ABOUT ME: (late) twenties. she/her. aries. a targaryen coded stark girlie.
WHO DO I WRITE FOR? Daemon, Aemond, Aegon II, Maegor, Aerion and Baelor Targaryen as well as Cregan Stark from HBO's House of the Dragon, A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms and the A Song of Ice and Fire universe.
Minors do not interact. This blog is 18+. This blog is not spoiler free.
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Aemond Targaryen x twin sister!Reader, Aegon II Targaryen x little sister!Reader, Daemon Targaryen x niece!Reader
For a fortnight, you’ve been spending your nights with Aemond and Aegon. But what happens, if there’s yet another uncalled visitor joining you? Improper revelations lead to the fulfilling of a long-buried desire of yours.
WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT - MINORS DNI; porn without plot, canon typical incest/targcest [siblings (twins & younger sister/older brother), uncle/niece], foursome (fmmm), p in v, anal, ass play, double penetration, hand job, fingering, grinding, (rough) oral (m receiving), praise kink, degrading
WORDS: 7.1 K
NOTES: This is self indulgently written. And let's be honest: who hasn't thought about that at least once? Thank you @zaldritzosrose for betaing this! 🫶
…
You fully blame it on the uproar the court is in with the arrival of Rhaenyra and her brood, and the hearing of your nephew’s claim to the castle of Driftmark, that you hardly find sleep during the nights. Only once the castle, its staff and residents are asleep, basking the stoney walls in a sinister silence, do you finally seem to find serenity and calmness. It’s been like that for the past fortnight.
And apparently, it’s one of the things that you have in common with your brothers.
Where you’ve wandered the dark halls alone before, rarely clad in more than your shift and a robe tied around your waist, you soon were joined by your twin brother, Aemond, accidentally stumbling into him as he exited the library around the Hour of the Owl. And since the night before yesterday, the pair of you have been joined by the oldest of you five, Aegon.
He also was the one that suggested you should spend your nights in the council chamber, warming the vacant chairs while drowning in cups of wine with the security that none would find and expect you there. Giving you privacy and space where it’s just the three of you without the pressure of anyone’s expectations of you. While Aegon sits in the seat of the King, incredibly treacherous if anyone were to find out, Aemond and you sit to the right, two chalices filled with Arbor gold standing on the table in front of you.
“Pray tell…” Aegon drawls, a smirk on his lips as he leans towards you. You raise your brow already, not knowing what to expect, except for the fact that Aegon never holds back. “... are you still maidenly? Or has our dear Aemond already taken your virtue?”
Heat crawls onto your cheeks at his words, but you try to hide it by drinking from your goblet. Your eyes flicker between Aegon and Aemond, the latter‘s gaze burning straight through your skin, perfectly visible despite the chambers barely illuminated by more than a dozen candles.
“I–“
The door bursts open, effectively cutting you off, and your wide eyes immediately fly to the person interrupting you. Aemond is quick to bolt onto his feet, taking over a rather protective stance, while Aegon and you sit still, and appear more like a startled deer than a trueborn dragon. You swallow thickly, though you‘re not sure whether it‘s out of fear or… excitement.
In the doorway stands none other than your uncle, Daemon. He‘s not as sparsely dressed as you and your siblings, wearing his leather doublet and breeches, and seems to be just as caught off guard to meet someone else so late into the Hour of the Owl as you.
There‘s a short, pregnant pause in which neither of you dares to speak, only broken by the man twice your senior. “And what exactly are you three talking about so late at night?“ Daemon says, stepping into the room. He carefully closes the door, making sure to be quiet, and approaches the long table.
Your uncle walks around to where you sit. It doesn‘t appear as if he‘s out for a fight or plans to rattle you out to your mother, and that he doesn’t pose a threat is highly emphasized by him bringing up his hand with the palm facing the ground, gesturing for Aemond to stay calm and sit back down.
Your twin brother doesn‘t comply, of course, and you spot the confusion gracing his features when Daemon leans past you and grabs your goblet. He refills it, and brings it to his lips. But he doesn‘t drink it right away, smelling it at first. “Planning a rebellion, perhaps?“ Daemon says, and you can hear the teasing tone in his voice despite him speaking into the goblet.
“That’s a good guess, actually,” Aegon replies, his tone teasing. “And maybe not so far from the truth as you would like to think, uncle.”
You exchange a wary glance with your twin brother. The slight smirk Aemond has on his lips as he watches how Daemon carries himself, walking around the table to pull out the chair opposite of you to sit down and join you without asking, lets you know that he might not be as opposed to your uncle’s presence as Aegon might be.
The elder, however, is surrounded by an air of indifference, nursing from his cup as he draws his attention from Daemon to you again. Perhaps he hopes that completely ignoring him would bring him to leave.
Daemon drinks a swig of wine. “You're certainly bold in speaking with me, as I remember you all being quite timid to address me last time. What is it that draws out your confidence?”
“Aside from us being younger back then, it might be your lack of presence… most likely,” you quip, leaning over the table to try to snatch the goblet from his hands. But to no avail.
Blame it on the few cups of wine you’ve had prior to his arrival, but if your brothers don’t mind his presence, you certainly won’t pay too much thought to it either.
Aegon takes in a deep breath, placing his goblet back down. “So, my dear sister, has he?”
You’re used to his condescending teasing, to the indecent nature of most of the things he says, and it’s better you’re the object of Aegon’s humiliation rather than your brother, seeing that he’s gone through that often enough, but everything that concerns the relationship of you and Aemond still is a sensitive topic to you. It’s no secret that you’ve hoped to be betrothed to Aemond at some point, it’s a common practice within your family, and to you, there is no better match for you than him. But the announcement never came for reasons you don’t know, not even after your two eldest siblings were wed to each other.
With your goblet now clutched in the hands of your uncle, there’s no chance for you to hide your embarrassment. “No …” you say, looking down at the table, drawing a circle along its surface with your index finger. “... not Aemond.”
You almost timidly gaze at Aemond from under your lashes, hardly able to meet his piercing gaze for longer than a few seconds.
“My my, not Aemond?” he raises a brow, a sly, knowing grin spreading on his lips. “Dare I ask who then?”
Pressing your lips into a thin line, you shrug your shoulders. It’s easier to keep your eyes locked with Aegon’s, especially because you feel both Aemond and Daemon staring at you intently. “I’m afraid you have asked me your one question already, Aegon.”
Your older brother quickly turns toward Aemond, hardly fazed by your rejection, with his hands now folded on the table in inquiring curiosity. “Well, do you wish you had taken it?”
Aemond’s jaw sets at Aegon’s bold approach, and you intervene. “It’s my turn, not yours,” you hum, wiggling your brow at your older brother.
He reluctantly leans back in his seat, and exhales deeply, waiting for your question. “If the choice had been yours, who would you have married?”
Daemon has been uncharacteristically quiet, at least based upon the little knowledge you have of him, probably figuring out the nature of your little game quicker than anticipated and not wanting to be a part of such childish antics, and merely staying for the wine.
“Mh, what an outstandingly irrelevant question,” Aegon drawls, nursing from his goblet, and you can see his grin even while he’s drinking. Putting it back down, he licks his lips. “Yet you ask it with such confidence. If I had my pick of literally any woman in Westeros, I suppose I would have chosen… you.”
This makes you frown and blush at the same time, and you briefly glance across the table to gauge your uncle’s reaction to his nephew’s words – to spot if there’s so much as mockery or amusement on his face at the mention of someone wanting to wed you. He leans forwards in his seat now, propping himself up on both elbows on the table, as if you’ve finally piqued his attention, as if he’s finally ready to play.
A part of you can only fathom the reasons why Aegon would prefer you over your older sister, the other part, however, can’t quite grasp it. To you, it always feels as if you’re standing in her shadow, despite her sometimes absent demeanor. “Why me?”
“Well, I’m afraid you have asked me your one question already, sister,” Aegon mocks, using your own words against yourself, and wiggles his brow.
You jut out your chin at that, glowering back at him. “Fine.” This is the first time you hear something from your uncle ever since he’s sat down. He chuckles at your insolence, and it makes the hairs at the back of your neck stand up.
Aegon rubs his hands. “Now, this cannot be all you’ve got,” he drawls, looking between his kin, although his gaze locks on you and Aemond a tad longer. “This is tiresome, you must be braver. We’re alone, and there is nobody here who would deceive us.”
The heads of you and your twin snap towards Daemon at the same time, and he merely raises his hands. “I certainly could, yes,” he notes, “but I’m not sure if I should… or if I want to.” He turns to Aegon, a smirk on his lips. “Now, what would this bravery you speak of be, hm?”
Aegon scoffs at his uncle’s words, rubbing his hands once again as if he’s been dared. He thinks of a fitting question for a moment. “What do you prefer, dear uncle: maidenly ladies of the court, or the rougher wenches of the Street of Silk?”
Letting out a barking laugh, Daemon takes a swig of wine. It feels like time stretches as you wait for his answer; as if it’s a test to make sure he’ll truly keep his mouth shut. “You are certainly a more brazen boy than I’ve given you credit for. That’s hardly a fair question,” he says but doesn’t make any attempt to stop or leave. “I suppose given my druthers, I’d rather sate myself with a fine maid who understands her place for the night.” He glances over at you, making heat spread through your veins. “But I will say, some of the wenches have made themselves… agreeable.”
Your older brother seems quite content with the answer he’s received, and turns his attention to Aemond. “I know that you certainly are not a stranger to the pleasure of the flesh, and you have yet to find a wife. So, who do you think of when you pleasure yourself?”
Daemon scoffs, the smirk on his face wide enough to make clear he finds amusement in it.
“Wait, I know this already,” Aegon quips, speaking to himself.
“Oh–” You want to bring the attention from Aemond to yourself to get him out of that uncomfortable situation, at least that’s what you tell yourself, but he beats you to it.
“Why is it only you asking the questions?” he snaps. Aemond proceeds to lean forwards in his seat, planting both palms flatly on the table in front of him, which prompts Daemon to lean back in his, knowing he’s targeted now.
“You must know a lot of women from all over the known world, from Westeros to the Far East, and some quite lovely men too… from what I’ve heard,” Aemond says, pausing for a beat. He pinches the hem of his goblet between his fingers, eye briefly flickering down before it settles on Daemon again. “Tell me, uncle, is it the women you fancy, or is it the men who interest you more?”
Gasping, you bring a hand up to cover your mouth, hiding the wide smirk that pulls at the corners of your lips. It seems that you and your uncle both underestimated your twin’s confidence and bravado.
“Well, it seems you lot are keen to gain insight into my tastes. But to make matters fair, I shall answer your question,” Daemon says, taking a sip of wine. “It’d certainly be the women, as tempting as some of the men were, and I must admit, they were quite tempting.”
With a nod of his head, Aemond leans back in his seat, clearly satisfied by the answer given. The following silence stretches on for a moment in which your eyes just flicker between all the men present. You haven’t felt threatened by any of them, although it could bring shame to you if someone were to find out you’re in a room with three men all by yourself. No, it’s quite the difference, knowing both Aemond and Aegon would do anything to protect you.
Around you sit three men you share the same blood with, partly at least, and while it appears they are all cut from the same cloth with their tempestuous personalities, they are unique in their own ways. And yet you’ve never felt more drawn to any of them before.
Daemon is the dashing, daring warrior you’ve heard stories about, mostly by your father, feeding every maiden’s dream. And although you’ve seen him only once before, at the funeral of his second wife where you were far too young to process any of it, a buried part of you has definitely thought about him in more than one way.
The bond Aemond and you share is unlike anything else. You’re quite similar but also aren't, and you don’t know what will happen if any of you gets betrothed to someone who isn’t the other. Aegon, on the other hand, was never a contender in your eyes. A part of you knows you would have married him if Helaena had been promised to someone else, and you wouldn’t have minded it as much – yet he’s no Aemond.
With your uncle seeming quite content as a spectator who rather answers questions than asks them, you speak up before any of your brothers can. There’s a dangerous glint in your eyes when you catch your twin’s gaze, but the question and possible answer have occupied your mind ever since Aegon asked it.
“So, Aemond…” you trail off, prompting your brother to raise a brow and slightly tilt his head. “You… You didn’t answer Aegon’s question. Who is it you think of?”
Aemond shifts uncomfortably in his seat with everyone’s eyes now fixed on him again, and suddenly has a hard time keeping your gazes locked. He flinches slightly as Aegon’s hand comes to his shoulder, shaking him once. His voice is mocking as he speaks, and something in it makes goosebumps prickle on your skin. “Come on, brother. I’m certain she already knows who.”
He sighs, and the confidence he’s held before, has completely vanished it seems. “‘Tis you,” he croaks. Although you are not sure if you expected that answer from him or not, there’s no embarrassment flooding your veins. The heat that runs from your cheeks to your chest is caused by something entirely different, and you’re certain that at least two of the men around you notice that.
Aemond has a harder time handling the silence that follows his confession, completely oblivious to his effect on you, and when the feet of his chair scrape the floor with an ‘I’m leaving now’ escaping his throat, you’re quick to grab his wrist.
“Aemond, I’m–” you trail off, fighting to find the right words that’ll make him stay. You give him a reassuring smile. “It’s alright.”
Your brother seems baffled at your answer, and though his tense muscles don’t relax at your touch, he does move to sit back down. “You’re not offended?”
His words make you release a puff of air, shaking your head. “No, it-it just means you’re smitten with me. We ought to wed, so there is no shame in that.”
“What a sweet moment full of sentiments.” Aegon’s voice prompts you to look past your twin, a frown on your face. “If you’re quite finished now, we could continue.”
Releasing Aemond’s wrist, you scoot your chair closer to his before folding your hands in your lap. “Then go on, Aegon.”
“Very well,” he replies. Aegon nurses from his cup of wine, appearing to be deep in thought. Nervousness flutters in your belly as you await his question, yet you’re not sure if it can get any worse. “What about you? Who do you think of, sister? No… wait.” He leans forward, his expression teasing with a hint of flirtatiousness. “Have you thought about any of us while you’ve indulged yourself?”
You freeze, but swallow the nervousness and regain your composure rather quickly. You’re taken aback by the question, and there’s a hint of shyness, as well as embarrassment blooming in your belly – not knowing if you want to admit the truth, or if you should. Yet, there’s a playful tease in the way he’s asking that makes you want to tell them.
Straightening your back, you grab Aemond’s goblet of wine and swallow its contents to give you confidence. “Well, if I’m being honest… I–I’ve…” you trail off, licking your lips and looking down at your hands. “I’ve thought of each of you once or twice before… there’s no denying it.”
You look at Aemond, and though he seems surprised, he doesn’t seem to be displeased about the revelation. It’s almost like he’s flattered. He raises his eyebrow, in a teasingly skeptical way, with a half smirk on his face. “You have?” he asks, which has you nodding your head.
Daemon is the first person Aegon looks at your words, you notice it briefly. While they’re both clearly a bit surprised, they do have a smug expression on their faces.
“Well, this is quite the revelation,” Aegon chimes in. “I’m curious now. What exactly were these thoughts?”
“Only one question, don’t you remember?” you ask, tone slightly defiant as you know the implications of what’s been asked of you.
You look forwards, and watch your uncle pinch the bridge of his nose before his lilac eyes fix with yours. “That can hardly be everything you have thought about. I doubt that,” he says. “Or am I mistaken?”
Swallowing your nerves, your eyes dart down to the table again. “No… I have thought about the three of you… together. Of us.”
“And would you want that now? Us four to enjoy each other at once?” Daemon asks.
Caught off guard by his bluntness, your voice trembles. “I… I suppose I wouldn’t necessarily be against it, but I don’t know if something like that–”
“Yes or no, sister,” Aegon cuts you off, demanding an answer rather than asking for it.
Flinching slightly at the sternness in his voice, you bow your head once in obedience. “I… yes.”
You don’t expect them to silently exchange looks, each of them having an eyebrow raised, and in fact looking as if they’re considering the idea. It seems that indecent thoughts are one way to mend the chasm that has grown for the past six summers.
This time, it’s you who can’t stand the silence, and when you rise to leave the council chamber, the warmth of Aemond’s hand around your wrist stops you from moving. But he doesn’t just keep it there, no, he tugs on your arm, prompting you to topple over into his lap. You’re startled, and the gasp that leaves your lips is all too quickly drowned by his lips on yours.
You lose yourself in the kiss, it’s passionate and meant to make up for years of yearning and longing, and barely notice Aemond’s free hand coming to rest on your knee. He slowly pushes it upwards, trailing beneath your robe and shift, and eventually disappearing inside. With his fingers brushing your sensitive pearl, smearing your arousal all over the bud, you gasp against his lips.
Trying to pull back to moan freely as two of Aemond’s fingers enter you, your twin is quick to chase your lips, making sure to keep them tightly locked. He snakes his other arm around your waist, pulling you against him.
Apart from the heavy breathing you all seem to share, it’s completely quiet, safe for the squelching sounds of Aemond’s fingers pushing in and out of you, and if it wasn’t for it feeling so, so good, you would have hid with embarrassment. Both your hands cling to the collar of his tunic, torn between pulling him closer or pushing him away.
“Can you hear that, uncle?” Aegon rasps, getting onto his feet to get a peak of where his brother’s hand is disappearing beneath your shift. “Her cunt is weeping for us.”
Pleasure floods your veins, tinting your skin in a sheen of sweat. Quiet whines and whimpers escape your throat – only to be drunken down by Aemond. It’s as if that’s what spurs him on, the sweet sounds only he can coax from you at this moment.
The pressure in your belly tightens, and prompts your thighs to squeeze around his hand. It urges you to rut your hips against his hand, chasing even more pleasure. Unbeknownst to you, his hand isn’t the only thing you rut against. His cock is hard and heavy beneath your rear, each drag of your hips sending a shiver up his spine. It’s enough to force him to pull back from you, taking in a deep breath and releasing a raspy groan right after.
“Gods, I–” you whine, your head tipping back.
That doesn’t last long. Aemond’s hand inches from your waist up between your shoulders, applying pressure to tilt your head forwards again. “I want you to look at me when you peak,” his voice is strained but stern, demanding, and it sends heat straight between your legs.
He is relentless, having waited for that moment for so long. His fingers bully your sweet spot with expert precision, causing the taut string in the pit of your belly to snap in an ambush. Your knuckles blanch from how tightly you are fisting Aemond’s tunic as your walls clench equally tightly around him, and when the pace of his hand does not falter, your body instinctively tries to jerk away.
With a throaty chuckle, he gives into the silent demand and pulls his fingers out of you. You watch with half-lidded eyes as he brings his hand on a level with your face.
They are covered in your arousal, sticky and glistening even in the dim light. As he spreads the two digits a few strings of it connect them, and you bite your bottom lip, knowing all too well what might follow.
You are surprised when he raises his hand just a little more and pushes it out into Aegon’s direction. “Would you like to taste her first, or shall I?”
You just stare at Aemond with wide eyes, barely looking over at Aegon when you hear him rasp ‘the honor is yours, brother.’
“This will not be the last time for me, so, go on.”
The elder doesn’t need to be told twice, and when you spot his flash of silver hair coming into your vision, you all but moan. Aemond’s fingers are engulfed by Aegon’s lips, the latter making sure to clean them thoroughly. He pulls back with a lewd pop! “My my, the sweetest cunt in all of the Seven Kingdoms… and I had my fair share of them.”
A blush spreads over your cheeks at the praise, but you can’t duck away from it with Aemond opening your robe and swiftly pulling it and your shift over your head. Your pert nipples immediately harden as the chill air hits your flushed skin, and your twin doesn’t know where to look at and touch you first.
Aegon seems just as eager, and while Aemond brings his lips to your neck, kissing his way down to your breasts, your older brother tilts your head back enough for him to press his lips against yours.
One hand flies to the back of Aegon’s head, entangling into his silver curls, and the other does the same with Aemond. You’re holding them both against you, allowing Aemond to nibble and suckle on your breasts, and Aegon to devour your mouth. The kiss is all teeth and tongue, causing your cunt to clench around nothing.
But it doesn’t last long.
Daemon has made his way around the table, towering over you and Aemond, and pulled both his nephews off of you. “Put her on the table,” your uncle instructs. He’s not ashamed to drag his lilac eyes over your exposed breasts, taking in the sight.
The surface of the table is cold under your arse, despite the loose smallclothes that conceal your soaked core, and you hold onto the edge of it with both your hands. Aemond stands between your legs, his hands on your waist.
“Now, what would our dear sister think if she finds out about this?” your twin speaks in a teasing manner as he turns around to face Daemon. It appears like a stare down as neither of the men moves. A sly smirk crawls onto Daemon’s lips, and soon enough, Aemond’s spot is taken by him.
Daemon brushes his knuckles along your flushed cheeks in a moment of uncharacteristic tenderness, and doesn’t tear his eyes off of you. You melt into his touch, and keep your eyes locked on him. “I’m certain she’d be delighted to hear that I am spending time with her siblings… with my nephews and niece.”
There comes no comment from your brothers, and Daemon takes that as his cue to continue. His hands travel from your sides down, fingers pinching the hem of your smallclothes. He tugs on them, and you raise your hips to help him pull them down your legs.
You sit completely bare in front of these three men now, although some of you might be covered for Aemond and Aegon by Daemon’s bulky frame, but don’t feel any ounce of shame.
Your lips are parted to help with your heavy breaths, and your wide eyes are locked on his lips as he speaks. “Now, sweetling, ‘tis incredibly rude of you not to help your brothers undress,” he hums. Behind him, Aegon and Aemond exchange some wary glances.
Reaching out to almost eagerly undo the laces of his breeches, Daemon tsks and grabs your wrists. “Aōha lēkī, aōha kēpus daor.” Your brothers, not your uncle.
With a nod of your head, you slide off the table, slipping past Daemon to approach Aemond. It’s instinctively that you get to him first, feeling naturally more drawn to him. He’s silent when you grab the laces of his trousers, observing you, but allows you to undo them one by one. He stops you from pulling them down more than necessary, only enough to free his cock and the sac of his stones. He’s standing to full attention, hard and covered in an angry red that begs to be soothed by you.
The gasp he releases as your hand wraps around it has you squeezing your thighs together, a new wave of arousal covering the insides of your thighs. Aegon grows impatient, watching how you work your hand up and down Aemond’s member but not his, and brings your free hand to the front of his garments. You’ve undone enough corsets to master the laces with merely one hand, pulling his cock out of its confines.
They are both very well endowed, but what Aemond has in length, he lacks in girth – something that Aegon makes up for.
Half lidded eyes are fixed on you as you drag your hands up and down their cocks, grunts and groans spilling past their lips. You want to watch them, to savor the sight and the moment, but when Daemon presses his chest against your back and starts peppering open mouthed kisses along the side of your neck, your eyes fall shut.
“Skoros iā gevie tala eman,” he rasps against your skin. What a beautiful niece I have.
One of his large hands comes up to cup your breast, while the other travels over your navel down between your legs, circling your pearl with his deft fingers. Whining and mewling at the touch and praise, you melt into your uncle’s grasp so much that you can hardly focus on Aemond and Aegon in front of you.
Daemon pushes one of his fingers into your entrance, the intrusion making you gasp. His fingers are thicker than Aemond’s, and when he enters another, you pull your hand from Aemond’s cock to hold onto his waist for support.
His skilled fingers work you towards your second peak of the night, the feeling of his lips on your skin and his fingers pinching your nipple making you somewhat lightheaded. Aemond’s hand finds your other breast, and while you continue to stroke Aemond in a lazy manner, your twin brother leans in to mouth at your breast.
Daemon’s arm around you tightens as your peak washes over you abruptly, forcing your knees to tremble from the sheer force of it. You bury a hand in Aemond’s hair and hold onto Daemon with the other, moaning in pleasure although he doesn’t grant you the honor of enjoying it as much, since he’s quick to withdraw his fingers from you.
As you turn your head to look at your uncle from over your shoulder, there’s a pout on your lips that makes him chuckle. But it doesn’t last long when Aemond rises to full height again, capturing your lips in a heated kiss.
“Fuck it,” Aegon rasps, strain audible in his voice. He seems impatient, the stroking of his cock not enough for him. “If I had my way, I suggest we take her at the same time, brother.”
Breaking the kiss, you chase your twin’s lips but don’t catch them. He looks at Aegon from over his shoulder. “What about him?” He nods his head in your uncle’s direction.
“I’m quite content as a spectator for now,” Daemon replies.
They speak over your head, as if you’re not even present and your opinion doesn’t matter, and it’s all you could’ve ever asked for. They make the choices, and you don’t have to worry your head. The prospect of having two cocks stuff you would be a first, a thought that’s daunting as much as it’s exciting.
Aemond briefly looks over at you, and you flash him a soft smile. “And how do you think we can go about it?”
Aegon approaches you and turns you around, bringing your back flush against his chest. His hard cock nestles against the curve of your arse, demanding attention. “I shall take her from the rear. And if you want to look at her, she lies on her back. What do you think, brother?”
There’s not really time for him to contemplate the idea. Instead, Aegon moves to lie on the council table, legs dangling over the edge. You just watch him, shivering at the loss of his warmth behind you, before he beckons you over with two fingers curled in a ‘come-hither’ motion.
“You-You think it will work?” you stammer, standing between Aegon’s parted legs.
Propping himself up on his elbows, he nods. “Trust me, sister.”
And trusting him you will. Daemon helps you climb the table to straddle his hips, your back facing him. You’re quick with wanting to sink down on him, but Aegon stops you. He mutters something along the lines of ‘must prepare you first’ as he comes up behind you, and brings his fingers to your cunt. Aemond stands now in front of you, and as you look up at him with wide eyes, you hold onto his biceps for support and leverage.
Coating his fingers generously in your arousal, he brings one hand to your arse cheek and spreads and gropes it rather roughly as he pushes them into your hole. You avert your eyes from Aemond’s and look to the ground while your teeth dig into your bottom lip to stifle a moan. Only once your hole is stretched and prepared enough to his liking does he repeat the actions with his cock.
“Fuck,” he grunts, “you’re taking me so well. She feels amazing, brother.”
The stretch feels different, and you admire Aegon for going slower than anticipated. It feels as if he’s hardly buried inside of you when he groans and grunts, and you can tell from how tightly he grips your arse with both hands, that he really has to restrain himself from pounding into you.
Looking over Aemond’s shoulder, you lock gazes with Daemon who intently watches the scene unfold in front of him. Your twin is concealing most of his body, but you’re certain you’d see a bulge in his breeches if he stepped away.
Aegon wraps his arms around you and encourages you to lean back against him. You do, and though your back rests against his chest, your head lulls off the edge of the table.
As much as you want to watch Aemond, you don’t have enough strength in you to keep your head up. He positions himself between your legs, pulling you towards the edge and adjusting you so he can align himself with your wet entrance. It’s an instinctive mechanism as you wrap your legs around his waist the moment you feel him prod against you, preparing you for the intrusion.
He’s not as gentle and fills you in one, swift thrust, sucked in and tightly embraced by you. “Oh!” you whimper, arching your back. Having Aemond and Aegon both groan in unison at the pleasure and your tightness in combination with them both filling you to the brim makes your mind go hazy, aching for more.
“Would you look at that?” Aegon grunts, bringing one hand to where you’re connected now. It’s not surprising he’s talking more than Aemond, considering he’s always been the more vocal one. “Tight holes taking both of us. What a good, little girl you are.”
With Aemond towering over you now, one hand placed next to your hip for support, he raises your hips slightly and therefore gives Aegon enough freedom to move on his own accord. Their movements are uncoordinated at first, but quickly find a rhythm that helps you adjust to their sizes.
As they force their cocks in and out of you, Aemond’s pace quicker and more determined than the one of Aegon, the latter proceeds to fondle your bouncing breasts with both hands, using that grip to keep you steady at your twin’s reckless assault. Your older brother mouths along the side of your neck, thoroughly exposed with your head tipped back, and you can feel his grunts and the groaned ‘yesses’ fan over your skin.
It’s surprising how well they work together, and if you didn’t know better, you’d say they both have thought about something similar at least once. Everything seems practiced, bringing you closer to the brink of pleasure.
Aemond’s cock hits the spot inside of you that has your jaw slackening over and over again, and with Aegon’s hands keeping you in place, he uses his to rub your pearl, coaxing you to arch your back.
“If I didn’t know better,” your twin trails off, interrupted by strained pants. “I would– I would not think of you as a princess, more like a common whore. Or am I mistaken, brother?”
A strained chuckle leaves Aegon’s throat at his brother’s words. “My my, our dear sister truly is a whore just plucked off the Silk Street.”
Their condescending words go straight to your head, but you don’t have the time to answer. You’ve just kept your eyes closed, enjoying the sensations that course through your body, and hence didn’t notice Daemon prowling around the table. He stands right in front of you now, but doesn’t say anything. Instead, he taps the tip of his cock against your lips, clearly demanding entrance.
“Open up, sweetling,” he demands, his voice thick with arousal. You have ached to have him buried inside of you, so you’re more than eager to comply.
Not a moment is wasted by him once you’ve parted your lips, not-so-gently bucking his hips to meet the back of your throat in a swift thrust. Where his fingers have caressed your cheeks not long before, they now grab the sides of your face to keep it in place. Digging his fingers into your cheeks, it forces you to hollow your cheeks and keep your mouth open so you’re able to take him deep enough for your nose to nuzzle against the sac of his stones.
“Mhhm,“ the content hum fills your ears. Daemon is practically purring, and you feel your arousal slowly dripping out of your cunt, coating Aemond’s cock in a renewed wave of your essence. “You take my cock so well, niece.”
The twitching of his cock indicates that he is revelling in the sputtering and choking noises you make as you note just how big he is, his cock definitely matching his body, and your gag reflex hasn’t been tested this hard before.
Daemon is generous enough to pull back completely every once and then, allowing your lungs to fill with air before he sinks back into the warmth of your mouth again. You bring one hand up to rest on his lower abdomen as a means to slow his pace and force, but his desire is getting the worst of him.
Droplets of your saliva dribble from the corners of your lips, down your cheeks and the sides of your face with how fast he pushes into you, meeting his cock halfway with the force of Aemond’s thrusts. The lewd sounds of their soaked cocks sliding in and out of your holes fill the council chamber, hardly drowned out by their bawdy grunts and groans and words of praise.
“One cock is not enough for you, hm? Greedy, little girl,” Daemon groans. “Oh no, you need three at once.”
Your twin bows his body forwards to wrap his lips around your pert nipple again, sucking and nibbling on it. The added stimulation has you clenching tightly around both of them.
Where Aegon chokes on a gasp, Aemond harshly bites down on your pert bud. The stinging pain is enough to finally push you over the edge, the taut string inside of you snapping as the pleasure within you soars through your veins. White, hot pleasure clouds your vision, Aegon’s arms around you are the only thing keeping you steady right now.
“That’s it,” Aemond grunts, and the snaps of his hips increase to the point your whines become hiccuped, caught in your throat and muffled by Daemon’s cock.
But he isn’t the first man to surrender to the pleasure. Aegon’s peak follows closely behind yours, ripped from him by the reckless pace Aemond has set up. He spends himself deep inside of your arse, any groans stifled by him sinking his teeth into your shoulder. Despite his thrusts growing sloppier, he slides in and out of you with ease, his seed and your dripping arousal working as lubrication.
Aemond and Daemon both take a little longer to reach completion. Your twin’s throbbing cock spends itself deep inside of your quivering walls when you start to roll your hips against him, meant to help Aegon through his peak. You want to watch him so badly, watch how his face contorted in pleasure with all the sweet sounds leaving his lips, but Daemon’s cock down your throat hinders you from it.
Aemond twitches and trembles so much that he’s forced to still his hips, and the throbbing of both his and Aegon’s cock only stops once your clenching walls have milked them for every drop of their seed. “So pretty stuffed full with our seed,” Aemond rambles, totally cunt struck.
Tears prick in the corner of your eyes as your body slowly comes down from the shattering peak your body has just endured. You flatten your tongue against Daemon’s heavy cock, and a particularly harsh thrust of him is what makes the tears burst, running down your temples.
He thrusts frantically into your mouth at this point, and you know he’s close with how he throbs on your tongue. You brace yourself for it as Daemon chases his pleasure – until he snaps with a loud groan. It’s not the first time a man spends himself deep down your throat, and you’re eager to swallow every drop of his seed.
But you don’t get to relinquish it for too long, because Daemon is quick to pull out of your mouth with the last twitch of his cock. A deep breath fills your lungs, and your tongue drags over your swollen lips to gather the last remnants of his seed before Aegon pushes you up, propping himself on his elbows.
Your whole body trembles, and your mind is still somewhat hazy and in shambles, making it hard for you to register that Daemon has already left.
Aemond pulls out of you, and as uncomfortable as the loss is, you’re also grateful for it. He seems almost mesmerized as he watches his seed dribble out of your assaulted hole, probably praying for it to bear fruit and get you round with his child. He presses his lips to your temple, no doubt tasting the salt of your tears lingering on your skin, and lifts you off Aegon’s cock.
Both your brother’s have tugged themself back into their breeches when they help you get into your smallclothes and shift again. “How do you feel?” Aemond asks, and it’s the first time you hear something akin to concern in his voice.
You rub your eyes, tilting your head to look up at him. When your feet make contact with the cold floor, you hold onto him to steady your trembling legs.
“I’m–I’m tired. I should retire for bed,” your voice is hoarse as you speak, barely louder than a whisper.
The warmth of Aemond’s palm on the small of your back is a comfort, helping you to feel grounded again. “I shall ensure you reach your chambers, sister.”
Aegon brings a hand to his shoulder. “You do that, and I shall make sure we do not leave any traces behind.”
Nodding meekly at the words of both your older brothers, Aemond accompanies you back to your chambers. The walk is shared in silence, although you know something fundamental has changed in your relationship with him now. Mayhaps he will press for your betrothal now, and you hope he will.
As he opens the doors to your chambers, he briefly bows his head before disappearing into the darkness, heading towards his own apartments.
Your body is covered in sweat and body fluids, but it aches too much for you to take a bath now. So, you clean yourself with a wet cloth and braid your long, silver tresses before you fall into a deep sleep for the first time in a fortnight, not nervous to meet the men that have just fulfilled a long-buried desire of yours.
Hello, How are you? I saw your post about requests for Ormund. And oh my gosh, I’m so excited about this guy, too.Anyway, I’m not very creative, but I feel that, since he’s so sensitive to smells, he’d notice that his wife is pregnant—or that the scent she gives off during pregnancy drives him crazy. Like a sweet smell—warm milk sweetened with honey (pretty weird).He’s always liked his wife to be clean and smell nice, but this little detail makes him even more intense😈
(Maybe a baby fever, after his wife holds Daron in her arms👀?)
You can ignore this request, and that’s totally fine☺️
And sorry for my terrible English—I'm still learning.
Hiya! Thanks for the request. It‘s not smutty, but I still hope I’ve done it some justice at least. 🤗
“After two years of marriage and countless disappointments, you and Ormund have learned to lean on each other more than ever. But during your sister’s stay in Oldtown, a quiet moment with baby Aegon makes Ormund realize that perhaps your prayers have finally been answered.“
Notes: It's very possible, that this is the prelude for another (and steamier) part featuring Ormund and his Targaryen wife. 😈
The Hightower has never been louder.
Servants hurry through its halls carrying trays of food and wine, maesters whisper among themselves, and somewhere in the lower courtyards, the laughter of princes echoes against the stone. The arrival of Rhaenyra and her sons has transformed Oldtown into something your husband hardly recognizes—a place filled with silver hair, dragons overhead, and far too many people too eager to remind him that the blood of Old Valyria has found its way into his halls.
As if he can’t see that himself.
Ordinarily, Ormund would find an excuse to disappear into council meetings or the training yard, but today, he has retreated to your shared solar, seeking refuge from the endless procession of courtesies expected of him.
The afternoon sun spills through the tall windows, casting a warm light across the room as your husband stands besides one of them, looking out over the Whispering Sound. Below the Hightower, the city bustles as it always has, blissfully ignorant of the royal chaos unfolding above their heads.
Behind him, resting in a cradle near the hearth, sleeps the newest addition to House Targaryen—little Aegon, no larger than a bundle of blankets and somehow already the center of everyone’s attention.
Ormund tears his gaze away from the harbor, and turns towards you, who has escaped the festivities only moments before. You sit in a chair next to Aegon’s cradle, rocking it slowly as you can’t tear your eyes off of him.
“Tell me truthfully,” he says, the corners of his mouth lifting into the faintest hint of amusement. “How much longer must we endure your sister’s court before Oldtown returns to its senses?”
He crosses the room, and reaches for the goblet of wine that rests on the table beside you. “I have spent the better part of the afternoon being lectured by maesters and your nephews alike about dragons. Another hour, and I may throw myself from the top of the Hightower.”
You still glance down at the sleeping babe, your lips softening into a smile that seems to belong only to him—so untouched by courts and politics, and the endless expectations placed upon noblemen and noblewomen.
Being far too engrossed by the babe, you don’t notice how his expression softens as he looks at you, and much less how the sharpness in his voice fades in a way it rarely does around anyone else. “Though I suppose you have enjoyed having them here so far,” he says, studying you for a moment while he puts the goblet back down. “Your sister, your nephews… the babe.”
The words linger between you, carrying a meaning neither of you needs to speak aloud. Two summers of marriage, two summers of hopes raised and dashed, of whispered prayers and polite assurances from maesters.
Ormund reaches for your hand, absentmindedly tracing his thumb across your knuckles. “You’ve been smiling all day.”
His touch is what seizes your attention, and you crane your neck to meet his gaze. “Mhm, your suffering has been truly heroic, husband,” you reply with a smile. “First dragons, then children, and now maesters discussing the same. I shall ask my father to have songs written of your endurance.” There is mischief hidden beneath the sweetness of your voice, though you deliver the jab with all the grace expected of a princess.
You slip your hand from Ormund’s grasp to rise to your feet, leaning over the cradle to lift little Aegon from it. He is cradled against your chest, stirring only slightly with his tiny fingers curling around the neckline of your gown as you rock him absentmindedly.
“I enjoy having them here,” you admit quietly, your eyes never leaving the child. “It reminds me of the Red Keep when we were younger. Before everything became so… complicated.”
The laughter from the courtyard drifts through the open windows, and for a moment, you stand there, bathing in the afternoon light with an expression your husband has come to recognize all too well—the look that always carries hope, no matter how many disappointments have come before it.
Behind you, Ormund says nothing. You just hear his footsteps cross the floor, and a moment later, his presence settles at your back. He’s close enough for the warmth of him to reach your shoulders, close enough for his breath to fan across your skin, and close enough that you can feel his gaze linger on the babe nestled in your arms.
You sigh softly. “He is beautiful, isn’t he?”
Aegon’s other tiny hand has escaped the blanket, curled loosely around your fingers. You smile at the sigh, and brush your thumb over his knuckles.
“He has your sister’s nose,” Ormund murmurs softly, not looking away from Aegon. “Poor thing.”
But the joke fades into the quiet between you, and by the tenderness in his voice it’s evident he’s just as mesmerized by Aegon as you.
Ormund’s chin hovers near your temple. His silence seems deeper now, more thoughtful. He has spent his entire life studying people—the subtle shifts in their expressions during council meetings, the tension in a knight’s shoulders before a tournament, the exhaustion hidden behind polite smiles.
And lately, there have been changes in you.
It’s been little things; the mornings you linger in bed longer than usual, or the evenings you grow tired before supper has been served, the way your gowns sit slightly differently upon your frame. Changes so subtle, that anyone else might have missed them entirely.
But Ormund has never been anyone else when it comes to you.
There even is something different about the familiar scent of lavender and sea air that clings to you—a sweetness beneath it that he can’t quite place, something new and strangely familiar all at once.
“You have been strangely quiet this afternoon,” you murmur, a smile tugging at your lips as you turn your head just enough to glance back at him. “Should I be concerned?”
He remains silent.
Then, slowly, his hand comes up to rest against the windowsill beside you, caging you in without intention with his gaze fixed on the curve of your neck. Beyond the windows, the bells of Oldtown ring in the distance, mingling with the cries of gulls drifting in from the harbor below.
“You’ve changed your perfume,” he mutters, almost in disbelief.
You let out a soft laugh. “I have not.”
“No.” His brow furrows slightly. “No, I suppose you haven’t.”
He turns his head just enough to look at you properly now, his eyes tracing the curve of your cheek, the silver strands that have fallen loose from your braid and the shadows beneath your eyes that have become more pronounced these last weeks.
“You’ve been sleeping later,” he points out.
But you are quick to object: “I have guests to entertain.”
“You hardly touched your supper three nights ago.”
“I was tired.”
“And yesterday morning, you nearly sent the maids into hysterics when you fled the table.”
Blinking slowly, it’s evident you’re caught somewhere between amusement and confusion. “My lord, are you keeping an inventory of my habits?”
“I keep an inventory of everything,” he replies matter-of-factly, and adds more softly: “especially yours.”
Heat rises to your cheeks. You look back down at Aegon, carefully tucking the blanket beneath his tiny chin. “And what conclusion has Lord Hightower reached after this thorough investigation?”
Ormund’s gaze has fallen onto the child in your arms again, studying the slight part of his lips and the faint flush on his cheeks, before your eyes meet once more. “I don’t know yet.”
It’s perhaps the most honest thing you have ever heard him say.
His composure seems to crack, if only slightly. His hand leaves the windowsill, and hesitates before it sets carefully at your waist.
“You've been different.” The words are barely louder than a whisper, almost as if he’s suddenly too afraid to wake the sleeping child in your arms. “And before you accuse me of imagining things—as I know you are about to—I would like to point out that I have spent more than two summers watching you more closely than I’ve watched anyone else in this world.”
The silence between you stretches long enough that you almost look away again, until he very slowly lowers his head towards yours; not to kiss you, gods be good, not even to speak to you.
He simply breathes you in.
Now that he is this close, your scent suddenly is unmistakable. It’s still mostly lavender and the sea salt from the harbor breeze that drifts through the open windows, but beneath it is something softer, warmer, honeyed.
His hand comes to rest lightly against your belly, and you feel the hesitation in him, the rare uncertainty that almost never surfaces beyond the privacy of your chambers. And with his hand now splayed over your stomach, his words echo within your own thoughts. You weigh them carefully, and begin to gather the scattered pieces you have ignored for days.
“Ormund…”
“Tell me I’m wrong,” he murmurs, almost afraid of the answer. “Tell me this is merely another one of my absurd conclusions.” But even as he says it, his gaze drifts to his hand on your stomach and to the life he is beginning, against all reason, to suspect you carry.
“You smell different,” he continues.
It prompts you to laugh softly, because although the possibility might be there, you remember the days after the last disappointment. You have memorized them with such careful precision, as though the recollection of them alone might protect your heart from breaking again.
“That–That is a remarkably romantic thing to say to your wife,” you say, “but we have been wrong before.”
His thumb barely moves against the fabric of your belly, while the rest of him remains still. “I mean it.”
The amusement fades from your expression, and you turn a little more in his arms to search his face. “You are frightening me,” you admit.
Ormund looks down at the sleeping child and then back to you. There’s not the hint of the usually stern, perhaps even arrogant, mask he wears around court, no, there’s only a man that stands too close to a dream he has taught himself not to trust.
And that’s what frightens you most. It’s not the possibility itself, but the look in his eyes. You have seen people around you wearing hope before—the maesters delivering remedies, the septas offering prayers, some ladies speaking kindly after another moon’s disappointment. Their hope has always felt light enough to brush aside, but his does not. It settles heavily in your chest.
You can feel your throat tighten at the sight. “Don’t,” you whisper, the plea escaping your lips before you can stop it. “Don’t look at me like that unless you are prepared to be wrong.”
A part of you wants him to laugh gently and tell you he is imagining things, that this is only another false alarm, a passing fancy born by seeing the babe in your arms, because that would be much easier and safer.
But he doesn’t laugh.
“My love,” he says quietly, a name you hardly hear him say. “If I am wrong, I will grieve it with you. But I would rather stand here hoping beside you than spend another summer pretending I do not.”
The words undo something in you, not having realized how lonely your fear has become until this moment. You close your eyes briefly, leaning into the hand that rests against your stomach, and feel him step closer until the warmth of him surrounds you completely.
For the first time, you allow yourself to think the forbidden thought without immediately pushing it away. What if?
The question is so small, yet it fills your entire chest.
Aegon stirs softly in your arms, and you both look down at him at the same time.
When you lift your eyes again, they immediately find Ormund’s, watching you with the same tenderness again as though he is waiting for you to decide whether the dream is allowed to exist or not.
“After two years of marriage and countless disappointments, you and Ormund have learned to lean on each other more than ever. But during your sister’s stay in Oldtown, a quiet moment with baby Aegon makes Ormund realize that perhaps your prayers have finally been answered.“
Notes: It's very possible, that this is the prelude for another (and steamier) part featuring Ormund and his Targaryen wife. 😈
The Hightower has never been louder.
Servants hurry through its halls carrying trays of food and wine, maesters whisper among themselves, and somewhere in the lower courtyards, the laughter of princes echoes against the stone. The arrival of Rhaenyra and her sons has transformed Oldtown into something your husband hardly recognizes—a place filled with silver hair, dragons overhead, and far too many people too eager to remind him that the blood of Old Valyria has found its way into his halls.
As if he can’t see that himself.
Ordinarily, Ormund would find an excuse to disappear into council meetings or the training yard, but today, he has retreated to your shared solar, seeking refuge from the endless procession of courtesies expected of him.
The afternoon sun spills through the tall windows, casting a warm light across the room as your husband stands besides one of them, looking out over the Whispering Sound. Below the Hightower, the city bustles as it always has, blissfully ignorant of the royal chaos unfolding above their heads.
Behind him, resting in a cradle near the hearth, sleeps the newest addition to House Targaryen—little Aegon, no larger than a bundle of blankets and somehow already the center of everyone’s attention.
Ormund tears his gaze away from the harbor, and turns towards you, who has escaped the festivities only moments before. You sit in a chair next to Aegon’s cradle, rocking it slowly as you can’t tear your eyes off of him.
“Tell me truthfully,” he says, the corners of his mouth lifting into the faintest hint of amusement. “How much longer must we endure your sister’s court before Oldtown returns to its senses?”
He crosses the room, and reaches for the goblet of wine that rests on the table beside you. “I have spent the better part of the afternoon being lectured by maesters and your nephews alike about dragons. Another hour, and I may throw myself from the top of the Hightower.”
You still glance down at the sleeping babe, your lips softening into a smile that seems to belong only to him—so untouched by courts and politics, and the endless expectations placed upon noblemen and noblewomen.
Being far too engrossed by the babe, you don’t notice how his expression softens as he looks at you, and much less how the sharpness in his voice fades in a way it rarely does around anyone else. “Though I suppose you have enjoyed having them here so far,” he says, studying you for a moment while he puts the goblet back down. “Your sister, your nephews… the babe.”
The words linger between you, carrying a meaning neither of you needs to speak aloud. Two summers of marriage, two summers of hopes raised and dashed, of whispered prayers and polite assurances from maesters.
Ormund reaches for your hand, absentmindedly tracing his thumb across your knuckles. “You’ve been smiling all day.”
His touch is what seizes your attention, and you crane your neck to meet his gaze. “Mhm, your suffering has been truly heroic, husband,” you reply with a smile. “First dragons, then children, and now maesters discussing the same. I shall ask my father to have songs written of your endurance.” There is mischief hidden beneath the sweetness of your voice, though you deliver the jab with all the grace expected of a princess.
You slip your hand from Ormund’s grasp to rise to your feet, leaning over the cradle to lift little Aegon from it. He is cradled against your chest, stirring only slightly with his tiny fingers curling around the neckline of your gown as you rock him absentmindedly.
“I enjoy having them here,” you admit quietly, your eyes never leaving the child. “It reminds me of the Red Keep when we were younger. Before everything became so… complicated.”
The laughter from the courtyard drifts through the open windows, and for a moment, you stand there, bathing in the afternoon light with an expression your husband has come to recognize all too well—the look that always carries hope, no matter how many disappointments have come before it.
Behind you, Ormund says nothing. You just hear his footsteps cross the floor, and a moment later, his presence settles at your back. He’s close enough for the warmth of him to reach your shoulders, close enough for his breath to fan across your skin, and close enough that you can feel his gaze linger on the babe nestled in your arms.
You sigh softly. “He is beautiful, isn’t he?”
Aegon’s other tiny hand has escaped the blanket, curled loosely around your fingers. You smile at the sigh, and brush your thumb over his knuckles.
“He has your sister’s nose,” Ormund murmurs softly, not looking away from Aegon. “Poor thing.”
But the joke fades into the quiet between you, and by the tenderness in his voice it’s evident he’s just as mesmerized by Aegon as you.
Ormund’s chin hovers near your temple. His silence seems deeper now, more thoughtful. He has spent his entire life studying people—the subtle shifts in their expressions during council meetings, the tension in a knight’s shoulders before a tournament, the exhaustion hidden behind polite smiles.
And lately, there have been changes in you.
It’s been little things; the mornings you linger in bed longer than usual, or the evenings you grow tired before supper has been served, the way your gowns sit slightly differently upon your frame. Changes so subtle, that anyone else might have missed them entirely.
But Ormund has never been anyone else when it comes to you.
There even is something different about the familiar scent of lavender and sea air that clings to you—a sweetness beneath it that he can’t quite place, something new and strangely familiar all at once.
“You have been strangely quiet this afternoon,” you murmur, a smile tugging at your lips as you turn your head just enough to glance back at him. “Should I be concerned?”
He remains silent.
Then, slowly, his hand comes up to rest against the windowsill beside you, caging you in without intention with his gaze fixed on the curve of your neck. Beyond the windows, the bells of Oldtown ring in the distance, mingling with the cries of gulls drifting in from the harbor below.
“You’ve changed your perfume,” he mutters, almost in disbelief.
You let out a soft laugh. “I have not.”
“No.” His brow furrows slightly. “No, I suppose you haven’t.”
He turns his head just enough to look at you properly now, his eyes tracing the curve of your cheek, the silver strands that have fallen loose from your braid and the shadows beneath your eyes that have become more pronounced these last weeks.
“You’ve been sleeping later,” he points out.
But you are quick to object: “I have guests to entertain.”
“You hardly touched your supper three nights ago.”
“I was tired.”
“And yesterday morning, you nearly sent the maids into hysterics when you fled the table.”
Blinking slowly, it’s evident you’re caught somewhere between amusement and confusion. “My lord, are you keeping an inventory of my habits?”
“I keep an inventory of everything,” he replies matter-of-factly, and adds more softly: “especially yours.”
Heat rises to your cheeks. You look back down at Aegon, carefully tucking the blanket beneath his tiny chin. “And what conclusion has Lord Hightower reached after this thorough investigation?”
Ormund’s gaze has fallen onto the child in your arms again, studying the slight part of his lips and the faint flush on his cheeks, before your eyes meet once more. “I don’t know yet.”
It’s perhaps the most honest thing you have ever heard him say.
His composure seems to crack, if only slightly. His hand leaves the windowsill, and hesitates before it sets carefully at your waist.
“You've been different.” The words are barely louder than a whisper, almost as if he’s suddenly too afraid to wake the sleeping child in your arms. “And before you accuse me of imagining things—as I know you are about to—I would like to point out that I have spent more than two summers watching you more closely than I’ve watched anyone else in this world.”
The silence between you stretches long enough that you almost look away again, until he very slowly lowers his head towards yours; not to kiss you, gods be good, not even to speak to you.
He simply breathes you in.
Now that he is this close, your scent suddenly is unmistakable. It’s still mostly lavender and the sea salt from the harbor breeze that drifts through the open windows, but beneath it is something softer, warmer, honeyed.
His hand comes to rest lightly against your belly, and you feel the hesitation in him, the rare uncertainty that almost never surfaces beyond the privacy of your chambers. And with his hand now splayed over your stomach, his words echo within your own thoughts. You weigh them carefully, and begin to gather the scattered pieces you have ignored for days.
“Ormund…”
“Tell me I’m wrong,” he murmurs, almost afraid of the answer. “Tell me this is merely another one of my absurd conclusions.” But even as he says it, his gaze drifts to his hand on your stomach and to the life he is beginning, against all reason, to suspect you carry.
“You smell different,” he continues.
It prompts you to laugh softly, because although the possibility might be there, you remember the days after the last disappointment. You have memorized them with such careful precision, as though the recollection of them alone might protect your heart from breaking again.
“That–That is a remarkably romantic thing to say to your wife,” you say, “but we have been wrong before.”
His thumb barely moves against the fabric of your belly, while the rest of him remains still. “I mean it.”
The amusement fades from your expression, and you turn a little more in his arms to search his face. “You are frightening me,” you admit.
Ormund looks down at the sleeping child and then back to you. There’s not the hint of the usually stern, perhaps even arrogant, mask he wears around court, no, there’s only a man that stands too close to a dream he has taught himself not to trust.
And that’s what frightens you most. It’s not the possibility itself, but the look in his eyes. You have seen people around you wearing hope before—the maesters delivering remedies, the septas offering prayers, some ladies speaking kindly after another moon’s disappointment. Their hope has always felt light enough to brush aside, but his does not. It settles heavily in your chest.
You can feel your throat tighten at the sight. “Don’t,” you whisper, the plea escaping your lips before you can stop it. “Don’t look at me like that unless you are prepared to be wrong.”
A part of you wants him to laugh gently and tell you he is imagining things, that this is only another false alarm, a passing fancy born by seeing the babe in your arms, because that would be much easier and safer.
But he doesn’t laugh.
“My love,” he says quietly, a name you hardly hear him say. “If I am wrong, I will grieve it with you. But I would rather stand here hoping beside you than spend another summer pretending I do not.”
The words undo something in you, not having realized how lonely your fear has become until this moment. You close your eyes briefly, leaning into the hand that rests against your stomach, and feel him step closer until the warmth of him surrounds you completely.
For the first time, you allow yourself to think the forbidden thought without immediately pushing it away. What if?
The question is so small, yet it fills your entire chest.
Aegon stirs softly in your arms, and you both look down at him at the same time.
When you lift your eyes again, they immediately find Ormund’s, watching you with the same tenderness again as though he is waiting for you to decide whether the dream is allowed to exist or not.
