riddles but being cut off by your lips assailing his scar and sapphire.
"Handsome." You were always pleased with yourself when you saw his face bare.
He huffed softly. The action reminded him that he did not have to fear judgment, for it was you, his miracle, his wife, his queen who was in possession of every secret he held.
His eye was shut, and his hand drifted along your round belly slowly. "Your figure enlivens me. I am aroused by the thought of it. And the title the babe has given you."
Your brows scrunched together in confusion. "The title?"
A quick nod was his response.
"Ñuha jorrāeliarzy..would it be too depraved if I were to call you by it when we make love?" He whispered.
Oh.
An amused huff left your mouth, as your thumb traced his scar. A soft challenge was spoken in the safe bubble of your bedchamber. "Say it right now."
Aemond breathed out through his nose. This reaction was unsurprising, but he still had to brace himself for the cringe he was sure to feel, baring this part of himself to you.
His fingers splayed out along your belly, and he tucked his head into your neck.
"Mummy." The warrior king mumbled, pressing a gentle kiss below your ear.
Your nails gentle scratched at his nape. The tone you used was soft and sweet, only for him. "Yes, my love?"
Gods, he melted. His legs curled up just slightly, and his head moved to rest against your breasts.
"Did you have a difficult day?" You murmured against his hair, kissing his crown and cupping the back of his head to keep him there.
The warmth of your tits was felt against his cheek as he nodded.
"It is over now, valzȳrys." Your hand found his lower back, and you began rubbing it gently.
The king made a quiet sound of true pleasure, listening to the beat of your heart. One large hand held your breast, feeling its heaviness.
He could not wait for them to swell with milk.
Soft lips kissed his scalp again.
Tonight was sweetness, tomorrow would be frustration.
By now, you were more than eight moons pregnant. No longer could you ride your dragon, or go up a flight of stairs without needing a few minutes to regain your breath. The stride you used to have has been replaced by a waddle, and everything is getting a bit too real.
It came to a head in the gardens.
A group of ladies and their queen having a small luncheon. Then wine began to flow around, and those proper ladies devolved into dim gossips who thought it their place to terrify the queen.
"When I had my second, he was flipped about. The maesters pushed my abdomen so hard that they cracked a rib! I could even hear it!"
Leave was taken rapidly after that declaration.
There was no way to describe the feeling in your gut besides utter terror. Labour seemed so far away for so long, but day by day, it crept closer. Now you were little more than two weeks away from giving birth.
The pout on your lips as you walked towards the holdfast was clear.
Large, heavy doors opened to your chambers, and you called out.
"Aemond?"
There was no reply. But the scent of lemons and incense was wafting through the air. You waddled into the bath in chamber.
The king was slouched in the marble tub, relaxation on his face turning to a grin as he looked you over.
"Gevie."
His hand reached for yours when you got to the edge, kissing the back of it, then slowly rubbing your knuckles. "Did you enjoy your time with the ladies?"
"Do you think I had fun with those prattling cows?" You snapped.
The look on your husband's face morphed into a surprised one. "I would take that as a no." He kissed the back of your hand once again, undeterred. "What is it that ails you, my queen?"
"Lady Webber, she-" Without your leave, tears had gathered and fallen in a matter of seconds.
Soft lips quivered as you let out a weak sob. "Aemond, I am terrified."
Most would assume that you were not afraid of anything. You claimed Vermithor at the age of eight, for the gods' sake. For you to be even startled was a great feat, and this outburst worried your husband to no end.
Water sloshed around the edge of the large tub when he climbed out. The puddle surrounding it was none of his concern.
He embraced you immediately, dripping naked body wetting your deep blue dress. A large hand rubbed your back as the other cupped your head, holding it against his bare chest.
Comforting you with words was not his strong suit. His vocabulary seemed to vanish when it was needed most.
"I know that birth is an intimidating business… but you are strong, ābrazȳrys." He kissed the top of your head with cold lips. "Nothing could take you from me. Let alone our own babe."
Such words were murmured against the top of your head in attempt to relax you, but he still heard muted gasps coming from your choked throat.
The king lifted you without warning, like a bride, held carefully as he strode into the main bedchamber, and set you on the bed like a sheet of crystallised sugar at risk of breaking with a mere glance.
His large hands cupped your face, smiling at you tenderly — trying to make you take it on yourself — while wiping away your tears with his thumbs.
"How may I temper your anxieties?"
The bridge of your nose twitched as you sniffled. You raised your hands to grip his forearm desperately.
The idea had recently plagued you, whenever you thought of labouring. The man you married would never do such a thing to you, would never allow it. Still, it was a nightmare that had haunted you.
"Do not let them cut me open." You begged shakily, teary-eyed.
Aemond's brows furrowed as he looked down at you. "My sweet, I would never. You know that, I would stand between any blade seeking you."
He lowered himself to look closely into your violet eyes.
"Avy jorrāelan, niece." He leaned his forehead against yours. "It is not because I can breed you. I would love you still were you barren. You may carry my heir, but never would I allow you to think that your very life would be forfeit for the mere continuation of my legacy. I swear this to you."
Slowly, you nodded your head.
The king gave you a gentle kiss, and laid with you for a few long moments, before sitting up and helping you out of your bothersome dress. He took you to bathe with him, as you often do. And even though he is awful at it, washed your hair.
You sat between his legs, all your weight against him, sniffling still.
Your husband had thoughts of the past on his mind, as he caressed your belly slowly.
"Do you remember that day on the battlements?" The sound of sloshing water backed his soft words, his chin resting atop your head.
"We always used to go on the battlements." You replied dryly, arms crossed over your chest, not in the best of moods after earlier.
"When we were two and ten. I had just gotten my sapphire in, and I was whining about the pain." He kissed your scalp.
A thoughtful expression grew on your face. "That was in your chambers."
He nodded. "Part of it, I know."
"We were hiding from Alicent." You chuckled lazily, relaxing a bit more, slouching delicately.
Aemond's mother was enraged around that time of your lives. She never liked how affectionate her son was with you, and when she heard about your recent flowering, she decided you should not be alone together.
"Mm, but I mean our conversation. About children." Your husband said softly, dipping his head to the crook of his neck.
That day, only four years ago, you had made a promise. That you would never be like your parents. Aemond vowed to love his children, not matter how unremarkable. He would not be Viserys. He would be calm and collected, unlike Alicent. You vowed never to make your children feel replaced, as Rhaenyra had done to you.
Those promises seemed more important than ever as the days went by.
After the bath, you sat on your husbands lap by the cracking hearth — to dry your hair —, a book abandoned on the oak side table. Sugar covered your tongue as your uncle fed you pastries.
Aemond had occupied his spare hand by rubbing your stomach. He was convinced he would never get tired of it. The idea that there was truly a miniature version of you and he merged inside of your belly still befuddled him.
"I cannot wait to meet our little dragon." He murmured quietly, the corners of his lips upturned in fondness.
"Mm." You hummed through a cake-stuffed mouth, swallowing and sitting up straighter, cupping your bump with adoration.
The king's sapphire glinted from fire-light, his face calm and fond.
"I am so proud of you."
A smile formed on your face, and you looked into his lone eye fondly. He kissed your shoulder.
That made a sound of contentment come from deep in your chest, covering his hand on your belly, feeling the weighty kicks the babe was so insistent on today.
One could hear the grin on the king's face without looking at it. "The little one is active."
You nodded, then leaned your head against his.
"They can feel your presence."
"Whenever you say they, you make me want for twins."
"They is neutral to sex."
"So? I already know that we have a princess."
A chuckle left you, he's been so insistent on that fact your entire pregnancy. "It is a prince."
Your uncle rolled his eye. "Did the babe tell you that?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact. I can sense it."
Aemond chuckled but did not fight you. He simply continued to caress your belly and back.
"You will be the best of fathers." You murmured happily against the top of his head, soothing his insecurities with your mere presence.
At nine moons exactly, one would have liked to spend every waking moment attempting to sleep, but the tireless work of holding the realm together continued.
Many ambassadors of different lands passed through the Red Keep, but rarely a representative as important as this one. The Prince of Pentos' eldest son, and his wife had come to sample the hospitality of your home and negotiate trade.
You really did not care. In a plush seat at the side of the throne's foot, you sat, hands clasped over your belly, as the large doors opened.
"Myrion Mopatis, the eldest son of the Prince of Pentos, and his lady wife."
The greeting was brief, the luncheon after it long. But you found that you did not mind. Aemond seemed to find the son sensible, and you thought his wife funny.
Her name was Serenei. She had long black hair and deep brown eyes, she looked almost Dornish. You decided you would keep her.
"I have never seen a woman to hate her husband more." You chuckled, sprawled onto a chaise. Your uncle sat at the end of it, massaging your swollen feet.
He shared your amusement with a quiet huff. "I suppose he is rather dull."
A quick counter came from your lips before a yawn. "You prefer dull people to bright ones."
"I do not." He muttered calmly as he focused down at his task, stroking his strong thumbs over the balls of your feet.
The fabric of your thin nightgown fell from your bump when you untied it, laying your hand there carefully, murmuring conspiratorially down to the child inside. "Kepa knows that I am right."
"Stop turning the babe against me." He murmured in concealed amusement, reaching a hand out to cover yours on your large belly.
"Why would the babe be on your side? He does not know you as well as he does I."
Aemond hummed, feeling around to try and get a reaction, but gaining none.
"The heir is sleepy, I think." He murmured quietly. "It's a tiresome thing, growing."
His musings made you huff in amusement, firelight dancing in your eyes. "As someone with a middle the size of a barrel, I agree."
The king shook his head plainly; he disliked when you talked of your body that way.
"My beloved, do not be ridiculous. You are the perfect size."
A yawn left you.
"Is that sarcasm or exhaustion?"
"Both."
He hummed lowly and scooped you up, walked across the chamber with you cradled against his chest, then set you into bed gently, tucking the covers around your body. Then he began unclasping his tunic.
"I went on a search for eggs again this morn. I cannot choose one out of Dreamfyre's clutch." He murmured quietly, knowing your opinion on the topic already.
Slow, affectionate hands rubbed your belly as you tilted your head to give him the look.
"Aemond, I do not want the babe to have an egg."
"And I think that is stupid."
A scoff left you. "My egg never hatched. Your egg never hatched. Look at the dragons we ride now. They may choose a grown dragon when they are age enough for it, and it shall be far more powerful and worthy than some hatchling."
Aemond's eyes were set down, presumably to unlace his breeches, mostly because he didn't want to face your words.
"The heir to the Iron Throne deserves a dragon at birth."
A sigh left you, struggling not to roll your eyes. "My darling, our child will not think themself unloved if they do not have a hatchling at the grand age of one."
Your husband clearly disliked that, his face twitching as he pushed down his breeches.
A hand left your belly, reaching out in want for his. "Aemond, will you heed me?" You asked softly, like he was a troublesome child only tamed by affection.
The king looked up to meet your eyes at the soft tone, and took your hand in his, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles.
"You are not Viserys." You began carefully, gripping his fingers tightly. "The child already knows that he or she is loved." A gentle hand moved your intertwined ones to your belly, holding them there as you looked into your husband's lone eye. "They do not need a dragon as proof of that."
The man before you swallowed, his throat bobbing as he understood you. In childhood, his father had thought him a disappointment for not having a dragon. He disregarded him even more so than his siblings, for something the gods only controlled.
His face crumpled when he sniffled, blue eye suddenly full with salty tears. Leather in the form of his eye patch was swiftly forgotten and fell to the floor, as he took a seat on the edge of the bed and looked at you with a shaky resolve.
How handsome he was when he cried. His sapphire gleamed, wet from the malfunctioning duct on his left side.
The soft sound of breath from his lips was when you knew you had won. The king laid down, burying his face against your breasts as he sobbed silently.
"It's alright, sweetling." You murmured against his scalp, pressing a soft kiss there.
The tone of his voice was gasping and desperate, so unlike the straight warrior he was known as. "I.."
"I have you."
The next day, you ventured out of the keep as you did each morn. Well, it had turned to afternoon more recently.
Your last ride upon your dragon had been at seven moons. Since your belly had grown, climbing onto the beast had become near-impossible, and when your husband watched you nearly fall dismounting, he forbade any more flights.
As much as it saddened you, it was for the best. You still visited Vermithor, each and every aforementioned day.
He grew restless and aggressive whenever apart from you, having gotten even more protective since you became with a babe.
The ride in the wheelhouse was uncomfortable, but you endured it to see him.
Since he became king, Aemond proclaimed that the bays belonged to the dragons, that keepers were unnecessary, and that the pit would constantly be alight with fire, heat growing them as it did in Old Valyria.
When Vermithor spotted you — his waddling rider approaching him with a smile — he scurried over so quickly that the ground shook. He stopped just soon enough that he did not knock you, and touched your chest with his nose.
A soft laugh left you, rubbing his nostrils gently. "Dōna valītsos." You murmured.
The biting sea air lifted your hair, sweeping it about, the scent of salt filling you with melancholy.
"My son missed you." You said happily, standing before the large dragon, like an ant with a man. He nudged your belly carefully, knowing of the child inside.
It warmed you.
A week and a half later, at exactly nine moons, and — according to the maesters — eleven days, you were impatient and insufferable.
In the past few days, the babe had manoeuvred themself into place for the south, their head and body pressing on every organ and bone you had in your middle. Sleep was a struggle, even if you felt like you were always sleeping.
It was the middle of the night, maybe the early hours of the morning — how were you to know? The child had its entire body on your bladder, and you desperately needed to use the privy.
Slowly, you attempted to sit up. Alas, no. Your husband's grip was too tight, and you were too weak.
"Aemond." You murmured aimlessly into the night, his chest pressed against your back. A loud huff of annoyance left you.
"Husband!"
The man behind you made a quiet sound in waking, kissing your neck as if thinking it were him who had woken for no reason, then relaxed.
"Aemond."
The king's eye opened, his head untucking from your neck. He hummed in acknowledgment.
"I need to piss. Help me up."
The covers rustled as he loosened his grip around you, cursing the cold that came right before spring. He stood at the edge of the bed — pushing the awaiting cradle to the side — and gripped your hips; he disliked you doing any type of physical activity that he could do for you.
Your hands clutched his biceps, and you let out a loud sigh, laying your head against his chest for a moment of respite; on the edge of heaving breath just from standing.
Your uncle cupped your nape and scratched slowly at your scalp.
"Jorrāelagon ābrazȳrys." Was murmured softly in High Valyrian, practiced words soothing you as his free arm embraced you.
Then, before you could register the feeling, liquid was splashing out of you into a large, dark puddle on the ground.
The king's grip around you tightened. "Was that..?"
Once you had looked down at the puddle, and the droplets clinging to your legs, you nodded. Your waters.
He joined you in your nod, clearly out of his depth already as he held you tighter, worried. "Alright…"
Twelve hours later, the castle was beginning to bustle. But Maegor's Holdfast had never stopped.
The loud sobs coming from the king's chambers would unsettle those with the strongest of dispositions.
Slow, heavy feet paced around the ostentatious rooms. "Where is my husband?" You sniffled, eyes red and voice hoarse.
A white sweat-damp chemise that was basically see-through by now was draped over your figure, bulging at the belly just like you.
"The king is just in the corridor, your grace." A midwife said carefully, reaching out to touch your forearm to hopefully calm you.
Quickly, you shrugged her off, letting out a loud cry and leaning your temple against one of the tall pillars.
The sound of the massive doors opening reverberated throughout the chamber, along with your husband's quick stride over to you. He had left only for a moment, and was barely outside of the door as he conversed with Tyland.
The king met you near immediately. He was silent as he placed his hands on your hips from behind, squeezing and rubbing in hopes of giving you some form of relief. The touch was careful not to get in the way of your hair, that he had half braided to get it out of your way.
Comforting nothings left him with an empty mouth. Words wouldn't be helpful, he figured; you never liked to deal with communication when angry or in pain, so he stayed quiet, and kissed your shoulder as you let out cries of differing intensities.
It felt like your insides were parting ways. Oh gods, you were pushing without even realising. A hopeless wail left you, your knees buckling. "Aemond-" You babbled, voice shaken an useless with tears.
The midwives recognised the action and rushed over, all but pushing your husband out of the way.
The cords in the back of your throat almost ripped with the screech you let out, on your knees. Aemond rushed to kneel with you, taking your weight as his, laying your arms over his shoulders as if you were a rag doll.
A loud sob left you, face scrunched up in both agony and fear.
"You are almost there, sweetling." The king murmured, leaning his forehead against yours to keep you present. "Focus on me."
A minute later, with a dragging scream from you, soft, innocent cries filled the chamber. A babe was born.
Immediately, you slumped against your husband, relieved and exhausted. The afterbirth slipped out with one lazy push.
His gaze was set on you incandescently, and he could not resist kissing your lips just briefly. "Well done, my love. You were so perfect." He almost whispered, holding the back of your head tightly as he eyed the child just a step away, watching a midwife cut the pulsing cord.
Another woman slid a number of pillows under you, and helped you manoeuvre onto your bottom. Then you were handed the babe.
It was screeching its little heart out, fighting the swaddle of white linen. So weighty yet so delicate. Silver hair and its mother's violet eyes. Its father's nose.
A tear tan down your cheek. "Hello…"
Your husband's arm was still tightly around you, and he was sat beside you now. His own eye was teary. A careful finger brushed the child's cheek.
"A boy." A midwife said quietly, then backed away to give space.
A soft cry left you, bottom lip trembling as the babe began to calm in your arms. "Issa taoba.." You sniffled, looking at your husband. "I told you."
A soft, exasperated breath of pure joy left him.
Once in bed, comforted and tucked in, you named your son.
"Vaemon." You murmured as you looked down at him latched onto your breast, suckling as if his first day was his last.
The king had a gentle grin on his face, "A strong name." sat on a chair beside the bed, looking at his wife and child with nothing but adoration and reverence.
"He is the image of you." Your husband said warmly, leaning in to kiss your shoulder. His heart swelled by the picture of you nourishing the babe with your own body.
He felt emotional, to think that your love created this sweet, sinless little being. His temple pressed against your bicep. The sapphire was uncovered, glinting with the daylight. He had wanted no barriers.
The prince's mouth had stopped sucking when you looked down, a sleepy milk-drunk expression across his little face. You stroked his cheek gently. Then murmured into your husband's hair. "Would you like to hold him?"
Aemond was incredibly worried of dropping him, making him cry, anything along those lines, but there was nothing he wanted more the to feel the babe's weight in his arms. He nodded avidly.
You handed Vaemon over slowly, careful not to jostle his weak head.
The king looked down at his son in his arms with a growing lump in his throat, watching the child squirm for a moment and then relax. His wide violet eyes staring up at his father with the same gaze of his mother.
"I cannot believe that you made him." He murmured with quiet awe, gaze set downwards as he gripped the swaddle for dear life, terrified of letting him slip from his grip.
"He has your nose." You murmured with a lazy lilt of fondness, head tilted into the pillow.
Aemond, thumb brushed across the bridge of their son's nose, staring into his massive violet eyes. "Everything else is of yours."
Vaemon began to squirm, letting out quiet coos that sounded like discomfort to his inexperienced father.
Your husband's eye snapped up to meet yours. "What is wrong with him?"
A soft breath of amusement left you. "Nothing at all."
When Aemond later went to inform the court of the heir's birth, he was coined 'The Spring Prince', for the break of winter had been confirmed, a raven carrying the news from the Citadel when you were in your labours.
The succession was at rest. A healthy babe was in your arms. The realm rejoiced.
The king showered you with affections beyond comprehension, you had not ceased smiling since marriage, with the birth of this child, your face was like to freeze that was.
Love was the oddest of things, ever-growing and changing, always soft. Like the gentle wisps of silver on your son's head.
"The prince has much hair." Orwyle said with almost amusement as he held the babe wrapped in pink gossamer, the small council gathered in your bedchamber, lined up in a half circle shape around the bed you laid in.
There was a lazy grin on your face, head leaned against your husband's bicep — Aemond stood at the edge of the large piece of furniture, an arm draped over your shoulders possessively, eye trained on his son to ensure his safety.
"Doesn't he? I had no notion that it could be so long." You murmured, looking at Vaemon with such googly eyes one would wonder if you were the first woman ever to have a child.
It had been time enough, your husband decided silently. He promptly snatched his son from the Grand Maester, taking him carefully, with precision — still petrified of hurting him.
"My wife must rest." He said plainly, looking away from them, uncaring, his words polite code for 'fuck off', though that phrase awaited in case.
The council obeyed, and scurried out.
Heavy eyelids blinked around your engorged pupils, looking up at your husband with a dreamy expression.
How attractive he was. The aura of protectiveness emanated from him, mixed with fatherly nurture as he stared down at your child, trying to gauge by the babe's facial expressions if he was holding him correctly.
"Comfortable, little one?" He asked in a low whisper, eyebrows raised like he was looking for an eloquent answer. But it was clearly a tease, the corners of his mouth upturned.
The prince began to whimper. The king began to rock him. He was so good with him, it made you wish to cry.
"Gevie." He said with a growing grin, staring down at his wailing son with pure pride. "You get that from your mother."
The babe's cries began to relax after a few moments, and the father smiled even wider, cradling him tightly.
"My love?" You murmured tiredly, head melting into the pillow even more with the movement of your jaw.
Your uncle looked at you with tenderness, his sapphire glinting under the candlelight of the chamber, black leather hugging his body as he did the same to your son, cradling him carefully. "What can I do?"
"Nothing." A soft whisper came from you.
Aemond took his seat at the edge of the bed again, holding Vaemon against his chest.
"Sleep, sweet wife. I have you both."
A weak pop came from your neck, barely managing a single nod before drifting off.
What happy dreams they were. Of your future, of your beautiful babe and his wonderful father.
It was three hours later when you woke to the sound of pained little cries, eyes fluttering open to see your husband shushing his son and rocking him desperately.
He caught your eye accidentally, and looked guilty as he strode to the edge of the bed. "I know not his issue." The king said with a self-deprecating frown.
"He is hungry." You murmured with a yawn, untying the chest tie of your fresh nightgown.
"So soon?" Your uncle asked — genuinely surprised, taking a seat at the edge of the bed and carefully placing the screeching babe onto your chest.
A nod was your answer, as you adjusted the little prince against your breast, helping him gather your nipple and suck deeply. Once he got it, you smiled, and cupped his body.
Aemond was unsurprised when you vowed early in pregnancy not to let another woman feed them. It was unheard of for a child of a noble to be fed around the clock by their mother, let alone by a queen. But your love knew no bounds, and your possessiveness would never allow another to nourish your own son.
He braced his elbow at the edge of the bed, free hand coming up the cup your cheek. You leaned your head into his hand and smiled.
"You must be starving, my darling." He said seriously, tucking the covers securely around you. "Supper is coming."
A yawn left you, resting your chin against your collarbone, looking down at your son with a indolent grin.
The sounds of nursing, the smacking of his lips and his desperate breathing filled the room.
Aemond grinned in amusement, stroking his long fingers over the babe's head. "Who is going to tell him that he will not be ripped from your breast?" He joked.
It was four days after you gave birth that you escaped the very attentive eye of your husband, and in true Targaryen fashion, climbed your dragon with a child strapped to your chest, and flew above the clouds.
The king was livid.
He sat the Iron Throne and gripped the arm rests so tightly it was a wonder he was not cut. At the base of the steps was the hand, being less than helpful. Its not like his sire was listening, anyway.
The king rolled his eye. "Go."
Tyland slipped out, and almost simultaneously, the heavy throne room doors opened, revealing the most beautiful of sights.
The hall was dark and dull in the spring evening, but the light of the queen brightened it. She, with loose windswept hair, wearing black, contouring riding leathers, and a babe tied to her with a crimson wrap.
Gods, it was so impossible to stay angry at you…
"I hear you went for a flight." He said dryly, keeping his voice neutral as you practically skipped across the large hall.
"He adored it!" You grinned, cupping Vaemon's head and bottom as he cooed, holding him tightly despite how securely he was wrapped to you.
Aemond raised a hand to his temple and rubbed it. You take years off of his life.
He began carefully, standing from the throne and slowly descending. "My love, you should not be out of bed. Let alone climbing a dragon. That cannot be beneficial for healing."
"Nonsense." You muttered back without even glancing at him, eyes set down on your son's silver hair.
The king sighed. There was one person in the realm who could defy him and not be threatened; his queen.
After a moment, he was off of the iron steps and reached for your cheek, his other hand touching the wrap to feel his son's safety for himself.
A smile was on your face when you looked up into his eye.
"Wife."
"Yes?"
"You left without informing me. I feared for you." He murmured quietly, a genuine concern washed over his face.
You leaned your head into his palm, still smiling because you were the victor.
"I did not mean to frighten you…"
He sighed and caressed your cheek. "You gave birth four days ago. Whenever you shift it bed, it scares me."
The look on his face made you reconsider just slightly. "I should have informed you. But you would not have let me out of our chambers if I had."
"That is for your own good."
The whites of your eyes made an appearance as you rolled them.
The king sighed again. "Go to bed, niece."
A week after birth, you had settled into a routine with the babe.
Vaemon slept between you and your husband at night, and suckled whenever he wished. He was proving to be a lusty boy who didn't like anything as much as eating.
Unfortunately, it seemed your breasts were swollen no matter how much he drank.
This past night, you had gained no rest whatsoever. The pain in your chest was too large.
When the sun began to rise, and dark circles had settled beneath your eyes, you broke, and sobbed uncontrollably.
This woke your husband, who was worried to no end within a moment of consciousness.
He tightened his arm around you on instinct, and noted that his son was in the cradle at your side of the bed. You never placed him there.
"My love, please. What is it?" He pleaded, gruffly, sitting up like a horse's ear would prick, looking down at you, trying to see the issue.
Your lip was quivering, tears rolling down your face as you met his eye. "My breasts, they-" Another loud, unattractive sob left you.
Ah. His eye flickered down to your chest, noting your swollen flesh and aggressively peaked nipples. Poor thing, he thought.
Your husband raised a hand to one of your exposed tits, and held it carefully. Gods, it was like a rock.
Simultaneously, you winced and buried your face against his shoulder, voice whiny and hoarse. "They are so full."
Aemond nodded, brows furrowed as he thought of what to do. The king looked into your eyes once again, a question in his lone blue one.
Immediately, you nodded through tear-blurred sight — anything to stop this ache.
Your uncle made eye contact with your nipple, and leaned his head down to latch onto it, sucking greedily.
The milk was so sweet, gods it aroused him. It would be a lie to say that this was not a fantasy of his, to drink from your breasts while you praised him.
It was a feckless thing to try and shake himself out of that mindset, for the liquid tasted so saccharine; the deepest form of a mother's nurture in his mouth, filling him with warmth and acceptance.
What a strange, perverted man he was — and he knew it.
Fortunately, his desire did not rob him of his sense of duty, and he switched sides, keen on giving you relief.
Still, you cried, overwhelmed from pain and the overactive emotions that came after giving birth. Fingers dug and scraped at his back as they did whenever you fucked.
The king held both breasts in his gentle hands, and redoubled his efforts, pulling hungry mouthful after hungry mouthful of honeyed milk from your tits until they were practically empty.
Then — only when your cries halted — he lifted his head, dribbles of milk on his chin. He eyed your poor reddened face.
"Better, ābrazyrys?" He whispered softly, raising a hand to cup your face just as he straightened up.
A swift nod was your answer, sniffling and curling into him limply.
Aemond gladly scooped you into his lap, and pulled the covers over the pair of you.
You nuzzled your cheek against his pec, seeking closeness, and receiving it as he stroked your hair.
"The gods curse women." You murmured, voice watery and in no way kind, petulantly cowering into his embrace.
The king nodded against your scalp, his chin rested there. The loose curtain of his hair around your face was comforting, as was the sound of his hum.
You felt something poking your thigh. Then you thought of his depravity. "You are hard."
A sound of surprise left him — as if he was unaware — and he spoke quietly, shifting you in his hold. "My apologies."
You snivelled and laid back, pulling him by the bicep to join you. He obeyed and followed, drawing you to him by the waist, pressing a few reverent kisses to your head.
Careful fingers brushed the edge of your breast. "The pain is gone?" He murmured into your hair.
"Almost." You whispered back, voice weak and defeated. He sighed at your tone and pressed his lips to your temple.
The king continued to massage your chest, trying to relieve the lingering discomfort."I left some… just in case he wakes."
On cue, the babe's heavy breathing and whimpers began to fill the large rooms.
Aemond huffed softly, leaning over you to look. The babe laid in the cradle, his legs tucked up, his little face scrunched in sadness.
The king lifted him swiftly, cupping his bottom and head as he laid him on his hard chest.
"What is it, hmm?" He murmured against the child's silver hair, leaning his head against yours as your son began to cry.
"The cold world." You said against his shoulder, words muffled. "He misses my womb."
Aemond hummed in agreement.
It was after two weeks when your uncle finally felt like he was getting the hang of fatherhood.
You loved it, for he looked so handsome holding Vaemon. So nurturing. You would climb atop him if you could.
The lithe man paced around your bed, tapping his son on the back with such little force that it didn't make a sound.
"He will not burp."
You were laughing to yourself lazily, sat up against the pillows — he refuses to let you out of bed — enjoying the sight.
"You must actually pat his back."
The king scoffed and paced to the side of the bed, bare feet silent against stone. "That is what I am doing." He replied dryly, still tapping the babe's back.
Your poor soon had a look of discomfort on his little face.
"You are doing it wrong."
Aemond huffed, but relented. Vaemon was squirming at this point, head rested haphazardly on his father's strong forearm. With one firm pat against the child's back, he spat up half of his feed onto the floor.
A soft sigh left you, still utterly amused. Your husband looked up like a deer in headlights, readjusted the babe, then reached for a cloth to wipe his mouth.
The spill was cleaned swiftly by a nameless maid, and your son was placed in your arms, his father having far too much to process to be in possession of him.
"He is so happy." Your uncle murmured thoughtfully to the babe while he sipped water, brushing his little back as he laid flat on your chest, cooing happily.
A happy hum was your response as you laid your head on his shoulder. He set down his cup, wrapped an arm around you, and kissed the side of your head.
"You are such a wonderful mother."He said quietly, chin nuzzling the top of your head.
A soft sigh left you, as you shut your eyes and caressed your son's head. "He adores you."
Aemond kissed your cheek, and then eyed Vaemon, who seemed to have drifted off. "I did not grow him inside for nine moons. Nor nourish him, as you do."
"So is my duty." A yawn left you, nuzzling your husband's collarbone. "I am a mother now."
The king let out a breath of almost disbelief. "And I thought that you could not be any more perfect."
The corners of your mouth tugged upwards into a lazy smile, eyes shutting, and sheets rustling.
"Sleep, my sweet." He rubbed your side slowly.
With that, you drifted off. Aemond murmured of his love for you, and for his beautiful son.
You were the queen, a Targaryen of Old Valyrian heritage, and the mother to the next king. But none of that mattered.
You were a wife to a man who loved you, and mummy to the most adorable son the gods had ever graced a woman with.
This little family was sure to grow, and you could not wait. Soon, high laughter would be wracking the walls, and the patter of wet, tiny feet would fill the holdfast.
This very keep would be bursting at the seams to accommodate the brood you wished for, and your husband would be the happiest to order and extension.
Anything to see you contented, beautiful, and swollen with his children to the point that no man or woman could ever question whose you were.
Aemond Targaryen m.list 🗡
hello my apologies for the length lol... hence the wait
pls forgive any typos and random bs, like i said this ho is long and i cannot proofread a fourth time
i actually really do like this tho <3 had it lying around for weeks and decided now was the perfect time in honour of the end of akotsk (still sobbing) and the hotd teaser
i am taking requests so hit my inbox!! also if u js wanna thirst i love those asks too <3
In celebration of HOTD S3 finally airing, here's a piece I've been cooking up for a couple of weeks. Yes this episode pissed me off, but yes I will be watching next week. Please leave a like/comment/reblog if you enjoy! <3
CW- 18+, non-con/dub-con, arranged marriage, toxic relationship, loss of virginity, fingering, PIV, rough sex, High Valyrian translator used, blood, references to death/murder
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word count- 2,362
It was the hour of the owl when you heard Vhagar’s roar. You recognized the vocalization of the dragon, so unlike that of Sunfyre or Dreamfyre’s. Aemond had been gone for a fortnight now, and the thought of his return made your stomach drop. But the deep grumble of the formidable beast flying past the Keep was a welcome warning, giving you time to prepare yourself for what was to come.
You rose from the bed quickly, pacing about the room and searching for a garment to cover yourself. You did not wish to face your husband in only a thin nightgown, yet nothing in your wardrobe would allow for you to dress without the help of a maid. Sheets of rain smacked against your window as lightning danced in the sky, a wicked storm that chilled your bones.
After a considerable struggle, you were able to shimmy your way into a red gown that had needed to be taken in. Unable to lace the back of it on your own, you resorted to tucking in the strands and wishing that it would go unnoticed. You sat down in front of the fireplace, grabbed a book from the shelf, and pretended to read as you waited.
It felt like an hour passed before you heard the knock against the door. Your spine stiffened immediately and your breath caught in your throat.
“Enter,” you spoke as sternly as you could manage. You kept your gaze on the book in your lap as the door creaked open. The smell of dragon filled the room, strong and sulfuric with a hint of fresh blood. Your husband stood in the doorway, soaked from the storm.
“Wife. What possible reason do you have for being awake at such an hour?” His tone was immediately accusatory, his voice scratchy. Aemond was dressed in his flying leathers, a deep grey with dragonscales woven into the breastplate. His left boot was partially unlaced, the hilt of a long dagger peaking out from where it was nestled against his shin.
“I was feeling restless and could not sleep,” you tell him plainly. “What reason do you possibly have for returning at such an hour? We were not expecting you for another three days.” This was partially true, as he had given that date upon his departure to the Riverlands. But everyone in the Red Keep knew that the Prince Regent was wildly unpredictable, and the wedding had proved that.
No one had expected him to truly marry you, especially not after the Dowager Queen had advised him against it. Your father, Lord Staunton served on Rhaenyra’s council, which branded you a traitor in the eyes of the Greens. Captured during the Battle of Rook’s Rest, you had been imprisoned in King’s Landing for several months. They would not behead a lady of your station, and many had expected that you would simply be wed to a lesser lord that had sworn allegiance to Aegon.
But upon being named Prince Regent, Aemond decided that he would wed you himself. After all, he had been the victor of Rook’s Rest, and it was only fair that he kept you as a prize. The wedding was arranged hastily, and the two of you stood together in the sept mere hours after he had declared his intentions.
But he was swept away later that evening, after a message had been delivered during the wedding feast. To your great relief, Aemond mounted Vhagar that night rather than you. If the marriage remained unconsummated, then there was a glimmer of hope that perhaps your father would still send men to rescue you. But that glimmer began to fade now that your husband was in front of you once again.
“You should mind your tongue when you speak to me, wife. I am not in a patient mood at present,” he warns you as he finally enters the room, allowing the door to slam behind him. He peels the gloves off of his hands as he approaches, and you notice a splattering of blood has stained the leather.
Aemond circles the room, examining every little that could have possibly changed since his departure. He had insisted that the two of you share chambers, and you had been moved on the night of the wedding. You had almost no belongings, save for a few dresses that had been allowed to be sent to you by your sisters and mother.
Your eyes trace his every movement, until he turns his head and catches you staring. Embarrassed, you engross yourself in the book once again and try your very best to keep your head down. His footsteps approach slowly, until his boots are at your feet.
“I see you have kept yourself rather busy in my absence,” he declares. You look up to face his gaze, swallowing hard as his violet eye stares you down.
“What do you refer to, my prince?” Your voice is softer than it had been before, not wanting to provoke him to the anger that he had grown a reputation for.
“Reading the histories of Valyria, in High Valyrian,” Aemond reaches down and taps the cover of the book, which you now realize is not written in the Common Tongue. “Nyke gaomagon daor māzigon ao syt zaldrīzes āeksio” I did not take you for a dragon lord.
Heat rises to your face, angry at yourself for making such a careless error. Aemond’s lips have curled smugly, relishing in your shame. More than anything, you wish you could reach out and strike him.
Instead, you slam the book shut and rise from your chair. The sudden movement causes the unlaced dress to snag against the furnishing, and you hear a rip as the fabric splits further down your back. Aemond’s eye widens, apparent that he has also heard the noise.
“Turn around,” he commands you, peering over your shoulder. You make no effort to do so, but keep your eyes fixed on his face. “That wasn’t a suggestion, wife,” he says as he reaches for your waist. You plant your feet firmly to the ground, but he still spins you around with ease.
“Let go of me,” you yelp, the sudden feeling of Aemond’s cold hands against your bare back startling you. But his grip on your waist remains firm.
“Your gown has ripped. A rather flimsy garment, to be so easily torn,” he tuts, fingers tugging at the fraying edges of the fabric. He shifts his posture forward, closing the gap between your bodies. He is still wet from the rain, water dripping from his body and spilling onto the rug beneath your feet. Likely, the whole room will stink of wet dragon come morning time.
“You should be thanking me, you know.” His voice softens as he reaches for the strap of the dress, threading his fingers through it and sliding it off and down your shoulders. “You ought to be grateful that I have returned. Traitor’s daughter and then a widow would be quite the sorrowful fate.” The fabric slides off your back and pools at your waist, causing your heart to beat faster than you thought was possible.
“Why must you torment me so?” Your voice holds steady, although your legs have begun to shake. Aemond leans down, bringing his lips close to your ear as he tugs the dress off of you.
“Torment? I have simply come to do my duty to you. How can we be truly married if my wife remains a maiden?” His lips brush against the divet of your neck, the smell of smoke swirling through your nostrils.
And any hope you had of escaping from this place leaves you with a long breath, as his hands begin to trace up your thighs. The possibility of fleeing in the night is abandoned as he bites on your neck and slips two fingers in between your most intimate area.
Instinctively, you jerk away from his touch. But his other hand is flat against your stomach, keeping your body pressed against his. Shame fills you as his fingers caress your folds, rubbing against your bundle of nerves and eliciting jolts of pleasure. You let out a croaking noise, a mix between a whine and a moan.
“Shhh, don’t resist me now. I only wish to make it easier for you,” he whispers against your skin. You wish to speak something, a phrase both crass and hostile to this man that holds you hostage. But what good would come out of that?
The pads of his fingers prod against your entrance, giving you a moment of anticipation before he presses them inside of you. His sudden intrusion is certainly overwhelming, but not as painful as you had imagined such a thing would be. His thumb strokes your most sensitive area as two fingers begin to thrust in and out of you. You remain silent, but allow your shoulders to finally relax against the support of his broad chest.
“That’s a good girl,” Aemond tells you, tracing his lips down your neck with soft kisses. “I knew you would be an obedient little wife, despite what everyone had warned me.” He laughs suddenly, surely recollecting a conversation in which you had not been present. His fingers inside of you curl upwards, causing you to clench as a new sensation takes hold of your lower half.
“Aemond,” you plead as you attempt to shift your hips away from him. He wraps one of his legs around yours, threading you to him with his heavy boot.
“Keep still,” he warns, and you feel his teeth graze your neck. Your mind has become a puddle of emotions, your body sending you mixed signals just as well.
“I can’t,” you whimper as his prodding fingers cause you to jolt once again. To your surprise, he laughs coldly rather than chastising you again. His fingers pull away from your center, and you immediately regret the loss of pressure.
Aemond steps to your left, and then circles in front of you. His expression is hardened, but there is a glimmer of sympathy etched into his face.
“Get on the bed,” he commands, as he begins to unbutton his tunic. You remain still for a moment, watching as he undresses himself and reveals his bare skin to you. His chest is broad and toned, but littered with burns and scars that you could never have imagined.
When you finally oblige and lay down on the bed, Aemond is quick to follow you. He is naked, his bare form pushing through the green canopy and towering over you. His manhood is swollen and stiff, and you cannot help but to stare as he climbs on top of you.
‘You will learn to love me, wife. I will be your only escape from this cold and cruel place,” he murmurs as his hands pry open your legs, leaving you exposed and bare to him. Aemond grasps at your forearms, pinning them down to the bed as he lines his cock up to your entrance. You take a deep breath, bracing yourself for what is to come.
When he enters you, the stretch causes you to gasp. The pain is the least of your worries. Aemond lowers his face to yours, meeting your lips in the first kiss since the night of your wedding. His lips swallow your cries and his tongue traces along the inside of your mouth as he bottoms out inside of you.
He sets a steady pace, his cock driving in and out of you repeatedly as he kisses you roughly. Your body has become enveloped by his heat, and you have no response other than to meet his kiss with equal fervor. The rain continues to splatter against the window, and Vhagar’s roar can be heard from the Dragonpit.
“You take me so well,” Aemond groans, as the head of his cock slams against a particularly sensitive spot inside of you. When you let out a moan, he shifts his hips so as to place more pressure against yours.
He has released your arms, choosing instead to place one hand around your neck as the other grips your left thigh tightly. The sound of his heavy breathing combined with the building pleasure within your gut elicits a rash decision.
You reach forward and tug against the strap of his leather eyepatch, pulling it over his head in one fluid movement. A sapphire rests in the socket of his eye, a contrast to the violet one that remains fixed on you. Aemond is taken aback, but he makes no retaliation.
“You are mine, gevie. No one will ever take you from me,” he mumbles, his pace quickening as his fingers thread between your legs and begin to stroke you once again. This sensation, combined with the feeling of his cock deep inside of you, causes your thighs to quiver as your stomach swirls.
The build-up of pleasure becomes overwhelming, and you bury your face in Aemond’s neck, unable to meet his gaze. When a wave of sensation crashes through you, you cry out and grip down on his shoulders.
Aemond continues fucking you, his pace growing quicker and his breath heavier. His fingers still work against your bundle of nerves, and you try to pull his hand away as your core clenches desperately around him.
“Take it all, my good little wife.” His thrusts become sloppy as one of his hands weave through his hair, and a roar of thunder crashes through the night as he spills his seed inside of you.
Aemond pulls out of you slowly, his spend leaking as he does so. The blood of your maidenhead is apparent, mixing with the sticky white substance. Even more apparent, is the blood streaked across his forearm and down the side of his neck, gone unnoticed by you prior to this moment.
“Pray to the Mother that you will be blessed with a child,” he tells you as he retreats. With his head turned to the side, shadows dance across the duvet. “It is only just that new Targaryen life should follow the death of a dragon.”
summary: You weren’t even wed to Ser Gwayne yet, and it already seems like you are closer to being a widow than a wife. Still, despite the whispers of worry and alarming omens, he manages to make a promise you decide to cling to.
tags: fem!reader, younger!gwayne, pre the events of hotd, arranged marriage, first impressions, injuries, talks of death, gwayne is a smooth talker, no use of y/n, badly proofread, english is not my first language.
word count: 4.5k+
At first, when Gwayne regained the scraps of his own consciousness, he wasn’t sure if he should chuckle at his luck, thank the gods or cry out from the pain. He wished to do it all at once, and yet it seemed too difficult in his dreamy state. He was dizzy from blood loss and the herby scent in his bedroom.
All that occupied his mind, no matter if he was awake or fell into the grasp of suffering and delusion, was the memory of you. It was strangely comforting. Even as a little boy he imagined it to be the grand order of things in the world – a wounded or dying knight was bid to dream about his lady wife. Or a future one, that is.
Back then he imagined the woman of his life to be his friend as well. A trustee that he could lay his heart out for without worry. Someone who would listen and share. He thought about being gifted a bow made of lace that belonged to her when he left for one of his brave, knightly adventures…
But then he grew up, matured, and the ‘adventures’ turned into handling a pack of deathly outlaws that rummaged the nearby lands and the lady of his heart was a betrothed that he had only seen twice during one day.
The first one was in the dim morning before his departure. He watched you from afar, didn’t dare to speak or approach, but his eyes seemed to be glued to your figure. He wished that he would be able to turn and walk away, not wanting to stare at a lady who wasn’t aware of being watched, but he simply couldn’t.
He wasn’t exactly enamoured, not in love at first sight as some said he should be, but he stood there at the top of the hill and his body refused to move. It was an awe of some kind, that for sure.
It has been barely a day after you traveled to Oldtown – sadly he couldn’t welcome you himself, leaving that job to his father – and the walls were apparently already choking you. That’s at least what he saw on your face when you strolled down the glade. Relief and calmness as if you were allowed to take a deep breath after a time of suffocating inside.
When the expedition that he was about to lead to take care of the rogues once for good was decided, he didn’t mind leaving at all. The order was given by his cousin just a few days before your announced arrival in the city and Gwayne felt a pinch of disappointment about that, but he did nothing to change the matter.
Not because he didn’t care about you as a future spouse, but because it was necessary. Someone had to put an end to the suffering of the smallfolk and attacks upon the Hightower caravans and the gods wanted it to be him. Simple as that. He didn’t think too much about it, but the idea of your possible approval made him bolder.
Perhaps you would feel safe knowing he was a man who could manage the lands of his family, his people. His thieves and murderers as well… It could be naive to think you even cared, he deduced, but there was a chance, right? You certainly deserved to feel safe. His mind was very strictly set on that and for a long while there was no hesitation in him.
And yet when he saw you there in the morning he truly wished that he could stay.
It was an ethereal sight in a way that he could not put into words exactly. Something chaste and pure that at the same time made him feel warm all over his body. He set his eyes on the silks, the light nightgown, not see-through at all but still delicate. The material shone in the pale sun in a way that made him want to touch it. Its ends got wet from the morning dew as it almost danced around you when you walked through the high grass.
He could clearly see when you stopped in worry and looked around, certainly feeling watched. He took a deep breath and straightened his back before moving into the castle. He had no business here, after all, scaring his dear lady. His wife-to-be…
You grimaced and pulled your cloak more over your shoulders. You thought that it was a mistake, even if the anxious feeling didn’t appear again.
You were indulging in your silly wants too much probably and too early after getting here. You could allow such things at home, even if you were always met with a punishment, but here? “Someone could think that you’re out of your mind”, said your father once during your travel here, lecturing about your customs that he called fussy and not suitable for a lady.
Well, even if it was indeed a mistake, it was a sweet one for Gwayne.
The sight stayed with him. Warmed him during the lonesome nights that he spent on the ground in his poorly made tent with his company. Usually he cared for his own comfort but now there was no time for making a better camp or finding an inn. Now he didn't care.
He wanted to go back as quickly as possible.
It was also the last thing that moved in front of his eyes before a mace crashed into his side and he let out a scowl worthy of a wounded animal.
You weren’t sure if it was the feeling of worry that settled under your skin or the thunder that roared in the distance that kept you awake. You didn’t peek in the mirror in the dim light of the candles but you could already feel how puffed your eyes were from the lack of sleep.
You weren’t the only one who felt deeply disturbed. Your dear, loyal servant joined you in your chamber somewhere around midnight with a hushed apology and begged so you would let her stay by your side. There’s something eerie about this night, milady, she said, something very wrong about it, I tell you. Even if you wished to scold her for her superstition, you felt it too.
So you spent the night together, calming each other by soft conversations and hushed laughter.
Finally when the colour of the sky turned from deep black into grim blue, you could hear someone run through the corridor. You were unused to the sounds of the High Tower; the echoes often morphed into the sounds coming from the port, never failing to make you shiver or look over your shoulder. And yet still you could recognize that something was wrong now.
There was surely some confusion downstairs from the chamber that was given to you and you could even tell apart a few familiar voices.
Your servant scoffed and told you not to eavesdrop under the door as it’s ‘unladylike’.
“And being uninformed isn’t?” You muttered back, causing the good girl to roll her eyes.
“Fine,” she said and bowed in an unserious manner, “fine, my dearest lady. I will go check it for you.”
And she did, even though you could tell that she was even more anxious than in the night. Perhaps there was really something bad in the air…
Waiting for her to come back you moved to the window and watched the first light and last drops of the night’s rain.
She ran back inside as if something was burning behind her. She almost tripped into a nearby cabinet, barely managing to close the door before raising her voice.
“Otto Hightower wants to see you. It's about the young ser, m'lady!” She made a dramatic pause to take a breath.
“Ser Gwayne?”
“Aye! Some say he's dead,” she reported.
It almost made you drop the gown that you tried to wrap around your shoulders. You gulped hardly, feeling a knot growing in your throat.
Gods. Over the day you have spent in Oldtown you rushed your thoughts away from him, always indulging in too much worry. You found it impossible to approach the matter with calmness, so you simply decided that it will all solve itself when you finally face him for longer. Why panic about the things you cannot change, after all?
You pitted the poor knight deeply when you heard about his condition, but you kept your hopes. You weren’t given any details about his injury anyway upon the request of your father and the ‘good will’ from Lord Otto.
But if the young Hightower was gone, or at least in critical state, then what would happen to you? You got used to being a lady in a strange town, waiting for her future husband, even if the title grew bitter on your tongue, but now? Not even married properly and already tied to a dead man…
Your maid noticed your trembling look, almost sick. She was pale herself but she moved to help you with your cloak and rubbed your shoulders.
“We have to rush, m'lady,” she instructed gently
You breathed the morning air, trying to calm yourself. “Yes… As you say.”
Moving through the staircases of the Tower you could spot how unfamiliar it was in comparison to its looks during the day. Night still lingered in the corridors, despite the first rays of the sun. You understood the seriousness of the situation – at least you thought so – and yet you regretted not taking the time to put on your gown. You shivered from the cold, wearing only your nightwear under the cloak that at least protected your dignity.
There was something pleased in the eyes of your lord father when you finally joined him and Lord Otto Hightower. As if he was glad you look a bit disheveled. A look of a woman who truly tried to rush. You weren’t sure if it was a display of your devotion to the marriage, but if so, then so be it. Faked one, surely, but only you would know. You and your servant, that is.
“You took your time, girl,” he greeted grimly. Apparently it was his rule to always scold you, always say you could do better even if he knew it was impossible.
“I–” your voice died in your throat when you spotted the worried looks of people around. You decided to merely bow to your father before turning to Lord Hightower. “I offer my apologies if I made you wait too long, my lord.”
You knew it was better to pretend you were absolutely oblivious. Jumping in with questions about Gwayne’s health would surely be improper.
He welcomed your words with a calm half-smile, but you could tell he was deathly worried. His typical compostured face stayed the same and yet there was fear in his eyes.
“It is about my son,” he said slowly, as if it pained him to use his voice. “His condition turned worse, my lady, and he asked for–”
“He's not dead then?” It broke out of your mouth before you could bite your tongue. Gods, you cringed at the awful silence your words caused and could almost hear your father’s jaw clenching. “I–I feared the worst, forgive me…” you tried to explain.
Lord Otto shook his head and offered a comforting expression.
“He is not dead, no,” he assured. “He wishes to see you.”
Your breath hitched and you caved under the need to look at your father.
“Me?” You repeated.
“You are his betrothed, after all.”
You nodded in obedience, certainly not willing to argue in such a position. Fair, you were his betrothed but he only saw you once… You were sure you could never forget the way he looked sitting on his horse, bowing his head when he spotted you. Well, you never imagined he could be as impressed by your presence as you were with his.
Your father was deeply offended when he first heard that Gwayne was to depart from the city just a day after your arrival. You were much more dull about it, listening to the stories of a band of murderers, rapists and thieves who deserved to be banished or hanged with little interest.
From what you've been told the young Ser Hightower made it all about his dignity and skills, tracking them for many days that you spent in an unfamiliar city. You wished you could detest him in the depth of your heart. It would somehow be comforting if you were allowed to hate him for showing so little interest in you, and yet your own nature didn’t let you.
It was flattering when someone said he left to impress you, wanting to prove that he could not out protect his city but also you, as a wife. But it meant nothing in the face of the facts. If all the careful plans went well, you would already be his… And here you were. Not yet a wife, still with your father and with a husband-to-be on the edge of death.
Your hopes and dreams weren’t grand, not unreachable. Just that he would be a friendly soul… Apparently the gods decided it was too bold anyway. Like you were being punished for ever wanting a good fate for yourself.
You followed the men that led you to Ser Gwayne’s bedroom that you have avoided during the last days. You were too afraid of being spotted and too afraid to hear groans of pain coming from inside.
“My lady,” Otto approached you again. “Please, keep it in your mind that my son is…” He didn’t finish, clearly troubled by his own thoughts. With a shake of his head he placed a hand on your shoulder. “We shall pray for his recovery and that's all we can do. Do not take the things he might say to your heart and don't treat his promises seriously.”
What a strange thing to come out of a worried father’s mouth. Whatever he might have meant by that, you nodded.
“As you say, Lord Otto.”
“Please,” he said, opening the door for you and letting you pass.
You almost jumped in place when the heavy oak wood shut behind you with a whack. It was nothing, you told yourself, just facing a wounded man, but it sure felt like walking into lion’s jaws.
The place was dark for many days now due to the thick drapes. It carried this specific aura of a tomb, if you were honest with yourself. Something half-dead, a bit forgotten and worrying. You allowed yourself to breathe in the scent of herbs, candles and something unfamiliar. Something… manly, perhaps.
You wanted to speak up, greet the resting man, but the first thing you noticed when you looked at the bed was how evenly his chest raised and fell. His face was pale beyond comprehension but calm, with his eyes closed.
Gods be merciful…
You heard the whispers that even when he was conscious his mind wasn't really here and now they have sent you to him. He was no dragon and you were no sheep on a slaughter but you felt equally out of place.
Even if it was the truth that he had asked for you, he fell asleep again, so what were you supposed to do? What if he's scared by waking up to the sight of an almost unfamiliar face? What if it would harm his fragile health now?
But you couldn't walk out like that. What would you say to his father? That the sight of his almost vulnerable figure on the bed scared you too much?
That would be a lie too pathetic that could set a bad light on you. You weren’t scared of him, anyway. He looked in that peculiar way that makes others want to care for the sick and poor. It crossed your mind that you would feel humiliated if the roles were turned. If it was you on the big bed, covered in damp, bloody dressings and only a linen shirt, and him standing over you.
You sat next to him on the bed slowly, clearing your throat in hopes he would wake up. He reacted with a small grimace, but that was it. With a deep sigh you released some of your nerves and looked around before your eyes returned to him.
You noticed that his hand laid on the sheets, close to you. Not sure what possessed you, you decided to brush it gently at first. His skin wasn’t as cold as you imagined it to be. Quite the opposite, actually. Emboldened by how it felt against your touch you moved to pick it up and lay on your palm. With a gentle squeeze you looked up at his face.
“You cannot die,” you whispered at first, testing the sound of your own voice in the overwhelmingly silent room. Then you spoke up firmly. “You can't die, my lord, because I refuse to go back home and remain by my father's side. That is simply not happening, so you must–”
His hand seemed to turn even warmer in your hold and twitched. Before you could realize that his fingers wrapped around your wrist you heard a snarl. Then the man fell into a fit of laughter, making you stand up in shock, but his grip kept you close.
The laugh turned into cough rather quickly and you consider it his punishment for scaring you. Even though he was fighting to take a deep breath in his weak state, he never dropped his hand from yours. He brushed it in curious affection, like he was testing the feeling of your skin, just like you did with his, just less boldly.
“You've fooled me,” you muttered, still shaken up. “I thought you were asleep.”
It was an instinct when you moved to fix the pillow Gwayne was resting on. He offered you a grateful smile and tried to sit up a little when the cough left. His deep blue eyes met you. With utter seriousness, for the first time. They were bleaker, much more tired than when you saw them for the last time in the courtyard as he sat on his horse proudly.
His voice was different too, but you weren’t about to lie and say that the husky undertone didn’t make you shiver.
“And you almost fooled me into thinking that you don't care about my health, just your own comfort,” he said slowly.
You weren’t sure if he was mocking you or naming his true accusations.
“I… my lord, that is–” you tried to explain, but he smiled again, brighter this time and squeezed your hand again.
“I'm jesting, my lady,” he cut in to end your internal panic.
His jaw clenched and he let out a grunt when he tried to shift and make himself more comfortable. He looked over his body in the bed under the covers with the sight of a man truly tired of his own disposition. “I pray you can forgive me for making you wait so long,” he spoke up a bit quieter. Bitter, like he was angry with himself. “I never imagined it to go that way.”
“There is nothing to be forgiven, my lord,” you assured.
If you weren’t convinced about it before and harboured some harm, then it disappeared the moment you saw how sorry he looked.
“I hurt you, though, with my recklessness–"
“It is not your fault, my lord. I just hope that the man who did it to you was punished.”
He smiled bitterly. “Oh, yes. He paid for it, you have my word.” He shook the cold look off of his face quickly and moved your touching hands closer to his lap. “And please, my lady, call me by my name.”
“Well, Gwayne.” You nodded slowly and tested it on your tongue.. “You sound…”
“Not as out of my mind as they say?” He offered when you struggled to find the right words. You read some mischief from his face. One corner of his lips twitched up. “Did they scare you by telling you that I can't control my drooling or forgot how to speak the common tongue?”
You shook your head. It was hard to understand his good mood in such a weird position but you guessed it couldn’t go better than that.
“They just said you are unwell,” you explained. “In body and mind.”
“In body and mind,” he repeated, almost giggling. “Well, I won't bore you with how rugged my body feels, but my mind is quite alright. Even if my head feels like it crashed with the grand bell in the sept.”
You stared at him for a while, tormenting him with silence and cracked a smile eventually. “Aren't you cheeky?” You muttered, rather pleased with what a man Gwayne seemed to be.
You didn’t imagine him too much, but you would never guess he would be so… serene.
“Cheeky?” He laughed again. “You not only offend your future husband but also a suffering man. Anyway, it is better to be cheeky than cruel, my lady, even if you might find it similar.”
You felt too troubled to answer that immediately.
“Your father worries a lot,” you informed, lightly hinting that it could be his share of cruelty.
Clearly he spotted it because he rolled his eyes, still with a smile.
“Yes, I can tell,” he said.
“He truly thinks you might die.”
“But I might die, indeed,” he argued. “He’s right to worry.
Oh, you saw dying men before and he wasn't one of them, that was sure. Not now when he spoke to you, joked and mocked.
“Can you keep a secret, my lady?” He asked and his eyes brightened when you nodded even if he wasn’t really waiting for that. “The maesters… They ask many dull questions that I don't wish to answer. They make me feel like I’m going mad, so naturally that slows the recovery, am I not right?”
“I suppose,” you mumbled unconvinced.
“See? It's easier to pretend I’m a little worse than I truly am and not have to speak.”
You blinked, looking at him in silence for a while. Gods, what a menace… You were going to absolutely adore that man.
“People are frightened for your life,” you tried to reason, keeping your composter despite the wish to actually burst out laughing.
“As am I,” he said stubbornly. “Or was, at least… Well, do not think I take it lightly.”
“I guess… I guess what matters is that you are better now, Gwayne. It makes me happy.”
“And it makes me happy to finally be able to speak to you. I can’t name the anger I feel for how wrong the arrangement turned out.”
“It’s not so tragic,” you disagreed. “It is merely postponed, I imagine.”
“Yes, I hope so. Could you open the drapes, perhaps? I would like to see you, my lady, if you don’t mind,” he asked with gentleness that offered you the chance to refuse if you wanted.
You grew nervous nonetheless. “It is barely bright outside.”
He heard the anxiety in your voice.
“No worries, my lady,” he spoke up and you could hear him joking again, “I don't have my father's judging eyes, you have my word.”
“Won't the light bother you?” You asked to make sure before pulling on the heavy material that covered the windows.
“Not if you do it slowly. Please.”
You could spot the carefulness that he watched you with. He didn’t study nor rate you, no. He simply took you in, noticing all the small differences that he couldn’t see when he watched you that day on the glade.
You were growing restless under his gaze but it was him who turned away first. He looked down rather unexpectedly, his cheeks painted with a blush.
“Do you…” You cleared your throat. “Well, do you like what you see, Gwayne?”
He wanted to say that he did and knew it for a long time now. But wouldn’t that be too bold? Wouldn’t you think that your looks were all that he cared about?
“Naturally,” he finally answered, something terribly bashful in his voice. “I don’t want to show lack of respect by saying how unbearably beautiful you are to me…”
Unbearably beautiful? You almost smile to yourself at how weird it sounded. He realized it to.
“That might not be the luckiest choice of words, I’m afraid. Forgive me. I’m still just a wounded fool in the presence of a lady, after all,” he said to distract you from his embarrassment. “Would you sit with me for a while longer, my lady?”
“Of course,” you agreed. “And you should know that I see no fool in here.”
“Aren’t all men fools?”
You would agree if your throat was used to such declarations. You were raised to be a good woman; good daughter, and a lady. You would blush at admitting something so true.
You occupied the place next to him, and Gwayne slowly reached for your hand again. “If it’s alright?”
“It is,” you assured and offered it to him.
He cleared his throat. “Do you know why I wanted to speak to you?”
“I have no idea. Except for making me laugh, it seems…”
He cracked a smile before turning serious once more.
“I wanted to make a promise,” he explained. “To end your worries if you have them. I won't die because it would burden you. People would speak, some would say we already married in secret before my death which would make finding another husband difficult if not impossible… I do not wish to make you go through that.”
It sounded funny from the mouth of a man who was clearly not dying now, and still it was incredibly thoughtful. Overwhelmingly so.
“That is kind of you, Gwayne.”
“Not kind, just… Just proper, I imagine,” he corrected.
“Not many men would care about it.”
He shrugged and his face turned even more pink, even if he bore it proudly, not escaping from your eyes anymore.
A knock and the sound of the door opening interrupted you.
You saw an old maester who held some clean water and bandages to change the dressings on Ser Gwayne’s wounds.
“My lady,” he spoke to you in a lecturing tone. “It is time for young Ser Gwayne to rest. He's still very–”
He was interrupted by the ser himself who shifted up a bit and face the man.
“Oh, I feel much better,” he offered with sincerity that made you feel warm inside, “since I was told by my wife that I'm not allowed to die.”
You looked to your feet at the quote of your first words to him and stood up from his bed.
“Your wife, my lord?” Asked the maester with clear trouble on his face.
“Wife to be,” Gwayne corrected with some irritation. “Do not think I've lost my sense of time. I’m simply… restless, if you will.”
