aemond blushing & stuttering when reader kisses his cheek
not to me, not if itâs you
counter tilt
in dreams (18+)
frost-bite
head-rush (18+)
play your part through to the end
mad blood stirring
fair/foul (18+)
tongue-tied (18+)
awake, arise or be for ever fallân (18+)
heart between your teeth
the eye of the storm đ¤
summary: reader is rhaenyraâs daughter, caught in kingâs landing as the greens attempt to crown aegon. in an attempt to persuade rhaenyra and consolidate power, you are wed to aemond. though youâd been friends once, you hate each other now. at least, in the beginning.
pt. 1 pt. 2 pt. 3 pt. 4 pt. 5 pt. 6 pt. 7
pt. 8 pt. 9 pt. 10 pt. 11 pt. 12 pt. 13 pt. 14
pt. 15 pt. 16 pt. 17
the thread i try to spin
summary: aegon doesnât seem to care much for his betrothed - but aemond certainly does. as war looms, he grows closer to you, and he finds that itâs not only his brotherâs throne that he covets.
pt. 1 pt. 2
looks like something blooming đ¤
summary: when helaena targaryen and her children move out of town, you think that your days as a nanny are over - till her brother aemond reluctantly enlists your help with his son. you find yourself enjoying nannying for him - almost as much as you enjoy fantasizing about him.
pt. 1 pt. 2 pt. 3 pt. 4 pt. 5 pt. 6
unutterable visions/perishable breath
summary: aemond falls in love with one of helaenaâs serving maids.
pt. 1
prism light
summary: after lord beesbury dies, a new master of coin is chosen. his daughter is made a lady-in-waiting to helaena targaryen. aemond cannot help but fall in love with her.
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Boycotts work, but only if a large number of people participate.
Make your voice be heard, and be mindful of where you spend you money.
Whoâs wedding dress did the reader wear for her and Aemondâs wedding? They got married the day after Aegonâs coronation so it wasnât likely that they had the time to make a new dress.
it wasnât an actual wedding dress - there truly, as you said, wasnât time to have one made - so the reader ended up wearing one of their own finer gowns that theyâd brought w them to kings landing
Hi, my dearest writer! Just want to say that I LOVE LOVE LOVE your one-shots and Iâve been revisiting them from time to time, you are so talented â¤ď¸ I want to dive into your longer series and I, here feel so bad asking this, but if you would kindly mark long fics with âongoing/ completedâ in your pinned post so I can start with finished ones?
oh my gosh thank you so much!!!!!
please donât feel badly at all!!! thatâs a great idea - iâd honestly never have thought of it if it werenât for this ask but itâll make my blog navigation much easier
reader slept in different chambers from jace & luke so they werenât there when baela & rhaena went to tell them about vhagar being âstolenâ; they were only brought to the great hall after it had happened, they caught the tail end of aemond having his eye sewn up
Your writing is beautiful but it is a bit disappointing that almost every Aemond/OC fic vilifies Alys or makes her the âother womanâ who left him damaged and broken đ Every fic writer uses her as a challenge/past relationship where she used him. Iâm not sure why so many people want to include her as a villain to uplift their own OCs.
thank you for the compliment!!! i really do appreciate it!
as for the note of concern, thatâs valid & fair! itâs definitely a common trope. i think the reason as to why that tends to be is that the framing of aemondâs story canon-wise tends to be rather narrow & alys informs a large part of it, so if you as a writer want to write anywhere past the canon/timeline restrains you realistically need to deal with or address her
for me, in my story, it made the most sense narratively for the aemond iâd set up to have an unsettled relationship in the past. the power dynamic is different when set in canon but when transposed to the real world that shifts & the age dynamic really begins to play more of a role (at least the way i interpreted it). to keep aemond sympathetic to the OC/reader the canon relationship needs to be flipped on its head & you really need to take advantage of the age issue; aemond comes out on the other side looking no worse for the wear & it also adds tension to the story, a compelling match to add to the slow-burn
i needed to write an aemond that was hesitant about moving forward into a relationship & realistically the best way to do that was to make alys a foil. itâs fanfiction, itâs utterly self indulgent, so i think canon characters tend to be sacrificed on the altar of centering the OC
itâs the only time iâve ever touched on her & iâm sorry if you were disappointed w how i did it; if you had any thoughts on how youâd like her better portrayed iâd love to hear them! & if anyone has any recommendations for fics that do deal with alys in a more positive light please comment them!
Iâm so scared for Aemond since you mentioned that both Daemon and Jace, the heir think that heâs been r@ping her.
donât be afraid!!! this was the last official part of eots so i wanted to leave it on a high, hopeful note - when rhaenyra takes kings landing sheâll have daemon with her, and the reader will be there to explain everything, while aemond is going to be safe & sound at harrenhal
iâll be posting a teeny tiny epilogue thatâll extrapolate a little more on the ending đ
summary: with the power to end the war now in hand, choices are made, and feelings are made bare
pt. 17
The truth of those words - when the throne does not rightfully belong to me - evades you, lingers just outside your reach.
You can see nothing besides the crown on his head; the crown of the conqueror, a collision of ruby and steel, the thing that had brought your family to ruin.
âAnd what will you do, now that you wear the crown, Aemond? Now that you rule in all but name?â
He does not speak for a moment, instead merely looks at you, a look that is at once desperate and searching, as though he fears he might look away and lose the sight of you forever.
âDaemon has gathered a host at Harrenhal, no doubt in a bid to lure me from the Keep. On the morrow I will march to Harrenhal to greet him with all our strength, leaving Kingâs Landing wholly vulnerable.â
âAemond.â
Low rush of fire in your heart. His words slow to come to you, aching amongst the dim light.
âThey will come for you in my absence. Once at Harrenhal I will declare my surrender and bend the knee to your mother -â His grip tightens in yours, eye steady as he looks down at you. In a murmuring of movement he drags his hand along your jaw, holds you still and holds you close.
âAll I ask is you ensure my mother and Helaenaâs safety and pardon. Tell her whatever you will of me - but do not allow her to think that they played any role in this.â
You cannot breathe. Lungs caught amid shallow gasps. There is only Aemond, his hands at your cheeks, your arm, the pale iris of fire and blood gazing intently at you.
âAt your motherâs behest, the High Septon will have no choice but to annul our vows. No one must know that your virtue was tarnished. It will all be fine. As it should have been, I swear this to you. No more blood shall fall by my hand.â
You feel as though youâre seeing him for the first time - Aemond, laid bare amongst the dust-stolen darkness of the throne room, his heart held in his hands.
How long had you searched for him? Wandered about in the sorrow of your memories to catch at glimpses of the boy you had so loved - who you say, every now and again, in the turn of a smile, the jut of a chin, who stands before you now, crown atop his head and hands trembling?
âI have loved you since I was a boy,â he says, and you can hear faintly the echoes of that night, before Lucerys had died, before you had hardened your heart against him. âIn all of this, I have never once endeavored to hurt you, though I know I have done so time and time again.â
His thumb beneath your eye, soft stroke down to your cheek. His face bent and lowered, merely a breath away.
âI am sorry. Sorrier than I will ever be able to say.â
With each press of his fingers, flutter of his hands, youâre drawn back into the warm corridor of memory: your grasping at his wrist as the floor had shifted and dust had settled and Meleys burst through the floor of the dragonpit, your certainty that he would let no harm befall you; his kiss in the Great Sept, cloak at your throat and tears in your eyes, the way youâd longed to chase after it; his fire-lit confession, he loved you, his hands beneath your shift, his eye left bare.
Youâd heard it said once that Daemon and Rhaenyra shared the blood of the dragon, that they were chaotic, restless, kindling and a match.
And you know, you do, that all along your blood has called out to Aemondâs, that youâve understood those darkest parts of him, that you love him still.
âAemond -â
He shakes his head. Draws you closer. âI will take my leave at first light tomorrow. You will never have to see me again.â
The words youâve wanted to hear since you found the door to your room barred, treason underway, since Aemond had caught you, feet dirtied and breath ragged.
It is not what you wish to hear, now.
You grasp for the words to tell him this, find only silence.
âIâm sorry. I am.â
His lips against your forehead, the crown of your head. Scorching, a scar, fire brimming in all your hopeless blood.
âI love you.â
Whispered against your skin. The words a sorrowful symphony in your heart, aching to the grief that plays like a chord, always inside you.
He turns from you quickly, and strides from the throne room. You can hear the dull throb of his footsteps in the outer hall, fading into the low hum of your pulse.
You can still feel the leather of his sleeves in your hands, the starry burn of his confession against your head.
Please, weâll need you.
Helaenaâs grip at your wrist. All of your blood rushing to those words, quick as a cut. The look on her face, one youâd recognized, even then - , a promise, a prophecy, caught amidst a waking dream.
It has haunted you ever since.
Has lingered in the spider-web corners of your dreams, gathered dust in between your thoughts, ghosted about in the back of your mind, luminous and striking, lost to your grasp.
Please, weâll need you.
Helaenaâs voice, low and lost in your ears as you walk quickly from the throne room, hands clutching at your skirts.
Weâll need you.
All manner of decorum forgotten, you hasten into a run, hear her words in every step.
You had stayed for that plea, unbeknownst to everything that would follow.
Youâd clutched at it, gnarled board of wood amidst a reckless sea, with a certainty that it would carry you, that it meant something.
Heâll have to close an eye.
Beware the beast beneath the boards.
Dragons of flesh, weaving dragons of thread.
Helaena has always drifted between worlds, this and the other, dreaming and waking, a cloud caught between sea and sky.
You find her room as youâd left it: curtains drawn closed, impenetrable darkness, her golden head a punctuation of light against her pillows.
No one had told her of Aegon, you know. Word of the war has not, since that night, reached so deep into the Keep, where Jaehaerysâ death festers as a poisoned wound.
âHelaena,â you murmur, moving close, drawing her hair from her face. Her eyes seek you out, even amongst the haze.
âYou said that youâd need me - the night your father died, of the feast. What did you mean?â
You do not expect an answer. Had come to her room knowing full well it was a foolâs errand, a last gasp for truth.
You do not expect her gaze to clear, become ever so slightly sharper at your words. Slowly, she tilts her head.
âAemond has been crowned Prince Regent. He intends to surrender to my mother. I-â
Whatever you had come to say is lost to you, carried away on a stifled sob. Quickly, you press your hand to your mouth, turn away.
With a shock, you feel Helaena reach for your hand. Soft grip in the darkness. Her eyes pale and striking.
âIt doesnât -â
The words ragged, unused, smattered with dust.
She blinks at you.
âIt doesnât ever happen like this.â
Prophecy is a tragedy.
Eyes closed as one reaches into the depth of the unknown, comes away with a portent and a premonition and a promise of something to come.
No one had ever been spared by these salvaged truths - no, not since Daenys the Dreamer, with doom on her tongue and fire in her eyes.
And yet this prophecy - the one that Helaena had uttered without thought, without meaning to - had stretched on past herself, had rustled the leaves in the trees and sent ships sailing off-course, had changed the very future sheâd warned about.
Helaena has always felt as though sheâs lived a half life, wasted away in a land that is unknown to others, as real and yet intangible as a dream. Heeding the warnings from this unnameable country - heâll have to close an eye, beast beneath the boards, spools of thread - that are cast away by others.
War had brewed in her blood for as long as she could remember - as bitter and sharp as grief. Sheâd been hewn from it. A girl half-sunk in tragedies that had not yet occurred. Strange anticipation of sorrow.
âAemond has been crowned Prince Regent. He intends to surrender to my mother. I-â
Her words had tethered you to this place, rushed from her lips before sheâd been able to stop them.
The certainty of it had tangled in her lungs that night. That they would need you. That you might change things.
And you had.
The future is an odd thing.
Never wholly accessible; only a parting of the curtain, a stolen whisper, a glimpse through the veil. Yet Helaena had always known that these stray glances of future that she saw were immutable, unchangeable, no matter all her wanting and warnings. The future was a hallway full of doors, some locked, others barred, others held open for her to wander through.
But this -
Your words.
Your presence above her.
A key.
Door that has heretofore been locked, fastened, a future that she might glimpse, yes, but could never enter.
Sheâd thought -
Sheâd seen -
Aemond at the bottom of a lake, hilt of some great sword thrust through his eye; Aegon, purpled, foaming at the mouth, clutching upwards at the sky; Maelor, her sweet son, crying and pulled into a riotous crowd; a death that was two fold, fall from a window, arms open to greet the spikes below.
Sheâd seen ruin and sheâd seen war and sheâd seen her son die - wide awake, not a dream, a vision that couldnât be stowed away, forgotten about, a truth that tore through her heart.
âIt doesnât - It doesnât ever happen like this.â
And it doesnât, it didnât, there has never been a drawing away from that darkened door at the end of the hallway, the door from which she was always attempting to turn.
âWhat?â You ask, unknowing. Tears singing in your eyes and pink staining your cheeks.
Helaena is unsure of where she is now.
Lights drowned out and doors shuttered; that door - looming, inescapable - no longer an afterthought.
Slowly, Helaena sits. Blood rush; burning grief. Jaehaerys gone - her words, her mistake, a fate that she could not reach out and grasp, but the others, all of them, snatched away from those terrible, foretold fates.
Quick breath, odd gasp of air - she can breathe again.
Hands at her eyes, rubbing till she sees stars striking through the darkness.
âAemond,â she says.
You do not find him till nightfall.Â
Till the candles in your chambers have burnt out, melted down, till all your hope has fled from your heart, left you bereft and empty handed.Â
Youâd worried, for a moment, that you truly might never see him again, but thereâs a knock at your door - quick rap of knuckles, soft in the dark - and heâs there, staring down at you, breathless and flushed.Â
âHelaena said you wished to see me.â
He looks still-stunned by that fact - Helaena speaking, Helaena out of her chambers, some color returned to her eyes. But through that there is something more - a pleading, a beseeching, a reaching hope in his eyes.Â
You grip the edge of the door.Â
He has not moved to come inside, merely stands before you, wary and wild-eyed.Â
âWhat you said earlier - our marriage annulled, to never see you again, all of it forgotten - I donât want it.â
You think of all the letters youâd written to your mother and never sent, the truth of it all ink-stained and fluttering in the hearth.Â
âI want you, Aemond.â
It makes you fool hearted - to love him. But your heart has always been a traitorous, treacherous thing, unbound and unruled by your will.Â
âI love you.â
For a moment he does not move. The truth fallen at his feet. And then -
He kisses you. Breathless and bruising, his heart between his teeth. He kisses you once, then again, words falling between the errant pressing of skin.Â
âIâve always loved you. Since I was just a boy. Whatever you wish of me, youâll have it. You have my heart. My oath. My sword.âÂ
It is not the slow, measured vow heâd taken in the sept; the careful clip of his voice. Itâs urgent, ungentle, threads through you to your bones.Â
His mouth at your cheek, his hands at your waist. The door closes behind him.Â
âIâll still need to march to Harrenhal. I cannot take you with me. Your place will be here - to mollify your mother, to make her see reason for my mother and sister.â
You nod.Â
âAnd what of you?â
âIâll pledge my fidelity to her, if sheâll have me. And if she puts me to the sword, Iâll die for my treason with your name on my lips.â
âShe wonât kill you.â
âI killed her son.âÂ
You pause. Nod, slowly. Your grief, as fathomless as it is, is shallow in comparison to what your mother must suffer - her son, her sweet boy, her Lucerys.Â
âI will make her see reason for you, as well,â you tell him, reach for where his hand has grasped at your waist, drape your fingers over his.Â
âI deserve death. For all the things Iâve done, for all the things I havenât.â
His forehead pressed against yours. Light shining through between you.Â
âPerhaps,â you agree.Â
His mouth turns in a wry smile at that.Â
âIâll be gone at dawn.â
âI know,â you say softly, think of Helaena, out by the sea; your fate was yours, sheâd told you, always has been, cannot be tangled nor unspooled by any hand beside your own.Â
âThere is tonight, though.â
Blade against your lip.
Helaenaâs low, sweet Valyrian, rushing as the wind in your ears.
Aemondâs thumb, gathering blood, against your forehead; you can feel the whorls of his fingertip as he traces out a rune.
His gaze does not falter from yours as you bring the dagger to his lower lip, press just harshly enough to feel the skin give, the warmth of his blood. He murmurs something that is carried away, unheard, in the night breeze, against your thumb as you drag it through the blood.
Slow red rune against his forehead. Unspoken vows.
His hand does not tremble as he takes the knife from you, draws it slowly across his palm.
The blade pressed into your hand, edge at your palm, sharp, sweet rush of pain.
Aemondâs hand against yours, drawn closer by the wrapping of some reddened swathe of string. You can feel his blood sing against you, a symphony with yours as it drips between your hands, onto the ground beneath you, down the length of your arms.
âWeâll need you,â Helaena had said, once, in the same way that she sometimes murmured promises of what was soon to come, a dream and a deal and youâre not sure whether she had been right.
But she says your vows, now, Valyrian uncertain on her tongue but lilting and lovely all the same, fallen to the dim as you look at Aemond, take the cup that Helaena offers you, drink long and drink deep and feel still his blood against your hand.
His fingers brush against yours as you hand the chalice to him.
Bloody hands. Humming wind. The quiet, shared edge of a smile as he moves towards you, hand against your throat. A kiss that is a promise, a beginning, and end.
He is yours.
You are his.
Sealed in fire and blood.
By the old gods and the new.
He kisses you as he hadnât done, in the sept, as youâve always longed for him to; a kiss that is a blood-oath, a promise, a fire set in your bones.
He kisses you, and light begins to settle in the sky.
Heart in your throat, you watch as Vhagarâs great, war torn wings recede into the soft blue of the sky. Spread wide over the head of four thousand that Aemond was drawing away from the city, now half a day's march away.
Tentatively, you press your thumb against the scar at your lip, a blood-rush scar.
âI love you,â heâd told you, bloodied mouth against your forehead, before heâd made for the outer edges of the city, to where Vhagar was waiting in the dim. âWait for my return?â
âI will,â youâd said, and youâd meant it, you do - as you turn the sapphire heâd left you in your hand, over and over. There had been no time to have a necklace made for it, no time to cut it into some smaller stone.
You feel the weight of it in your hand, as heavy as an oath, and you wait for your mother, eyes ever on the sky.
summary: at an impasse in regards to your mutual feelings, aemond finally has a realization about how he feels for you (with a little help from helaena)
warnings: 18+ smut
Itâs the butterfly effect.
A mischance, mishap, odd turn of fate.
Dead of winter; Helaenaâs flight grounded by the storm - snow still drifting insistently through the sky, clinging to the streets and crowding in the air; all the nearest hotels fully booked; her voice cheerful and warm over the phone (as long as it isnât any trouble to have us!); lights still strung throughout the boughs of the tree and the aftermath of Christmas morning still strewn across the living room and Helaenaâs there - flushed cheeks and chapped lips and scarf fluttering; the twins grasping at her hands.
You pull the cushions of Aenysâ play couch out into the living room, before the television - where the bright colors of Christmas cartoons still move stiltedly across the screen. You tuck Aenys and Jaehaerys and Jaehaera in amongst their blankets and stuffed toys, watch as their eager excitement fades and dwindles into drowsiness, till theyâve fallen asleep, popcorn at their feet and the movie still playing.
âAsleep?â Helaena asks quietly, perched on one of the stools at the kitchen counter, softly swinging her feet.
You nod, emptying whatâs left of their snacks into the garbage. âSara?â
âIn the guest room, with Maelor. Aemond?â
âOn sleepover duty.â
You look at Helaena in the lowburnt light of the kitchen, still swept through from the storm; her pale eyelashes, pink-stained cheeks, the tooth-bitten edges of her fingernails. She looks back at you, leans forward conspiratorially.
âDo you want a drink?â
In the end, you tell her everything.
âI love my brothers, really I do, but all of them, truly, are fools.â
Helaenaâs hand in yours, flickering spice of bourbon still warm on your lips, the truth of it all - tangled and tedious, dredged up from the bottom of your heart - unraveled between you.
Youâd told her all of it: the slow, sure beginning, the uncertain truth of your feelings; the night of the disastrous family dinner, afterwards in his room; of the kiss and the regret and the love - you think, a word you evade and edge around, a word that bears through you to your bitter bones - thatâs blossomed, bloomed, burnt out between you.
âHel -â You grip her tightly, reach tentatively for your neck - for the necklace that you havenât taken off since the night that Aemond had put it on you, fingers trembling, his breath at the back of your neck. âHe gave me this, for Christmas.â
Youâve been careful to wear collared sweaters, high necks, have been hunted and haunted by the thought of him knowing that youâre wearing his gift. How often have you caught his eye - fleetingly, on you - lingering at your throat?
Easily, you drag down the neck of your sweater. And Helaenaâs eyes - a dim, wintry echo of her brotherâs - flit from stone to stone, the shock of sapphire against your skin. Youâd wondered what it meant when heâd given it to you, why it had felt as though heâd carved the heart from his chest and handed it to you, a thought that hasnât left you in the days that have drawn past since, a thought that drags and dwells at the forefront of your mind, now, as you watch the flickering of emotion on Helaenaâs face. The insistence of her hazy gaze, the lip sheâs gathered between her teeth, the memory that flutters just behind her eyes, out of your reach.
At last, she sighs.
The moment pulses around you, as heady as a fever, spiking hot through all your veins.
âHeâs such a fucking idiot,â she says.
Aemond has never quite understood love.
Has always known love for the absence of it - like the shock of a missing tooth, that aching, hollow space. His mother, his father, a love that had never been love, only duty. Aegon, a love like a compulsion, always an afterthought. Alys, a love that had been lust, that had been burnt and blackened beyond recognition.
Only Aenys - a love that struck through as golden and true as afternoon light, that cast out the darkness, that warmed him wherever it touched.
He fears that he might love you.
Love like the summer, an endless heat; love that heâs staved off and stowed away and that will come, inevitably, will change and turn with the seasons, will mark him like a sunburn and chase the cold away.
âYouâre being foolish, Aemond,â Helaena had said, the night before, perched at the end of his bed. âYou care for her - anyone can see it, I know that you can, too.â
Aemond has never longed for love, never meant to.
Heâd resigned himself long ago to a future that included only Aenys, only him. A future that was as crisp and cold as the winter - frost bitten heart, chilled nerve endings - but that was certain, that held no hurt that he could not foresee.
Heâs always been slightly fearful of love, uncertain of what to do with it.
âYouâre going to lose her if you donât tell her, Aemond. She canât wait forever.â Helaenaâs hand in his, that cloying dread in his heart. Sheâd been right, she was, and all the fear that heâs spent years swallowing, stealing away, sweeping to the dimmed corners of his mind, lodges like the truth in his throat.
He watches you from the kitchen - stovetop simmering, dinner nearly done. And you - barefoot in the living room, Aenys in your arms, the hem of your dress floating about your knees, music crooning through the speakers; a dance that is stumbling and slow, your forehead bent against Aenysâ, murmurs and laughter, caught in odd fractals of late afternoon light.
Aemond has never understood love.
But he understands this - the slow, soft warmth in his chest; what he feels when he hears his motherâs voice over the phone, when he glances at his phone to see an odd, slightly concerning text from Aegon, whenever he so much as glances at Aenys.
Heâd been a fool, he knows.
And perhaps he always will be.
But this - you, across from him at the dinner table, listening intently to his son; the quick gasp of your laughter, the careful turn of your head when Aenysâ feeds Vhagar from his plate, your fingertips at the necklace heâd given you, caught there with a stolen breath - he cannot run from this, doesnât want to, wants to sit beside you at the table as winter fades to spring fades to summer, as the seasons turn and that warmth within his chest begins to bloom and -
âI think itâs time for bed for you,â you say, reaching for Aenysâ hands. âYou have had such an exciting week.â
He watches you trail down the hall with his son in tow, can hear the sound of a bath being drawn and your quiet exclamation at whatever bedtime story Aenys had chosen for the night.
He thinks of what Helaena had said, when sheâd first mentioned you, the fluttering of her voice, dreamy haze in her eyes.
I think you both could use someone like her, sheâd said. And Aemond had felt the world shift, just a little, had understood what she meant in the marrow of his bones.
The sun has long since set by the time you leave Aenysâ room, the soft sounds of his breaths drifting quietly through the dark of the room. From the hallway you can hear music still seeping through the speakers, dimmed, now, as Aenys sleeps, the sound of it as distant and dizzying as a lullaby.
The lights in the front room have been lowered, everything drowsed and yawning off into the fathoms of sleep. And Aemond - standing still at the sink, a dirty dish in his hand, something strange and ineffable flitting across his face.
âCould I speak with you?â He asks from across the room, quietly.
Fierce thrash of fear in your heart. That perhaps heâd heard your conversation with Helaena, hadnât approved of you speaking to his sister about him, that he could not move on past that night and wants to let you go -
âCome here,â he steps out from behind the kitchen counter, beckons you close. âI owe you a dance - after the one I interrupted earlier.â
His hand on your shoulder, calling you and Aenys to dinner.
He offers you his hand, now.
Says nothing when you take it. Only drags you close, fingertips at your back, turning you slowly in time to the swells and the lulls of the music. Drifting. Dreaming. His hand in yours.
âYou wanted to speak to me?â You ask, quietly, the question lost over his shoulder to the unhurried drag of a violin.
âMhm.â You see the near imperceptible clutch of his jaw, feel the quick grip of his hand. He stills for just a moment. âI wished to apologize for my behavior. Iâve beenâŚdifficult, I know, to say the least.â
You hid a smile against the curve of his neck.
âMy sister says Iâve been a fool, in regards to you, and I fear that she may be right.â
The moment stopped, stilled, suspended in time.
âIâve been a fool, in attempting to flee from my feelings for you. In truth, Iâve cared for you since the day you came to meet Aenys, when you made him laugh.â
His hand in yours, his fingers at the small of your back. The edges of his mouth turning up into a fleeting, furtive smile.
âYouâve no idea how hard Iâve tried to dissuade myself of these feelings, to set them aside for the sake of you, of Aenys. But in spite of myself, that care has only grown with time. And I find myself -â He hesitates, just a breath, the hand at your back grasping, your heart in your throat. âQuite taken with you.â
Something blooming; every feeling that youâve stowed away, swallowed, swept into the annals of your mind blossoming warm and slow in your chest. Aemond - who is holding you close, tentatively grasping at your cheek, tendrils of hope unfurling in his light eyes.
âOf course, if you donât feel the same -â
âAemond,â you shake your head, wonder how he could ever begin to think that his feelings - for you; you, you, you - could ever be unrequited.
âNothing would need to change. I would understand - things would simply continue on as theyâve been -â
âAemond,â you say, louder, this time, the word fluttering and falling between you.
He stills.
Eye flickers from yours to your lips.
The kiss - when it comes - is a slow, uncertain thing, as soft and steady as a sunrise, as a forgotten dream. Light spilling through the darkened corners of your heart.
You part your lips, tilt your head, and Aemond drags you ever-closer, roughened skin of his thumb at your jaw, a hand tangled aimlessly in your hair. The kiss is a distant echo of that night out beneath the stars, a match struck, a shivering flame, throughout it all an undercurrent of burning.
âFuck, I -â Aemond pulls away. The edges of his mouth swollen, cheeks stained a faint pink. âIf we do this -â breathless, words a gasp. âI donât want to hurt Aenys.â
His eye closed. Distant, guttering flame.
You think of the fear that has lurked and loomed within you ever since that kiss, of Aemondâs words that night, of how you hadnât ever considered, in any way that was bone-marrow, blood deep, leaving them. It had been an odd turn of fate, meeting his sister, wandering here, to him - but from the moment youâd met him, Aenys, whatever uncertainty had gathered and grown in your heart had ceased.
âAemond.â
Itâs the only word youâre capable of, the only thing that struggles forth from your lips. You reach for him carefully, fingertips at the knife-edge of his jaw, bid him to look up at you.
âIf I was planning on leaving,â you whisper. âI wouldâve done it a long time ago.â
He gazes at you for a moment, long and deep.
And when he kisses you again itâs the answer to a question he hasnât yet asked, is the crush of his mouth against yours, the tangle of your teeth.
Stumbling down the hall, your hand in his.
His movements as soft and steady as a dream. Sleepwalking, caught in that hazy world between waking and sleep, where dreams still linger and cling to your skin.
He pauses at his bedroom door, draws his hand away and glances back at you.
âAre you certain?â He asks, just the once.
Slowly, you nod.
Could tell him in a hundred whispered ways that this feels right, that thereâs certainty strung through your bones, that itâs fate and itâs a choice and you wonât, will only reach up to kiss him, because he knows, he knows, he knows -
Heâs moonstruck, in the dark of his bedroom, light catching in sudden strokes against his silver hair, his pale cheeks.
Drunken, faithless, dazed, you fall back, through a dream, onto his bedsheets. How often had you thought of this, in the dark and desire of your room, of his hands drifting beneath your skirt, divesting you of all your clothes, leaving you bare and sick with want before him?
Heâs as careful and quiet as heâd been in all your imagined longings - mouth dragging from your chin, to your throat, and lower - hands straying from your waist, to your breasts, to your knees.
The burning of his touch, second degree scorch against your skin, as his hands and his mouth finally congregate, at last, where you want them, as he looks up at you between your legs and rasps, voice thick and low, âIs this alright?â
Trembling, you nod. And he doesnât waste a moment before dragging his mouth along you - pleasure syrup slow and syrup sweet. He draws his tongue through your folds, along your clit, gazes up at you ever so often to see flickers of your reactions to him, till youâre soft in his hands and every movement - every flutter of his tongue, every crook of his fingers inside of you - unwinds you, unravels you, forces you closer to that ravenous flame.
His name catches in a breath in your throat. He hums at the sound of it and itâs that, that echoing shudder, stutter of breath, that sets you aflame.
His name a litany as you come, head thrown back and vision overblown - white at the edges, falling stars.
âShhh,â Aemondâs hand at your mouth, the wicked edge of his smile. âWe donât want to wake him now, do we?â
You can feel the callouses against his palm, the roughened whorls of the fingertips that had just been twisted inside of you. You look up at Aemond from beneath tear-damp lashes, everything shining, drowned in moonlight.
âCan you be a good girl and be quiet for me, hm?â His knee between your legs, his mouth at your ear, his hand still over your mouth. He draws away slightly, fingers falling back to your clit.
Stifled gasp, your lower lip between your teeth.
He watches the movement, wets his lips.
âGood girl,â he says. Draws his fingers in dizzying circles, begins to deluge you in pleasure again. âCan you come again for me?â
You do, clutch at his wrist and bite at his palm and drown in the frayed nerve, split synapses of pleasure. Aemondâs eye is half-lidded, dark. He stares at you for a moment, his hands drawn away from where theyâd been and settled against your hips.
âDo you want me to fuck you?â
Breath catches in your throat. You nod, reach for him, for his belt, for his hands. He undresses in a fumble of hands; knocked knuckles and grasping fists, stopping ever so often to kiss you again - and you taste yourself still, an aftershock on his lips.
âAemond.â
Heâs as pretty as youâd thought he might be. Long and lean; all sharp edges and jutting planes; his cock flushed and pink at the tip.
âCan I -? I want -â
You hesitate. Uncertain if itâs a brush too far. You tap your finger against your eye.
He stills. Seems mired in indecision, caught unawares.
âYou donât have to -â
âNo. You should - you should see.â
Youâve never heard that note of fear in his voice, before, have never seen the naked trepidation that now flickers in his eyes.
Slowly, he reaches for his eyepatch.
The first thing you see is the shock of blue - your fingers at your throat, at the necklace heâd given you - in realization. Thereâs a sapphire there, where once an eye had been - severed through with a knife, you know, leaving behind that jagged expanse of a paled scar. The blue in his ruined eye, the blue at your neck.
His eye moves rapidly across your face. âIâm sorry,â he says, quietly, all the darkness and lust fled from his voice. âYou certainly donât have to-â
âThe necklace.â
Itâs all you can say. All you can think. Your pulse fluttering whatever stray swathe of skin the stones touch.
âThe necklace,â Aemond nods. âWhen I was young, my mother used to tell me that sapphires were good luck, that they would protect the wearer from unknown harms. It seemed fitting, after -â Wry, twist of a smile.
âIf you dislike it -â
âAemond -â
His eye flutters to you. All the words you mightâve said die in your mouth as you look at him; at the vague vestige of panic still presiding over his features, at the gathered expression of fear, uncertainty.
You lean forward, weight on one elbow, reach out to touch his cheek. He catches your hand; holds himself against it for a moment, eye closed and breathing steady, the slipping of a nightmare through his veins.
He kisses the threading of veins at your wrist, the clutch of your elbow, grasps your face between his hands and kisses you again; you imagine the softened glow of the sapphire in the moonlight, imagine the wave of blue cast over you.
âI do -â you say, heartbeat rushing, âwant you to fuck me.â
Aemondâs eye darkens.
Aemond fucks you slowly, sweetly, your legs drawn up around his waist and his hand between your legs. Seeping pleasure, growing about your heart. He murmurs your name into the curve of your shoulder, the divot of your throat.
âYouâve no idea, how often I thought of this.â
The steady circle of his thumb against your clit.
Heâd fucked you the same way heâd drawn you to rapture earlier; his eye ever on you, till he knew to grasp at your waist, angle his hips, knew that spot inside of you that made you sing.
He knocks his brow against yours. Breaths ragged, ripped from him as he moves. Youâd thought that his fingers were divine but they werenât, no, not in comparison to this - the drag of his cock, his body pressed against you, at the outer edges of your vision you see stars.
âCan you come for me again? Hm?â
Heâs close, you know, can feel in the stammer and the stall of his pace.
âFuck. Be a good girl and come for me again.â
And you do, you reach out and grasp at the sky, come away with constellations in your hands and light unspooling in your chest and he gasps your name, just once, does not move after - his head against your shoulder and his heartbeat in your mouth.
âStay the night. Please.â
He reaches up. Threads his fingers through with yours. His eye lingers on the sapphires at your throat.
You nod. Think of the summer and the heat and the warmth in your chest, think of Aemond, all your recollections and memories converging on this: your entwined fingers, his mouth at your chin.
