Uhm idk if you take requests but id love it if you wrote something about very protective aemond against aegon that wont leave their sister reader alone despite her telling him to go away
Maybe they kiss 👉👈
I AM ALIVE I AM ALIVE TBIS IS A GREAT FIC IDEA !!!!
warnings: SMUT!!!!! this is a role play fic! (anything that happens was already planned + consensual by jisung + reader), public sex, sex on a bus, manipulation, cutting off clothes, groping, mentions of drugs, jisung is a GROSS PERVERT!!!!, unprotected sex, breeding, uhh probably more tags needed, will add.
a/n: this is very lightly proof read, i suddenly hyperfixated on this idea (from watching a… well you know… yeah) and sloppily scribbled this down. ENJOY!
<3 alice
you should’ve waited for the other bus :(
it was packed.
you walked—more like shoved—- your way to the back of the bus, the bus driver trying yo squeeze as many people as possible all heading into Seoul.
it was 8:03am. you sipped on your iced coffee happily waiting for the bus— your pleated mini skirt rested about midway down your thighs, swaying in the morning breeze. your white cotton button up fit snugly around your curves, squishing your cleavage enough it almost began to spill out of the top button.
you completed the look with sheer black tights, high top converse, and your hair curled in a high ponytail.
you bobbed your head to the music pouring from your wired headphones, enjoying the latest album from your favorite boy band — stray kids.
you loved them. you spent a lot of your time with them singing in your ears, or one of their skz code episodes playing on your laptop while your pretended to study for an exam.
lowkey, you were obsessed. moving to seoul for graduate school, the fan girl in you had hoped you might run into them somewhere. but, it had been a year since settling into korea, so your hopes slowly dwindled as time passed by.
your han quokka skzoo keychain jingled as you boarded the bus, bowing politely as you passed the driver.
it was stuffy. guess I won’t be sitting.
you huffed to yourself, squeezing past the stubborn people in the front to stand in the back corner.
you had no space whatsoever. you fidgeted uncomfortably as you felt a bit of a draft on your tummy, pulling down your blouse modestly.
you could feel people’s body heat, their breath practically fanning down your neck.
only a few stops. then you could get off this godforsaken bus.
you barely had time to grab onto the overhead railing as the bus abruptly pulled away from the sidewalk.
gasping, you stumbled a bit, accidentally bumping into the person behind you.
you felt a hand gently steady your back.
blushing, you quickly turned and thanked them, a bit taken aback as you registered the man wearing a black mask and headphones around his neck.
something about him looked weirdly familiar, but you swiveled your head too quickly to get a proper look at him.
steadying yourself, you grabbed onto the handle before reinserting your left earbud, opting to listen to ‘mess’ off the new album next.
minutes— what felt like hours— passed. no one seemed to be getting off, much to your dismay.
suddenly, another car pulled out in front of the bus, forcing the driver to slam on the brakes.
shit.
this time you were able to steady yourself better, but unfortunately you still bumped into the man behind you again, your backside pressing into his front.
you were about to turn around again to apologize, embarrassed that you once again invaded his space until you felt something poke at your backside.
you froze.
the shock of the situation only escalated as you once again felt his hand steadying you, but this time he lingered. his fingers were searing into your exposed flesh. oh my god, what was he doing!?
your heart was racing. his hand wasn’t moving. subtely, you tried shuffling away from him, though this proved futile as his grip on your hip seemed to tighten ever so slightly.
you held in a whimper as discomfort flared from the contact.
daring, you looked around. no one was looking at you, not even in your general direction. everyone was either hunched over their phones or faced towards the front, zoned out.
you began to panic. you needed to get away from him, needed to get someone’s attention. your heart skipped a beat as your felt the mystery man’s cock begin to fill out in his jeans, poking more insistently at your skimpy skirt.
just as you were about to tap on the man’s shoulder next to you, a low voice from behind you slithered up your spine.
‘i like the skirt,’ he murmured into the back of your neck, hot breath leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. his fingers slowly began their descent, gliding down the expanse of your hipbone until he found the hem of your skirt, curiously pinching the fabric between his digits.
panicked, you reached down to grab at the strangers arm, yanking it away from you.
‘stop it,’ you hissed, making sure to dig you fingernails into the flesh of his lower arm as you pushed him away.
surprisingly, he didn’t put up a fight, settling his arms back down to his sides.
a beat of silence passed as you began to silently celebrate your victory. of course, this was short lived as you once again felt his insistent fingers find their place on your hip again.
this time, he was more brazen, grabbing at the end of your skirt before lifting it— just high enough for his fingers to begin exploring the covered flesh of your upper thighs.
what the fuck! you tried pulling away again. this time, your actions were easily thwarted as he used his spare hand to wrangle both of yours, easily snaking his long, calloused digits around both wrists.
‘wonder what color panties you’re wearing. my guess is white, maybe light pink. hm baby?’ he whispered softly into your ear, this time eliciting a verbal whimper from you as you tugged against his hold.
his cock was rock hard against your ass. frantically, you looked around the bus to find help. someone has to see what he’s doing, right?
wrong. no one spared a glance towards the two of you holed up in the corner.
‘that’s my favorite song by the way, but I’m a lil biased cuz I wrote it,’ he slid a finger up the expanse of your right thigh, humming in content as he finally felt the fabric of your covered panties.
w-what!?
there’s no way, no way in HELL the man behind you was…
your head spun, finally making the connection between the sound of his voice, and the one serenading you in your headphones.
no no no, this wasn’t happening. you cursed under your breath.
han jisung. han jisung was behind you. touching you. on the bus.
‘p-please stop,’ you tried turning your head to see him, squirming helplessly.
‘these are in the way. hmmm. how am I able to see anything, little girl?’ he tutted disapprovingly. you were able to crane your neck around just enough to catch a glimpse of him, making eye contact with those all-too familiar brown eyes.
it was him. holy shit what what what—
you snapped out of your thoughts as you felt him experimentally grind his hips against the plush skin of your ass, weaseling his clothed cock underneath the lapels of your skirt.
he groaned into your ear as he felt how close he was to feeling your soft skin — just a few layers to go.
your eyes began to blur with tears, frozen in shock as he began to shamelessly grope you— defile you on the bus.
you flinched as jisung pinched at the fabric of your tights, pulling it away from your skin before letting go— hitting your skin with a snap!
he continued rutting against you, the friction on your clothed backside becoming hot, almost inflamed.
the man was silent for a few minutes, greedily exploring your shivering body, until he whispered in your ear.
‘here’s what’s gonna happen, baby. I’m gonna let go of you wrists, and you’re not gonna resist me anymore, hm?’ he shuffled behind you, taking something out of his pocket.
hesitantly, your eyes peered down to look at the object, widening in horror as he presented a small syringe with some kind of blue liquid inside it.
he placed a feather light kiss to your shoulder before continuing.
‘please don’t make me use it baby, okay? be a good girl and no one has to get hurt, that’s fair right?’
your heart thumped loudly in your ears as you tried to process his threatening words. a light sheen of sweat began to build on your hairline as your mind swirled with the morbid possibilities of what it was— terrified of the thought of him using it on you.
you couldn’t muster up a response, just stood there frozen as he slowly released his hold, letting your arms fall at your sides.
‘mm, good choice baby. now, wanna see what you’re wearing,’ both of his hands began their descent down each of your thighs, humming as he finally cupped your radiating center.
he teased and prodded at your plump lips, sighing as he felt a small wet patch through the layers of your clothes.
‘m gonna make you feel good baby, promise. spread your legs a bit for me,’ you gulped as you obeyed, spreading your feet so he had easier access to you.
shame and disgust washed over you as he reached up to tuck a piece of hair that fell from your ponytail behind your ear, feeling his tongue eagerly lave over your earlobe.
he whined as he began suckling at the flesh, slurping and nibbling as he settled both of his hands on top of your tights.
your head spun at the overwhelming feeling of him— groaning in your ear, tasting your skin, fingers grazing up and down your panties.
your cheeks flamed as the stimulation caused your cunt to clench with arousal, with need.
it was too much. the loud music blaring through the bus, the stuffiness from all the people inside — you almost missed the riippppp as he forcefully tore into your sheer tights, exposing your now dampening panties.
instinctually, you reached down to cover yourself. he tutted behind you, and you remembered the syringe in his pocket.
you forced your shaking hands back to hang at your sides as he inspected the fabric of your undergarments.
‘aww, so cute,’ he felt the little bow on the top of them, rubbing his fingers appreciatively over your clit, down your folds.
suddenly, he removed his hands from you. confused, you began to turn your head until you heard the zipper of his jeans.
you felt the bulbous tip of his cock poke at your bottom, he hissed as he began to rut against the rough texture of the lace.
you squeaked as he gripped both of your hips with a bruising pressure, holding you still.
you couldn’t believe this was happening. you felt dirty, gross as the man you had a photocard of in your phone case used your body like a sex doll.
‘ass is so soft, don’t think I can wait baby, gotta feel your skin on mine,’ you gripped onto the overhead railing for dear life, unconsciously jutting your ass out for the man as you panted quietly.
you felt one of his boots come between your legs, lightly kicking one of your ankles, signaling you to open them more.
obediently, you spread your legs more, anxious for what was to come.
he pinched the lace covering your bottom, moving your panties just enough for him to slip the leaking tip of his cock inside.
caged in between the textured fabric and your plush ass, he nearly unloaded right then and there.
your ass was so fat and soft, he slotted his throbbing penis between your cheeks, and began humping you.
you whined quietly, accepting your fate as he began rutting his hips, smearing his precum all over your ass. you were ashamed of your arousal, how your body eagerly responded to his foreign touch.
he moved one of his hands around your front, settling over your clit. he began painting languid circles over your throbbing button, and you couldn’t disguise the tremble in your legs as pleasure simmered through your body.
‘told you I’d make you feel good, mm fuck. fuck i bet you’re so tight,’ he increased his pace, rutting faster, more sporadic against you.
‘been so stressed lately, comeback and all,’ he groaned as he felt your wetness pool on his fingers, bringing the coated digits to his mouth, savoring your essence.
you couldn’t think straight, surrending to his touch as he slipped a single finger into your hole.
‘knew it, can barely fit one,’ he moved your hair to access the junction of your neck, licking up the salty sweat beading on your skin.
you tensed up as you heard him once again rustling around his pocket.
he must’ve felt it cuz he placed a surprisingly gently kiss to your skin.
‘not that baby, don’t worry,’ he pulled out a small pair of scissors, and you whimpered as the cool metal ghosted dangerously close to your sensitive skin.
he struggled to separate your panties from your skin, slick causing the lace to cling between your folds. he nearly burst as he heard the stickiness as he finally pulled them from your moist center, lining up the fabric between the scissors.
snip! you gasped and clenched hard as your cunt was suddenly fully exposed to the cold air. you dared to look down.
he cut open my panties !?
‘there we go, ugh yeah,’ he guided his cock to explore your now fully vulnerable center, making a mess of your pussy as he rubbed your combined juices around.
without a word, he began to breach your fluttering hole. before you could squeal, his hand flew to your mouth, muffling any of your noises as he filled you to the hilt.
‘be quiet for me baby, keep being good,’ he panted in your ear. you could hear the strain in his voice as your warm wet walls cocooned around his cock.
your eyes rolled to the back of your head as he filled you to the brim. never in your life had you felt so full, so content.
the indecent situation you were currently in escaped you as he slowly glided his cock all the way out before guiding it in once more.
you could feel him throbbing, twitching in you. he groaned as he brought his hands to cup at your covered mounds— attempting to feel your nipples through your bra and blouse.
you were lost in the feeling of the slow and steady slide of his cock in and out of your drenched hole, you barely registered when he whispered,
‘spit baby, in my hand. needa get you more wet,’ he practically slurred in your ear as he brought his hand up to your mouth, fucking into you faster.
thoughtlessly, you obeyed him once again, dribbling a glob of saliva into his waiting hand.
fuck, you were so good, so soft. he was gonna take you home and play with you some more.
he smeared the wetness across both of your breasts, rubbing and rubbing until your hardened pebbles were on full display — poking out of your flimsy bra.
he whined as he finally felt them, pinched them, rolled them between his fingers.
he was making a mess of you.
your pussy clenched hard around him, feeling your orgasm start to build.
he was about to bust. he was so happy he picked you, so easily submitting to him— letting him use you like this.
his thrusts became sporadic, trying not to jostle you too much and draw attention to you both.
‘go on kitten, cream me. gonna give you a present you can take home with you, fuck,’ his balls began to tighten as he heard you sniffle, legs struggling to hold yourself up.
‘c-cumming,’ you babbled quietly, holding a hand over your own mouth now. white hot pleasure blinded you as you found your release, feeling ropes of the man’s seed begin to paint your walls.
‘fuck fuck fuck,’ his hips stilled as he bred your pussy full of his cum, breathing heavy. he was sweating underneath his compression shirt, his face mask ripped off long ago.
you panted as you leaned your whole body against him, trying to come down from the waves of pleasure you were still riding.
you were utterly spent.
the man behind you easily ripped off the remnants of your ruined lace, stuffing it in his pocket. he smoothed down the lapels of your skirt, leaning down to pick up your discarded backpack.
‘white, i knew it,’ you scoffed as you finally turned to face your boyfriend, who winked at you as he leaned in to kiss your forehead.
‘can’t believe we just did that,’ you murmured into his neck, both of you trying to catch your breath from the intense scene.
‘can’t believe no one noticed, you were whining so loud,’ he teased, pulling out a hoodie from his bag and wrapping it around you.
you sighed in exhaustion, content with nuzzling into your boyfriend, leaning against him.
a few minutes of silence passed before the driver announced your stop, signaling you to get ready to depart.
stepping off the bus, he grabbed your hand and led you through the crowd, towards your appartment. you sighed.
I am back from the dead (I just finished my first year of grad school) have been getting some requests for some fics I’ve made so I’ll be sending out a poll shortly!
warning: In Dante's words, "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here." Read the warning here, or proceed with the chapter at your own risk.
summary: The second errand has arrived. And with it, a night out with your demon - one that promises more than just business.
a/n: to the most passionate, romantic, and devoted readers 🩶 Thank you for contributing to my inspiration. This chapter is in the spirit of Saint Valentine’s Day. Enjoy! 💋
“Yeah, I get it. It’s just that the scene in the restaurant fits the characters’ dynamic,” you stumble, adjusting the phone pressed against your ear. Your shoulder aches from holding it in place as your hands juggle grocery bags, a bagel teetering dangerously on the edge of falling while you climb the stairs.
“You know how fond I am of Jake?” Sue’s voice rises in pitch, and you wince, your grip tightening on the paper package. “Ever since I read about him, I can barely go on dates. I mean, I do, but I always think, Jake would’ve done this differently. You created the perfect man! But the restaurant scene—it’s just a bit off.”
You let out a sigh. Until now, you’d been proud of your decision—content with the result, even. At least, that was the case until Sue called.
“You mean it’s too spicy?” you ask, fighting to keep the annoyance from your tone.
“Nah, you’ll never catch me saying that. It’s just too…” There’s a pause, the faint sound of her gnawing on the end of a pencil filtering through the line. “Predictable?”
Predictable? Your stomach twists.
Distracted, your foot catches the edge of a step, and you curse under your breath.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine. Just climbing to the top floor. The elevator’s been broken for a week,” you mutter. The stairs seem endless.
As you approach your apartment, the hair on the back of your neck rises. Mrs. McKay’s front door is ajar, a sliver of shadow stretching across the hallway. Her fluffy dog, Gigi, sits perched on the threshold, her tail wagging with innocent glee.
Not now.
Scrambling for your key, you unlock your door in a rush, nearly dropping a bag in the process.
Gigi barks, sharp and high-pitched, and Mrs. McKay’s saccharine voice calls out, “Who’s there?” The sound startles you enough to make your pulse jump. You manage to slip inside, your back pressed against the door as the grocery bags tumble unceremoniously to the floor.
Your hands are stiff, aching from the strain as you fumble the phone back into your grasp.
“So, you’ll make changes?” Sue presses.
“I’ll think about it,” you reply, biting your lip.
Knowing Sue, predictable equals boring.
“Think thoroughly. Trust me—if you go bolder, it’ll be top-notch.”
“Bolder? Like wha—?”
The line disconnects, leaving you sighing with your eyes closed.
From the hallway, Mrs. McKay’s chatter fades as she speaks to Gigi, but the memory of your last encounter floods back unbidden—after Aemond had left your kitchen, having made a delicious breakfast. You couldn’t help but wonder where he had learned to cook.
Later that day, Mrs. McKay had cornered you in the hallway, her frizzy gray curls reminding you of a dandelion left to the wind.
In a conspiratorial whisper, she’d shared her grievances about Mr. Duncan, the neighbor you’d never met.
“That old pervert,” she’d hissed, her tone laced with indignation. "Watching porn at full volume! He could at least turn it down—he doesn't live alone in this house!"
Her declaration had left you mortified, cheeks burning as your heart raced. You’d nodded along, too stunned to respond.
“Next time, I’m calling the police,” she’d declared, as if waging war.
Since then, you’ve avoided both her and Mr. Duncan, haunted by the thought of thin walls and the precarious fragility of your reputation.
Shaking off the memory, you kick off your shoes and carry the groceries to the kitchen, unloading items automatically.
Today.
Today is day 21. Which means the next errand could be soon.
Unlike last time, you’d woken up alone in bed, with no trace of Aemond or his snake. You couldn’t help but feel… disappointed.
Later today, the nagging thought comes.
What will the errand be this time? Where will you go? When will he come? Will he come?
What if he’s forgotten?
The thought curls in your chest. Should you call him?
You shuffle into the living room, your mind half-focused on Sue’s words. Is the restaurant scene really predictable? You’d thought you’d taken a risk, but her doubt has turned into a splinter in your thoughts.
You must’ve been a real bore before Aemond came.
Then, out of the corner of your eye, you spot it—a package lying on your bed.
Your breath catches.
Changing course, you approach the bed, your pulse quickening as you take in the dark, matte box. It’s smooth beneath your fingers, and anticipation tightens around you as you lift the lid.
Inside, layers of dark blue lace cascade—a dress. The color steals your breath, rich and deep, almost the exact shade of his eyes.
A small note rests on top, its message succinct:
7 p.m. today.
It takes time to learn which jewelry suits you best, if any. The dress surprises you: floor-length, a deep slit revealing one leg, and a collar cradling your neck while leaving your shoulders bare. It’s elegant yet undeniably seductive. Alys would’ve chosen something bolder, you’re sure—a thought that almost makes you blush. Bringing a pair of loose earrings to your ear, your hands tremble slightly, weighing whether they truly complement the look.
You hate the butterflies in your stomach. You hate how loose and undefined the communication between you and Aemond feels. You can either summon him or guess his intentions on your own—no middle ground.
Your laptop’s glow flickers in the background. After rereading the restaurant scene today, you’re no longer sure about anything—not the choices you made, not even the moments leading up to it.
I’ll rewrite it when I get back, you resolve, nodding faintly at your reflection.
At exactly 7 p.m., your phone vibrates with an Uber notification.
A ride into the unknown, then.
The city lights paint fleeting patterns against the window—normally soothing, but not tonight.
“He must be lucky,” the driver says suddenly at a red light.
“Pardon?” you ask, startled, your gaze flicking to the rearview mirror.
“Your boyfriend,” he clarifies.
The statement catches you off guard. You shift in your seat, unsure whether to correct him or let it pass. Boyfriend.
“Got a date tonight?” he presses, glancing briefly at you before returning his focus to the road.
You barely manage to contain a nervous laugh. I wish I knew what this was.
“Right,” you reply, offering a vague nod before turning your attention back to the window.
Outside, the city rushes on, indifferent. And as the lights blur by, you wonder if this is the kind of night that changes everything.
When the car pulls up to the curb, your breath catches, a flicker of hesitation pressing against your ribs. The restaurant before you is nothing short of opulent, its grandeur designed to make an impression—and it does. Golden light spills from within, illuminating the polished marble steps, the sleek figures slipping past the velvet ropes. A porter holds the door open for a couple.
It’s not the kind of place you’d typically walk into. And yet, here you are.
The car door swings open swiftly, and at the sight of him, a warmth—reminiscent of relief—spreads across your chest.
Demon or not, he’s every inch the gentleman, stretching out a hand toward you.
“Here she is,” he murmurs as you step out, carefully gathering the side of your dress to keep from tripping. You catch him looking at you—he’s clearly content with his choice.
“My little dove,” he adds, his lips brushing your cheek in a ghost of a kiss. The familiar faint scent of smoke clings to him—he must have been here for a while, waiting.
“Aemond,” you manage, softer than intended. He’s dressed in dark blue, the first few buttons of his black shirt undone, revealing a silver snake chain around his neck. Simple yet impeccable. The colors mirror your dress too closely to be accidental.
“Let’s head inside.” A lazy smirk tugs at his lips. “I imagine you’re curious about your errand.”
Curious? That is a mild way to put it.
His hand hovers at your waist, as he guides you forward. If nothing else, it’s clear he intends to make it abundantly obvious you’re with him—no questions, no doubts. The novelty of the feeling—and the feeling itself—is oddly pleasant.
Inside, the restaurant is a masterclass in seduction—dark wood, scarlet accents, and golden lighting all exuding luxury. Lush green plants add a vibrant contrast, the touch of color making the space feel alive.
A few heads turn. A few linger.
But the way his hand never quite leaves you as he guides you through sends a clear message. Back off. We’re together.
At the bar, he orders two shots without looking at the menu, his attention flicking to you instead.
“How have you been?”
Small talk? From him? Were you not so out of your element, you might have laughed outright.
“Fine… I guess,” you reply awkwardly, acutely aware of the stares directed at you. A blonde woman shamelessly drools over him. The bitter pang in your chest is unexpected.
“Will you tell me why I’m here?” you murmur, leaning to him.
Aemond mirrors you, closer than necessary, as if you’re two magnets pulled by a force to each other. “Will you admit you missed me?” he asks, brushing an invisible speck of dust from your arm, his fingertips skimming your skin.
You roll your eyes, though the corners of your mouth lift upward. “Are you going to ask me that every time we meet?”
“I wouldn’t have to if you were honest.”
Every time he’s gone, it feels like you’re worlds apart. But once he’s back, being next to him feels like the most normal thing in the world.
The bartender sets two glasses between you, the liquid inside an alluring, deep emerald. Aemond slides both toward you with a nudge.
"Drink."
“I can’t.” You shake your head, sitting up straighter. “I still have work after this errand. Can we just—”
“When I tell you to drink, I mean it.”
The teasing edge vanishes, replaced by something more dangerous. The change is always startling—one moment, a seducer; the next, he’s someone who doesn’t ask, only commands.
Tension knots in your stomach.
“Can you just tell me what’s going on?” you demand, hoping to match his tone.
“It won’t do either of us any good if you start overthinking what I’m about to tell you. And since I can feel your nerves, I’d suggest you drink,” he says, his tone sending shivers down your spine. “The sooner you drink it, the sooner you’ll be free,” he adds, nodding toward the shot.
The past few weeks, you’ve been trying to predict what the errand might be about, but if there’s anything you can be sure of, it’s that demons are anything but predictable. You glance at the liquid, then back at him. His gaze doesn’t waver. Reluctantly, you swallow hard and tip the glass back.
The burn is sharp, igniting a fire down your throat that makes you cough. You press a hand to your chest as if that might soothe the inferno.
"Unless you expect me to crawl on my knees," you mutter, wincing at the aftertaste, "I’m drawing the line at this shot." Whatever it is, the drink feels potent enough to knock over the devil himself.
Aemond’s body stills. The shift is imperceptible at first, but soon you capture it. You feel a shiver down your spine instantly, as if your body is telling you that humans don’t do this. Don’t go perfectly still.
“What?” you ask, blinking at him.
His lips part just slightly before curving. “The thought of you on your knees…,” he replies, and the sapphire color of his eyes burns with fire. If anyone could undo you with just their eyes, it’d be him.
Heat floods your chest, as if you’ve just taken another shot.
"Not happening," you whisper, willing yourself to hold his gaze. It’s harder than you’d like to admit.
"We’ll see." The reply comes without hesitation. It’s not smug, no—just weirdly knowing. Aware of the power he holds over you. The power you’re aware of too.
"You never just get to the point, do you?" You tilt your head, feigning mild exasperation—anything to regain an ounce of control.
"I’m here to make a pact," he says, leaning in until his knee brushes against yours.
A pact? In the restaurant?
"You’re my date," he adds, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
You blink at him.
"I’m what?" The question comes out louder than intended, drawing a few curious glances. The blonde woman’s glare now feels openly hostile. She wouldn’t hesitate to take your place if given the chance, you think, oblivious to the way your face frowns.
Aemond smirks. "This confused look of yours is delightful." He reaches out, tilting your chin so you’re forced to meet his gaze.
"That doesn’t make any sense," you say, your voice dropping lower. "Why would you need me?"
"These people…" He gestures subtly around the room. "They read between the lines. I don’t need them doing that. That’s where you come in.” His gaze flicks downward, just for a second, to the slit of your dress.
Perfect. Now you’re helping a demon make pacts.
"So I’m your distraction?"
"A breathtaking one." The way he says it—it isn’t flattery, just fact.
Under different circumstances, he’d make you blush.
“Is it too late to ask to babysit Vhagar instead?” you ask, shifting uncomfortably in your chair.
“Let’s see in three weeks.” He nudges another shot toward you, watching, waiting.
Knowing where the evening is headed, you grab the glass and down it in one motion. The burn doesn’t bother you this time.
“What do I have to do?”
He shrugs. “Be here. With me.”
So simple. And yet… suspicion crawls under your skin.
“If it doesn’t work?”
"There’s always a backup plan."
Those words are meant to reassure you, but the glint in his eyes suggests otherwise. The mischief there tells you everything—you might not like the alternative.
"I’m not going to like it, am I?"
You exhale, weighing your options. The entrance—and the exit—feel impossibly far away, as though the space itself has shifted, trapping you in place.
He only smirks, rising to his feet and extending his hand.
"Don’t worry, little dove. I’d never do anything to hurt you."
You wonder what would happen if you backed out now. What consequences would follow?
Sue’s "predictable" echoes in your head. Right, that’s what you’d be. Perhaps, if you want to be a more outstanding author, there are risks to be taken in your life.
Your hand hovers just above his for a moment before you give in. His grip is firm, his fingers settling over yours, intertwining with yours as he leads you deeper into the restaurant—into the unknown.
"Everyone’s staring," you murmur.
The realization comes slowly, drawn out by the awareness of countless eyes tracking your every step. It hadn’t occurred to you before how nerve-wracking it would be to be seen with Aemond.
The ladies' looks are almost palpable—they'd kill to be in your place. Meanwhile, the men’s lingering stares are devouring, as if they envy Aemond as much as they desire to be him.
A demon and his lady client.
You wonder if anyone can tell.
Aemond glances over his shoulder, meeting your gaze. “Let them stare,” he says, unbothered. His voice is calm, unconcerned, as if he’s long since grown used to the attention.
“What’s this work you mentioned?” he asks, plucking you from your thoughts with the ease of someone who has done it before.
"A rewrite," you answer, only now realizing the alcohol has settled into your veins faster than expected. The room seems sharper, every color richer.
“Of what?”
“A restaurant scene,” you reply, a hint of irony in your voice as your heels echo on the marble floor.
“Don’t,” he says over his shoulder.
You blink, disoriented for a split second.
"Don’t what?"
"Rewrite it."
He doesn’t turn fully, only angles his head slightly. "It’s good."
"Sue thinks—wait, what?"
Your breath catches, your mind sharpening against the pleasant haze as you finally catch the meaning behind his words.
"Did you read my notes?"
He says nothing.
But you feel it—the subtle curve of his lips.
Heat prickles along your spine. That means he knows.
He knows what inspiration you’ve drawn from him, what form it has taken on the page.
But before you can demand an explanation—or die of mortification—you find yourself standing at a table where six men sit, dressed in dark suits and polished shoes.
They’re oddly similar, like carbon copies of each other, moulded from suspicion and self-importance. Their eyes pierce into you, as if peeling back your layers.
“Ah, gentlemen,” Aemond says, his presence expanding, filling the space with his chilling aura, as if the very air trembles before the unseen force. “The wait is over.”
“You’re with a companion,” remarks one of the men with a cheesy grin—the kind that makes you instantly certain you’d never willingly hold a conversation with him.
“What a beautiful lady you are,” he adds, shaking Aemond’s hand before leaning in to press a kiss to the back of your hand.
“What an understatement,” Aemond says flatly, his tone tinged with boredom. Yet there’s something lethal beneath it, a subtle warning that makes the man release your hand. You’re grateful for that.
Though his smile doesn’t waver, something shifts in his eyes—a flicker of unease.
“Another chair for the lady,” the man commands a nearby waiter, his voice louder than necessary, as if trying to reassert his confidence.
“No need,” Aemond dismisses, already settling into the soft chair. He tugs on your hand ever so slightly.
Hint taken.
The men exchange puzzled glances as you ease yourself onto Aemond’s lap with a grace that feels instinctual, as if you’ve done this a hundred times before. You’re keenly aware of the elegant trick the dress’s deep slit provides, falling open to reveal the curve of your thigh—just the right degree of exposure. Enough to spark admiration. Maddeningly elusive.
“Shall we begin?” Aemond asks, securing his arm around your waist.
These men may wear ties and jackets, yet they are no longer the most authoritative here.
“Before we do,” one of them says, his earlier flattery now replaced by a wary tone, “can we be certain this conversation will remain… private? With all due respect, we didn’t expect another party to be present.”
Oh.
From “beautiful lady” to “third party” in record time.
Either Aemond catches your thought, or the same realization occurs to him, because a chuckle rumbles through his chest. Pressed so closely against him, you feel a suspicious note in it—a raw growl lurking beneath the surface.
A reminder that, despite his carefully concealed nature, his true form is never far.
“I’d trust her with my soul, were I to have one,” he finally replies, his tone light, yet his unblinking stare says it all.
Tread carefully.
The men exchange glances again, their unease more pronounced now. Aemond’s narrowed eyes and the faintly mocking glint within them suggest he knows exactly what they’re thinking.
They’ve come here to outsmart the demon—the unknown, dangerous force.
Could they be so naïve?
“Let’s begin, then,” one of them says curtly, eager to move past the tension. Wary of you or not, they won’t miss a chance to make a successful deal.
As the discussion shifts to the cold, calculated language of business, it’s not the words you follow, but their gestures, tone of voice, and facial expressions.
Their eyes—steely, cold—now spark with greed.
We want more is the phrase spoken between the lines.
And Aemond? He promises them more, stoking their hunger with each word he speaks. Sweet lies are woven with half-truths.
One of them licks his lips, like a starving man who’s just spotted a roasted chicken—ready to take whatever Aemond offers without a second thought.
Another gulps down his drink too quickly, amber liquid slipping past the rim of his glass, catching the dim light before disappearing onto his trousers. He mutters a curse, loosens his tie, then tosses it aside altogether.
When the desire grows, the patience wears off.
Two other men—likely brothers—share a striking resemblance, their crooked noses making them look like vultures. They exchange occasional glances, a silent language practiced for years.
A hunch tells you Aemond speaks the language just as well.
The man who first spoke to you is the Trojan horse.
It doesn’t take long to realize he’s not the leader of the pack, but the entertainer, the distraction—the one meant to pull attention onto himself.
And the last man—the one seated directly before you—has an unsettlingly pale complexion.
Might he be the one with the final say?
When his gaze meets yours, something cold rushes down your spine. Even his irises seem devoid of color—vast, empty. Terrifying.
You look away, lowering your chin onto Aemond’s shoulder, staring into the distance as if you could shake off that gaze.
Aemond’s hand presses more firmly against your waist—a silent reassurance. A reminder that no man in this room poses a real threat to you.
Because, in truth, the only one capable of devious, unspeakable, horrendous things is the one caressing you right now.
The hum of conversation fades into the background, replaced by the swelling music from the stage.
A petite woman with crimson lips stands under the spotlight, her voice soft yet striking, blending seamlessly with the deep resonance of the bass and cello—a rhythm both powerful and gentle at once.
(Can someone tell me if I'm wrong to be so mad about you?Mad about you...)
You inhale deeply, and his scent consumes you—bitter and earthy, touched with leather and smoke.
The kind that lingers. That seeps into your clothes, your hair, your bloodstream. That stays with you for days after he’s gone.
There’s a light trace of the sea in it, salt-kissed and untamed.
Without thinking, your arm drapes over him in a half-embrace, fingers slipping into his hair. Always impossibly soft.
Your fingertips tangle in the strands, trailing to his nape, and Aemond shifts—just barely. A tilt of his head, a fraction of movement, but enough. A wordless indulgence. Here.
A smile tugs at the corner of your lips.
Are you mad about him?
What an understatement.
You tell yourself it’s nothing but chemistry, a natural pull. Simple. Logical. A favor for a favor.
But some part of you—small, wary—knows better.
Knows that somehow, without permission, he has taken possession of a piece of you. Something unseen but real.
A part that aches in his absence and rekindles in his presence.
It is not magic, nor his infernal charm.
It is you.
And that, more than anything, unsettles you.
And yet, frustration simmers beneath the surface.
Alys.
The knowledge of her is turmoil in your head. The reminder of the choice you ought to make: between what you believe in and what you crave. Bitterness spreads through your chest, and you shake your head.
Go away, you whisper to the treacherous thoughts.
Shifting slightly, you realize how stiff your body has become. As you cross one leg over the other, the slit of your dress parts even further, slipping up to your hip, baring smooth skin to the dim glow. Aemond’s hand is instantly there—steadying, claiming. His thumb strokes idle, soothing circles. His touch sets you ablaze instantly.
A minor shift in perspective, and suddenly—you no longer hate this evening.
In fact, you almost wish it were just the two of you.
“I just don’t see how this is supposed to work,” one of the brothers interjects, his skepticism dragging you back into the moment. “Our investments will strengthen simply because we receive some information from you? Or are we just supposed to hope things magically fall into place?”
Why is he even here? He’s either too cautious or not desperate enough.
“To answer that,” Aemond says. He sounds patient—too patient. “I’d have to explain the nature of mine.”
His fingers trail lightly along your inner thigh, featherlight, ticklish, prompting an almost imperceptible exhale from your lips.
“Which,” he continues, almost lazily, “is none of your business.”
The man across from him shifts in his seat, undeterred. “If I’m to sign a contract, I want proof that it works,” he insists. “Is there any evi—”
“Right here.”
It takes a moment to realize.
He’s talking about you.
The men fall silent. As you turn, you find their eyes glued to you.
“You’ve made a deal?” one of them asks, his voice laced with intrigue.
Aemond leans back in his chair, draping himself in the shadows like a king reclining on his throne, as if to say this part is yours to handle.
“Yes,” you reply, your voice husky.
“What did you ask for?”
“For what I wanted,” you deflect.
Aemond exhales a quiet chuckle. Rather than hinting at amusement, it points to his satisfaction.
My girl.
The men lean in, eager, insatiable in their curiosity.
“Did you get it?”
“It’s an ongoing process,” you murmur, shifting slightly in his lap. His hand, resting against your thigh, tightens—just enough to still you. Just enough to tell you there’s nothing to be nervous about.
“But yes.”
They’re waiting for something more, and for a moment, you consider toying with them—dangling a half-truth in front of their faces just to watch them reach for it.
“I don’t think I can explain it any better than this—things just… work out for me. With incredible ease. A minor effort pays off as if it were the work of years.”
They mull over your words, their curiosity piqued. What was it that you asked for? What was your payment? And perhaps the most intriguing of all—why are you with him?
A waitress interrupts the hive of thoughts, setting another round of whiskey on the table.
“Does the lady fancy a drink?” another man asks. A last-ditch attempt to coax more words out of you? Huh.
You barely spare him a glance. “No, thanks.”
Instead, you lean back into Aemond, allowing yourself the indulgence of his warmth.
The smirk on the man’s face lingers just a moment too long, his gaze dipping—just for a second—to your bare legs.
The air shifts.
It’s not something seen, but felt. A creeping chill, as though an unseen door had opened to something far colder than winter itself.
Aemond doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.
And yet, something in the room has already begun to die.
His fingers tap once. Twice. A slow, deliberate rhythm against your thigh.
Soothing—for you. A warning—for them.
And they hear it.
The man who had dared to look immediately averts his gaze, clearing his throat, suddenly interested in the amber depths of his whiskey glass.
They throw their questions at Aemond again, testing, pushing, searching for cracks in his patience.
He lets them.
Because patience is a hunter’s game. And standing still always yields a greater reward.
Soon enough, you realize: You may not fancy a drink, but you certainly fancy his attention. His hand has been painfully still on your thigh. You stretch your leg elegantly, shifting just enough to catch his notice. But there’s nothing. No reaction. No indulgence.
Then your gaze falls to the chain around his neck—a serpent, its form coiled in silver. It caught your attention the first moment you saw it. Mindlessly, your fingertips trace its head. The metal is cool beneath your touch. He mentioned earlier that Vhagar is mad with you. Your brows furrow. Is that why she wouldn’t appear?
As if hearing your thoughts, Aemond hums, amusement flickering in his eye, which has little to do with the men still bickering across the table. Their petty quarrel is meaningless, a game they think they can win. But you know better—desire for more will always prevail.
He must hear some of your thoughts. What does it depend on? It worked when you were afraid. But what else?
I’m bored, you think. When will we leave?
Nothing.
You narrow your eyes. How dare you read my notes? You try to sound sharper, angrier.
Still nothing.
It still makes your ears burn, knowing he read the restaurant scene and what ensued in the bathroom. It was sensual, way too sensual. You had to take a shower afterward, seeking your own release, haunted by the eerie sensation of being watched. Even though you’d been alone in the apartment, just you and Vhagar. Even though you checked the bathroom door. Twice.
The heat crawls up your neck, unbearable now.
Then, an idea slinks into your mind. Gorgeous and wicked, making you bite your lip. You tug at his chain, just slightly.
I’d like to reincarnate the restaurant scene. The bathroom part, to be precise.
A moment passes. His expression remains unchanged. No reaction. But then—you catch it. The faintest movement. His Adam’s apple bobs.
The excitement grows in your chest. You’re like a child discovering Santa Claus is real. For the first time since you made the deal, his ability to hear your thoughts might backfire on him. Now sensing the power you possess, you’re willing to push further.
They’re so dull, you muse, feigning indifference. I’d rather let you take me against the wall than listen to another minute of this conversation.
His jaw clenches.
When his sapphire eyes meet yours, they glint with a warning.
“If we can think a bit further—”
“You cannot,” Aemond cuts in, his patience threadbare. His body stiffens beneath you, every muscle wound tight, coiled as if on the verge of snapping.
You trail your fingers along his jaw, as if to soothe.
Shhh.
The others exchange glances, oblivious to the undercurrent between you and him.
“I don’t know if we’re ready to sign it today.”
“Sign it today or never.” Aemond shrugs, the motion lazy, but his voice—his voice is pure command, final and absolute. No room for negotiation. No room for doubt.
You watch the sweat bead upon the forehead of the man who’s done most of the talking. The others fall silent, weighing Aemond’s words, his dangerous tone silencing their thoughts and reminding them not to test him further.
But you?
Fear doesn’t creep in.
Instead, your skin prickles with something far more potent—desire.
If there’s even a chance his urgency is tied to your own thoughts…
I’m not wearing underwear.
Aemond exhales sharply through his nose, muttering something in a language you don’t understand—but it sounds like a curse. A slow smile curves your lips. Now, you’re certain—you’ve won this round.
There’s a taut string within you, stretched thin, ready to snap at any moment. If you feel it, he must, too.
He doesn’t look at you. He doesn’t need to. His body speaks for him—his grip tightening upon your thigh, then easing, as if he can’t decide whether to press further or pull away. The hesitation lasts only a moment. Then, his long fingers ghost up the inside of your thigh, brushing against the fabric bunched at the bend of your knee. The touch is fleeting, nearly innocent. But now it feels far more intimate.
You shift, uncrossing your legs. The deep slit in your dress parts with the motion, baring more skin to the cool air, and more importantly—to him.
And still, he does nothing.
A fucking tease.
You bite your lip, but he’s already caught it—the way your thighs tremble just slightly. His head tilts, savoring the shift, the fact that for the first time, you’re the one to initiate this.
The men continue their droning, unaware of the game being played right before them.
Aemond’s patience is fraying. Yet he takes his time. His knuckles skim along the sensitive skin. Further. And further. Never enough.
Your fingers curl tighter around his chain, frustration and need bubbling under the surface.
“Careful,” he murmurs so low only you can hear, the word slipping past his lips like silk.
You almost curse, when one of the men speaks again.
“It all sounds very compelling, I must say,” he says, nodding his head. “What of the price?”
Aemond doesn’t respond right away. You know he already has everything settled in his mind—he just enjoys torturing them. Painting their dream life so vividly, only to remind them, through silence, that it may remain just a dream for the rest of their lives.
He’d play this game longer, indulge himself in the show, but this time…he could be indulging in far better things.
Finally, Aemond asks, “What are you willing to give?”
The man hesitates, then holds his gaze.
“Everything.”
Aemond tilts his head, pleased. His eyes flicker to you for a fraction of a second, as if to tell you, “soon.”
“A soul, then.” His voice bears no menace. “Each of you sacrifices your soul for the best life.” Just pure allure—like a siren’s song. Impossible to resist.
“Objections?”
No one dares to. Not to Aemond.
With a stretch of his fingers, Aemond calls forth six contracts, each landing with a resounding thud on the table in front of each of the businessmen.
“A signature, and we’re done.” Aemond’s voice is calm, almost too calm, as he watches the men reach for the contracts.
“We wish to read them carefully, though,” one man hedges. “No offense, but we wouldn’t want to fall into… the unpleasant pitfall.”
Your throat tightens. There’s definitely a pitfall, something Aemond doesn’t wish for them to know. Aemond responds almost mockingly, his lips curling, reminding you of the Cheshire Cat. “If you find one, let me know.”
The papers shuffle—a mindless, grating sound that only serves to remind you how much longer this meeting is dragging on. Their contract is far more extensive than yours, and with every page turned, your sighs grow heavier. It’s clear now: you’re trapped here for far longer than expected. The ache between your thighs doesn’t go away.
You glance at Aemond, wondering what he makes of this tiresome ordeal. What if they find something they’re not supposed to? But he gives nothing away. No irritation, no urgency—at least not outwardly. Instead, his hand resumes lazily along your thigh, tracing absentminded circles, as if there were only the two of you in the room.
Leaning in, you let your lips graze his ear, fingers curling loosely around the back of his neck. “I wish we were elsewhere.”
He hums, as if considering. “You’ve been so good. Sitting on my lap all evening,” he whispers against your neck. “Delicious, in your gorgeous dress.” His hand shifts higher, fingers teasing the sensitive inner plane of your thigh. “Do you like it?”
You exhale softly, your body stirring under his burning touch. “Mm. Yes.”
And you are no longer sure you speak about the dress.
His mouth moves to your neck, pressing feather-light kisses there, causing you to lean into his touch. “And I see you like being naughty.” His teeth scrape. “Imagine if they could hear your filthy little thoughts.”
Your stomach tightens. The idea alone—
“I was just bored,” you whisper in your defense.
“No, you’re not.” He leans back just enough to meet your gaze. “You’re just terribly, terribly needy.” His fingers slide higher, teasing where you crave his touch the most. “Do you want your reward for today?”
“Yes.” Your voice trembles on the verge of pleading.
His smirk is pure indulgence. “You could have had it properly,” he muses, thumb pressing into the soft flesh. “Like a good girl. We’d leave after this insufferable meeting, head straight to my apartment, and I’d let you have all that you wanted.” He exhales, feigning regret. “If only you were a bit more patient.”
Your body thrums with heat, with need—so much so that it takes a second too long to process what he’s just said.
“So now you choose: get it here, now—or not at all.”
The realization strikes you, eyes widening.
“But… there are people.”
He shrugs, utterly indifferent. “The choice is yours.” And just like that, his hand pulls away, retreating to a maddening distance. His head tilts slightly to the side, signaling that, to him, the conversation is over.
No. No, no, no—
The loss of warmth makes you feel unmoored, unsteady. He just can’t leave you hanging like this.
Your gaze flickers to the restaurant, scanning the dimly lit space. There are barely any customers left, the lights grow dimmer. The businessmen remain hunched over their contracts, too engrossed to spare a glance. Perhaps…
You bite your lip. No. That’s madness.
Aemond’s lips graze the shell of your ear. “I’d bet I could make you cum twice before they even reach section 5.6.”
You have no clue what the hell section 5.6 is, but that doesn’t matter. The idea alone makes something coil low in your belly.
You could say no. You could get up, fix your dress, pretend none of this happened. You could even take some revenge, whisper something cruel to wipe that smug look off his face, leave him wanting instead.
But none of those things happen.
It feels like you’re caught between an angel and a devil—except the angel lingers on your shoulder, while the devil… well, he’s right under you, ready to please you.
Your thighs press together, desperate for something, anything.
The time drags unbearably slowly.
If you’re quiet… if you’re careful…
His fingertips ghost along your knee, barely there, yet reminding you of what could be.
“Okay.” The word is barely a whisper, your voice as if it no longer belongs to you.
Aemond stills. He doesn’t move, doesn’t react—not immediately. Instead, he studies you, savors the moment.
A beat passes. Then another.
And then, he smirks.
“Okay—what?”
Your throat tightens. Of course. He won’t let you off that easily.
“I…” Your voice is hoarse, breathless.
Aemond raises a single brow, waiting.
Your pride and desire war within you. It’s always a dance with him.
“I want it now.”
His eyes darken, the victory sweet. Not because you’ve surrendered, but because he’s dragged it out of you. He holds your gaze, reveling in your desperation—because beneath it, he’s drowning in his own.
Your heart pounds as his hand moves at last, finally venturing closer to where you need him. His fingers pause at your outer lips, grazing over the damp heat gathered there, teasing. The torturously slow glide sends a sharp shiver up your spine, your thighs tensing in response.
Your fingers curl into the fabric of his jacket, grasping, anchoring yourself against the inevitable storm.
His mercurial nature is a torment you’ve learned to endure, but never predict. Sometimes he is ruthless, impatient—other times, he takes his time. Tonight, it seems, he has eternity.
A slow exhale shudders past your lips as he begins tracing idle circles over your sensitive bud— unhurried, devastating.
Are you mad about him? Or perhaps, just mad?
Your breath catches. Your thighs twitch. It is unbearable, this teasing. You know he feels the way you tremble, the way your body pleads without words. And yet, he waits for those. Your fingers tighten around the fabric of his jacket again, nails biting into the fine material. It’s a silent plea, a prayer—anything to make him move faster. But Aemond is patient. His pleasure is drawn from the unraveling, from making you feel everything before he gives you anything.
“I need more,” you whisper.
A hum vibrates in his throat, pleased, indulgent. And then, finally, he gives in.
More pressure. More friction. More of him.
The shift in pace is dizzying. Your body reacts instinctively, arching into him, fingers fisting in his clothes. A moan spills past your lips before you can stop it. You bite down hard in an attempt to stifle it, but it’s a futile battle. Those treacherous sounds are willing to let everyone know how good he makes you feel.
Does anyone hear you? Do they notice?
It no longer matters.
You bury your face against his neck, seeking refuge in his scent, the warmth of his skin. But refuge does not exist—not when he is the very thing consuming you.
The text is long, the room is dull, and your whimpers are so seductive and distracting. They try not to look. They try not to listen. But some things are impossible to ignore.
Your body moves in hypnotic surrender, as if you are not flesh and bone, but something more fluid, more enchanted—a silken ribbon, twisting under the masterful guidance of his hands. The tension winds tighter, coiling until it is unbearable—until it finally snaps. The molten lava spills through your veins, each nerve on fire before it settles into stillness.
You taste metal.
Your lip—bitten too hard.
But before you can think to wipe it away, his tongue skims over your mouth, licking the blood. Just the idea that you’re closer to the kiss than ever makes you tremble with excitement. But he doesn’t give you that. He pulls away.
Your mouth opens, words poised on the tip of your tongue—but they die there.
“I think I said twice,” he murmurs, no longer caring who hears.
A single finger slides inside you, curling in search of something that will ruin you all over again.
“Fuck.” It barely escapes your lips.
Through half-lidded eyes, you catch a flicker of movement—the man across from you casts a glance, his throat bobbing, before hurriedly lowering his gaze back to the papers. There is only so much one can pretend not to see.
A second finger joins, stretching you open, making you whimper, squirm. Not for his steady hand on your waist, you’d be on the floor.
A cough follows.
“All seems to be good,” a voice says, laced with forced nonchalance.
“Good,” Aemond echoes, his fingers never ceasing, his touch never relenting.
“So… we just sign it?”
You panic, the sudden awareness of the eyes on you tightening your chest. You try to squirm away, to stop him, but your body betrays you—only offering more of your surrender. His grip on you tightens, as though sensing your futile attempt to resist.
“Aha.”
You would hear the scraping of quills, the rustling of documents, were you not deafened by your own pleasure.
“We’d ask you to sign one of our papers. To commemorate the day.”
“Sure.” His voice is composed. As if you’re not falling apart on his lap. “Just give me a moment.”
Your breath catches, muscles tightening, toes curling as another wave of pleasure crests and crashes over you. Your body fights against the pleasure before surrendering fully, head tipping back against his shoulder. Your lips part in a silent cry, unable to contain the way he unravels you with nothing more than his hand and his patience.
Aemond shifts, ever so slightly.
The parchment waits.
He leans forward, still holding you against him, still keeping you in place. The movement presses you closer, forces your legs open just enough for one last, deliberate graze of his fingers. A soft, ruined whimper escapes you, for him to hear.
He takes a pen from one of the men nearby, his fingers slick with the evidence of your ruin.
He scrawls his signature, smooth and steady, as though nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t just reduced you to a trembling mess.
Six pairs of eyes will remember what they saw.
And the document itself will remember your scent.
As the realization sets in, you find yourself on the street. The city hums around you, though the crowd has thinned. Just a few figures move through the glow of streetlights, the distant wail of a siren weaving through the night air.
You’ve left as soon as you heard “the deal is done,” so as not to face those clients of his again. Not to see their greedy, judging eyes. You have no doubt they are not just dangerous, but the kind who take pleasure in hurting the innocent, the gullible. The kind you used to be. Or maybe you still are.
A cab slows to a stop a few meters away, waiting. Job complete. Duty fulfilled. And yet, you don’t move. Something keeps you rooted, as if the night isn’t finished with you yet. As if there are words left unsaid, a tension unresolved, an absence of closure.
You don’t have to wait long.
A presence at your side. The faintest whisper of fabric brushing your arm. You don’t need to look to know it’s him.
“So, that’s it?” you ask, watching the blur of passing headlights.
“That’s it,” he confirms. The soft flick of his lighter follows. The scent of burning tobacco curls into the air, familiar now.
The coiling feeling inside points to awkwardness within you. After such… encounters, he usually leaves, sparing either of you from dealing with the aftermath and silence. You steal a glance at him, but his expression is calm, almost serene.
“What was it you didn’t want them to know?”
“Does it really matter?” He exhales, the cigarette’s ember brightening as he takes a slow drag.
“I suppose not.” You shrug. “Just curious.”
“They’ll get what they desire.”
“It sounds like there’s a but coming.”
A pensive "hm" ensues, and that’s it. Just another slow drag, another lingering pause.
But then, a lurch in your stomach breaks it. You press a hand to your abdomen instinctively, regretting skipping lunch. Now that the tension is gone, you could eat a wolf.
Aemond notices. Of course, he does.
“You’re hungry.”
“Great observation,” you mutter, voice laced with sarcasm but lacking bite. You don’t remember whether something is energy-sustaining in your fridge, and you wonder if you should get a takeaway from the nearest restaurant. But your train of thought is soon interrupted as he speaks.
“Let’s get dinner.”
You blink at him, caught off guard. “You’re serious?”
“Absolutely.” Aemond flicks his cigarette away, crushing the ember beneath his boot, looking at you expectantly.
“But you don’t even eat.”
“Well, you do,” he counters. “How about you show me your favorite place?” There’s a note of curiosity in his tone, as this indeed bears a grain of interest to him.
“Favorite place?” you echo, still stunned by the change of conversation. The request lands heavier than it should. A simple thing, really. But since breaking up with Cregan, you haven’t gone out much. The thought of returning to places you once shared—where laughter had been easy, where memories linger in the corners of tables and menus—is enough to make your chest tighten. It’s almost as if your life had been held on pause since then.
You hesitate, the past threatening to drown you, until—
“Oh, I know just the one.”
And then—
His arm brushes yours, casual, but as you step forward together, his elbow hooks loosely with yours. A simple gesture, yet it carries a strange, grounding serenity. It feels oddly natural, as if you’ve been strolling the streets this way countless times before.
The city stretches ahead, neon signs flickering, pavement gleaming from an earlier rain.
Somewhere between one step and the next, a thought strikes you. “What does it really mean to sell a soul?” you ask, lifting your head to meet his gaze. The height difference makes it a bit awkward.
His eyes narrow slightly, a playful glint flickering behind them. “What do you think it means?”
“I don’t know. You demons are unpredictable.”
“Come on, you’re a writer. I’m sure you have some good ideas.”
“Serving you in their afterlife?”
“No.”
“Running your errands?”
“Already got you on it.”
You pout slightly. “Give me a hint.”
“No.”
“Will they die?” You lower your voice as an elderly couple passes by.
“Sooner or later. But not because of me.”
You huff in frustration. “Then I have no clue. Maybe I’m just a boring writer.”
Aemond tilts his head slightly toward you. “You’re better than you think you are.”
The warmth spreads across your chest, though a part of you wants to deflect, to say, No, I’m not.Instead, you smirk. “Who still has to do a rewrite.”
He doesn’t say a word. But somehow, this hits—not as if he didn’t hear, but as if he’s telling you that the choice is yours.
Then, bracing yourself, you ask, “Did you really read the chapter?”
“A small part of it.”
You gape at him. “I don’t believe it. Did you hack my laptop or something?” The rush of emotions distracts you, making you stumble slightly to the side. Aemond’s grip is immediate, pulling you back in place before you even process the tilt.
“Why would I bother? Your notebook practically screams read me lying at the corner of your desk.”
Relief washes over you. “Those are just vague notes.”
“Recognizable enough.”
Your cheeks warm. Oh. Of course, he’d recognize the traces of your previous meeting.
“Wanted to mock me?” you ask, growing defensive.
He looks at you, curious. “Why would I do that?”
“Why else would you read them?”
He doesn’t answer immediately, and you wonder if he’s crafting an excuse.
“I wanted to know what goes on in that pretty head of yours.” Your breath catches, your step faltering for half a second.
“You don’t seem to struggle reading my thoughts.”
“I hear them,” he corrects. “Some are louder—those are easier to pinpoint. But a lot simmers beneath the surface.”
You frown, trying to imagine what that must be like. “That’s beyond my understanding, I’m afraid.” Though, a part of you desperately wants to grasp it.
“Almost like being underwater,” he muses. “You hear voices from above, but the words are blurred.”
You blink, surprised by the unexpected poetry of his answer. “Wow.”
A smirk tugs at his lips. “I know. Mind-blowing, isn’t it?”
“Actually,” you counter, a slow smile creeping onto your face, “the mind-blowing part is that, for once, you actually answered my question.”
You halt, and he stops as well.
“You ought to promise you won’t read my notes without my permission again,” you say, and you mean it.
“Let me guess. If I don’t, you’ll strip me of the privilege of seeing your favorite place?”
You chuckle. “Trust me, I’ll come up with something more interesting. Besides—"
You tug at his hand, circling him so he faces the façade of the building. “We’re already here.”
His gaze lifts. “Mimosa Pizza,” he reads, the name rolling off his tongue as he inspects the exterior. Far less fancy than the restaurant you’ve just been to.
"Judging me?" you exclaim, feigning offense as you step backward toward the pizzeria.
“Never.” He shakes his head, and as if drawn by some invisible pull, follows you inside.
“Five foxes, three rabbits, two frogs, and only one teddy bear left,” the dart attendant announces. “Three hits in the apple with the darts, and you get to choose. If you miss slightly, I'll pick for you.” He looks young, certainly a high school teen doing his part-time job.
Aemond stands behind you, your presence drawing the attention of some people around. Probably, your outfits totally stand out against the casualness of the environment—almost as if you had stepped from another world into this one.
“Aren't people supposed to eat here?” You can feel the way Aemond leans in, studying the setup with mild distaste.
Your gaze follows his—past the dart stand, to the small crowd loitering near the entrance of the pizzeria. A man stands poised with a dart in hand, his date watching expectantly. He’s eager to impress, you can tell. A first date, maybe. A grand gesture of skill and charm.
Unfortunately, his skill is non-existent. Two darts veer wildly off course, one embedding itself into the plastic wall, causing a hushed series of giggles around.
“On weekends, they hold a darts competition,” you explain. “Winners get to take home a plush toy. But only couples can play.” You pause, then turn to him with a glint of hope. “Think you could win that teddy for me?”
“Why would you need it?” he asks, genuinely baffled.
“It’s cute.”
“It’s enormous,” he counters. “It’s half the size of your kitchen.”
“All the better.”
“It’s a collector of dust. Not to mention the layers it’s accumulated just sitting here.”
“Fluffy. Cuddly.”
“Your lungs won’t thank you.”
“Says who? The smoker?”
Another man in front lands three darts fairly close to the apple. Not perfect, but close enough. The server hands his date a fox, and they walk off, pleased. Another couple steps up to take their turn.
Aemond tilts his head at the bear, unimpressed. “Doesn’t even look like a bear.”
“I’ll forgive you for reading my notes if you get it for me.”
“What would you even do with it?”
You shrug. “Sleep with it?”
His skeptical look is lost on you, as you observe the couple ahead walking away, empty-handed.
The staff member turns to you with a polite smile. “Good evening! Enjoying the night?”
Aemond scoffs. “Falling victim to marketing schemes.”
You ignore him, staring hopefully at the teddy bear.
“That one? He’s been here for three months.” He sighs, as if the bear’s fate were a story told too many times. “Maybe tonight’s the night he finally finds a home.”
You smile at him, but before you can say anything, Aemond’s voice cuts in, his brows furrowing.
“Three months? He’s practically made of dust.”
You freeze. Slowly, you turn your head, leveling him with a glare. He stands there, arms crossed, posture oozing disinterest, judgment written all over his annoyingly perfect face.
It’s the final straw.
With a sharp "whatever," you step away, heading to an empty table in the distance. What did you expect from that self-assured demon ass? That he’d play along for something as insignificant as a stuffed toy? Stupid.
Then—
Thwack.
A dart hits the apple, dead center.
Conversations dull. Heads turn.
Thwack.
Another.
A flicker of surprise crosses your face. You already know. Before you even look, you know.
Thwack.
You turn.
Aemond stands there, tall, unbothered, looking at the darts with mild disinterest.
The crowd murmurs in astonishment. The boy’s mouth is slightly agape as he watches the three darts land just in the apple—so damn precise. Perhaps it’s the first time anyone has shown real skill in this place.
Aemond exhales through his nose, as if even this is beneath him. He lifts a lazy hand, pointing.
“That brown, two-eared creature with the lopsided bow,” he says.
The teddy bear.
The boy blinks, hurries to fetch it, and hesitates only briefly before handing it over. His mouth is still open as he follows Aemond walking in your direction.
Your lips tug upward at the sight—a demon, tall, imposing, elegantly dressed, who sealed a pact and claimed six souls, now walking toward you holding a teddy bear.
You step forward, reaching out, and when your fingers brush against the plush fabric, a surprised breath escapes you. It’s softer than you expected.
A few people around gaze in your direction, touched by the scene.
“Thank you,” you murmur against the softness of the teddy.
Aemond doesn’t respond immediately. He stays still, watching you, almost seems like he’s… taking the moment in.
Then, just as quickly, he turns, heading toward the table you claimed earlier.
“I still get to read your notes, though,” he throws over his shoulder, a smirk playing on his lips.
You blink, the warmth of the moment instantly shattered. “Don't you dare!”
Now, there are three of you at the table: you and the teddy on one side, Aemond on the other. The pizzeria is cramped with small, haphazardly arranged tables, the air thick with the scent of melting cheese and oregano. You usually prefer places with fewer people, but this spot has the best pizza in town, and that is a game-changer.
You flick through the menu out of habit, though you already know what you’ll order. After a moment, you set it aside, only to find Aemond’s gaze fixed on the plush toy.
You stifle a laugh. Do demons have problems with toys?
“I’ll call him Ewan,” you announce, giving the teddy an affectionate pat.
Aemond’s stare drifts from the bear to you, as if trying to determine whether you’re joking. “And now you give it a name.” He sounds amused.
You roll your eyes. “Your snake has a name too.”
“That’s different.” He leans back slightly, fingers drumming once against the table. “She’s a living, highly intelligent creature.” A pause. “Besides, I didn’t name her.”
“Then who did?”
“She told me her name.”
You blink, momentarily thrown. “And yet you call my teddy weird?”
Aemond shrugs, nonchalant.
Then a waiter approaches—young, neatly dressed, and visibly nervous. You’d noticed earlier that he and another waitress had been engaged in a quiet but intense debate about who would take your table. The loser now stands before you, notepad in hand, wearing a polite yet wary smile.
“Good evening! Have you made up your mind?”
“One Hawaiian, please.”
The waiter nods, scribbling quickly before turning to Aemond. There’s a flicker of hesitation in the young man’s posture, his fingers tightening around the notepad as though resisting the urge to fidget.
Aemond doesn’t respond.
Just stares.
The waiter’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “A-And for you, sir?”
Silence.
Aemond tilts his head slightly, as if studying a new species. That alone is enough to make the poor guy visibly sweat.
You sigh, taking pity on him. “A glass of water, please.”
Relief floods the young man’s face. “Of course! Right away.” He nearly trips in his haste to escape, disappearing toward the kitchen like a man fleeing a crime scene.
“You need to learn to blink,” you mutter.
“I know how to blink.”
“Then do it more often. Your stare is terrifying.”
His lips curl into a sly smirk. “Who said I want it to be less terrifying?”
You huff. “Silly me.”
His smirk lingers for a second before fading into something more contemplative. He leans back, draping one arm over the chair’s backrest in an effortless sprawl, his fingers idly tracing the wood. “It’s a very human thing,” he muses. “Wanting to fit in. Social bonds matter to you.”
“Seems to be true for you too,” you counter. The implication of marriage burns on your tongue, but you hesitate to voice it.
Aemond knows. His stare sharpens, daring you to say it.
Not today, you decide.
Instead, he changes course. “What is it that you truly want to know about me?” He leans forward this time, elbows on the table, fingers laced as he rests his chin against them.
“As if you’d actually answer,” you say, not bothering to hide your disbelief.
“Let’s see.”
Over the past few months, questions have built up in your mind, a hive of curiosity buzzing at the edges of your thoughts. But now, in the moment, nothing decent comes to you.
Finally, you settle on, “You said you feed on emotions. Tell me how it works.”
He studies you for a beat before answering. “A bond is formed through a deal. Every time a human experiences an emotion, I gain energy from it. Since you’re emotional creatures, you make excellent sources of power.”
“So all emotions are the same to you?”
Aemond raises a brow, considering your words. You clarify, “If someone is grieving or suffering, does that also give energy?”
“The stronger the emotion, the better.” His voice is almost lazy, but there’s something unsettling in the way he says it. A shiver creeps up your spine at the thought—something out there thrives on pain.
Sensing your discomfort, Aemond adds, “But since humans make pacts for a better life, positive emotions prevail.”
You exhale. “But overall, it doesn’t matter to you what those people feel?”
“Not exactly.” He taps his fingers against the table again. “Emotions provide energy, but the bond has side effects. Greed makes a demon greedier. The same goes for anger.” His voice lowers slightly. “Lust.”
The way he says it makes you realize how tiny the table is, and how little distance there is between you. You can see his pupils dilated, studying your reaction. Like a cat watching a bird just within reach.
You force yourself to swallow down whatever your body just did in response. “And the stronger the bond, the more influenced you are?”
Aemond hums in agreement. “That’s why most demons avoid getting too close to their clients.”
“And yet, here you are,” you murmur, contemplatively.
“Just don’t flatter yourself.”
You don’t. But that feels like a small prick.
“And you always sense my emotions, right?”
He tilts his head again, a feline-like movement, almost hypnotic. “Yes. Though I don’t always know what they are.”
You blink. “You can’t tell?”
“Human emotions are… complicated.” He leans back slightly, searching for the right words. “Some blend together, make it hard to separate them. It’s like...” He pauses, searching for a comparison.
“Eating with your eyes closed?” you suggest.
His lips quirk. “That’s one way to put it.”
“Okay, then.” You lean forward, mirroring his earlier motion. “What do I feel now?”
He doesn’t answer immediately.
“Hunger,” he finally says. “Notes of satisfaction. But underneath, nervousness is simmering.” His gaze sharpens. “Something unpleasant stirred when I asked about your favorite place.”
The accuracy makes your stomach twist.
“I just…” You falter. A sudden, instinctive need to make an excuse wells up inside you, but you fight it back. Instead, you exhale and admit, “Your question made me remember my previous life. Back then things also improved suddenly, but then... everything fell apart.”
He says nothing. The weight of his gaze is too much, and the urge to look away, to focus on the table, finally wins out. Why would you even think about telling him that?
But then he says, “You have me now.”
Your breath stutters. When you lift your gaze, there’s no smirk. No teasing glint in his eye. Perhaps, you think, he’s just as uncertain about emotions as you are.
The moment is broken by the arrival of your food. A steaming, golden pizza lands on the table.
“Bon appétit!”
You blink, momentarily thrown off by the sudden shift. Your stomach tightens at the sight of food. Taking a bite, you hum at the delicious taste, savoring the melted cheese and sweet-salty tang of pineapple.
“You’re missing out,” you mumble between chews.
“Pineapples on pizza,” he remarks. “You never cease to impress me.”
“That’s the best combination.”
“It makes no sense.”
You grin, taking another bite. “You make no sense.”
He doesn’t argue. He just watches. Like something rare and fascinating. Something he doesn’t quite understand.
But maybe, just maybe—one day, he will.
Stepping outside, the air feels chillier than before. You pull the teddy bear closer to your chest, hoping it can offer you some warmth and dull the unease curling in your stomach. Tonight has unraveled in ways you didn’t expect. The beginning and the end feel like they belong to different stories entirely. And now, here you are—standing at the curb, waiting for a cab that will take you away from him. Yet there’s still one last unspoken thing.
Your lips part, ready to name the elephant in the room, to finally give voice to the thing that’s been gnawing at you. But at the last second, you falter.
“You should tell me about the errands in advance,” you murmur, “So I can mentally prepare.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
There’s something careless in his voice, something that makes you wonder if, for him, tonight is just another moment to be tucked away, forgotten. A small, insignificant scene in his endless existence.
You glance at your phone—four minutes until your ride arrives. Four minutes. Is that enough time to say what you need to? You chew your lip, hesitating.
It could end here. Maybe that way, it would be perfect, and you’d deal with the rest later.
“You should just say it,” Aemond drawls, hands in his pockets.
Of course, he already knows.
Your fingers tighten around the plush toy, gaze locked on the pavement. “Ever since I learned about her, I can’t let it go,” you say, regret lacing your voice. You wish—God, you wish—you could have remained oblivious. Or at least indifferent. But her touch lingers on your skin, too. You still see her true form hovering over you in your dreams. “You said it matters little,” you continue, voice barely above a whisper. “Yet it matters to me.”
Aemond’s expression shifts. That calmness you witnessed before is gone in an instant. “That’s the order of my world, not yours. You don’t have to overthink it.”
“But I do.” You force yourself to meet his gaze.
His arms fold across his chest. “What are you trying to say?” His lips twitch in annoyance. “Just spill it out already.” It takes all the courage you have not to recoil.
“I’ll keep my end of the deal. I’ll run your errands.” You swallow, your throat suddenly tight. “But I think it’s best if… if nothing else happens between us.”
Silence.
Something in his expression shifts, like a crack in the stone. For a moment, you think he might fight you on this. That he’ll argue, that he’ll refuse to let you go.
But he doesn’t.
He just looks past you. Past everything.
Just minutes ago, things had felt almost perfect. Almost. But knowing he belongs to another, a demoness bound to him in ways you never could be, changes everything. It has to end here, while you still have the strength to walk away.
A brittle smile ghosts over your lips as you attempt to soften the blow. “I suppose… it’s like pineapple pizza for you. It just feels wrong.”
A sharp beep cuts through the night. Your taxi pulls over.
You turn slightly, glancing toward the open window of the car. “Just a moment, sir—”
But when you look back, your breath catches.
“Aemond?” You whisper his name, turning in place.
Your chest tightens as you scan the street, searching for any trace of him. A flash of silver hair, a shifting shadow beneath the streetlights—anything. But there’s nothing. Only strangers passing by, indifferent to your world tilting off its axis.
“Aemond?” You try again, but the name is swallowed by the darkness of the night.
No answer.
No sign of him.
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summary: you are elated at the celebration that awaits on your eight and tenth name day. little do you know, you brothers have an unexpected surprise for you.
warnings: vampires, canon-typical incest (its the targaryens love), dub-con, smut, blood-drinking, manipulation?, all hail queen alicent, siring?, probably more but I can’t think of any.. oops
MDNI
“Wake up child!”
The queen slammed open the doors to your chamber. Her head pounded from the headache that irked her after news of you and your brother’s escapades.
The three of you killed that servant girl. And left her in a pool of blood in Aegon’s chambers.
Still bound to the confines of sleep, a slight smile graced your resting face.
Your mother seethed.
Ripping the blankets from your form revealed dried blood smattered across your night gown.
She shook you violently until your eyes snapped open, alarmed by the sudden waking.
“M-mother? What’s happened?” You rubbed the sleep from your eyes.
Alicent huffed, “Do you have anything to say for yourself? Do you have any idea what you and your brothers have done?!”
You winced at your mother’s booming voice.
Reality soon washed over you as you took in your mother’s distraught appearance.
She was dead.
Tears welled in your lavender eyes and you began to shake from the guilt of your actions.
“Mother I- I am sor-“
Pink fingerprints bloomed onto your pale cheeks, your head whipped to the side as your mother slapped you.
“It is not me to apologize, stupid girl. News of the princes and princess involved in the disappearance of not one but TWO innocent guest have spread like wildfire through the city. On today of all days, you and your brothers have made it your life’s mission to ruin our family, haven’t you!”
You tasted salt as the tears flowed down your reddened cheeks. You cradled your temple, too ashamed to meet your mother’s gaze.
I had no control. I lost myself.
After a moments silence you peered through your fingers to gaze upon her.
“I do not understand what is happening to me. Aegon and Aemond, they, they told me we are immortal. They b-bit me and I-“ you reached for her hands as the words continued to spill from your lips.
“I bit them too. I do not know what possessed me to do such a thing. Mother, I am afraid. I am scared of what I have become,” you wished nothing more than to enter her embrace, a comfort you had normally been given freely.
Instead, she returned your grip, harsher, until you were certain bruises would form.
You attempted to flee her painful embrace to no avail.
“Look at me child.”
Her green eyes slowly changed to red.
You gasped softly.
The smell of blood, your blood, filled the room as her fingernails dug into your wrists.
You winced and cried out, “Mother, please! Let go, you’re hurting me.”
“You should have not been so naive as to blindly follow your brother’s selfish desires. What they have done can never be undone, Y/N.”
Before you could respond, she continued.
“Our families secret has remained nothing but whispers in the wind until this point. No one is to know what we are, Y/N. Do you understand this? We have many enemies, enemies who will crave nothing more than see our demise. With this knowledge, they may do so.”
She loosened her grip.
“Why must we remain a secret, mother? Are there others like us? I do not wish to live in fear.”
Alicent looked down to inspect your wrists. Your eyes followed hers only to find the crescent moons she carved vanished.
Your eyes bulged from their sockets as pulled your wrists away, slowing looking back up at your mother.
Her silence was deafening.
“I don’t understand, please mother, what is this evil?” Finally, she pulled you into her chest, fingers brushing through your tangled curls.
“Listen to me, sweet child. On this day, you were to complete your transition with me. Whomever initiates this will become your sire, and your brothers did so without consulting me,” she pulled you in tighter.
You reciprocated the sentiment, your breathing finally steadying.
“The cravings become manageable after time. But now is when you are at your most vulnerable and must learn to control these urges, especially in company not of your family”.
You muttered, “And what of today’s ceremony? Do I at least get a cake?”
She chuckled lightly, and pulled away.
“Perhaps we can see to that. There is still one thing to look forward to, a gift I’m certain you’ll be most pleased with.”
Your face brightened at the prospect.
“Why don’t you ready yourself for the day and go see your sister Helaena, hm? I’m sure she’ll be able to ease your mind,” she tenderly rubbed her fingers over your knuckles and made for the door.
Your head spun.
Sired? To Aegon and Aemond?
The word felt foreign rolling off of your tongue.
—————
The setting of the sun glowed beautifully through the sheer curtains in your chambers.
Your maids prepared you in the golden dress Helaena had made especially for you, with small creatures sown organically along the sleeves.
“May I please have some water, Tyla?” your throat itched from thirst.
She bowed lightly and left to retrieve it, only to return with an enclosed chalice and a note attached.
“This was just brought for you, my Princess,” you took the cup in hand and could immediately smell the familiar sweet tang from last night.
Your mouth watered desperately.
Picking up the note, it read:
“Byka zaldrizes, Nyke kostagon daor umbagon naejot mazilībagon laesi va ao” (little dragon, i cannot wait to set my eyes on you).
A shiver of anticipation traveled up to the column of your neck.
You could still feel your brother’s touches branded into your skin.
Aemond’s warm mouth between your thighs.
Aegon’s soft lips.
You ached for them. You ached for more.
Your mother’s words echoed in your mind. You could not seem to fathom your own blood purposely placing you in harm’s way.
Tonight my questions will be answered.
Eying the scarlet liquid, you slowly brought the edge of the chalice up to your lips.
You groaned as warmth filled your body, sated.
—————
Your trusted sword Hyland trailed behind as you waltzed about the castle, headed towards your elder sister’s chambers.
“Princess, I had hoped I might have a quick word with you,” Lord Larys Strong appeared from the shadows, bowing as much as his club foot allowed.
Reciprocating his gesture, you met his eyes with a kind smile.
“Lord Larys, a pleasure as always. Is something the matter?”
You missed the quick exchange of subtle nods between him and your sword.
He cleared his throat. “I’m afraid so, my Princess. Whispers have spread through court of a most disturbing occurrence as of late, and both you and your brother’s names have been mixed in with the salacious rumors.” He guided you with his outstretched hand to proceed into the empty throne room.
Upon entering, you were met with a crowd of thickset men, clad in black and red armor.
Your nephew Jacaerys stood at the forefront, his expression unreadable.
An undeniable eeriness seeped through the air.
Something was not right.
You did not allow the unease grace your features.
“Nephew. What a pleasure to receive a visit from you. I do not believe anyone had been made aware of your coming.”
The sound of shutting doors echoed off of the walls.
Your heart skipped in your chest.
The spikes of the welded swords loomed dauntingly over him as he began to step towards you.
“Good morrow, Aunt Y/N. I apologize for having to meet under such circumstances. My mother requests an audience with you at once.”
Upon the death of her late husband Prince Laenor Velaryon, your sister Rhaenyra took residence at Dragonstone with her children and newly wedded husband Daemon.
Your father, King Viserys grew more and more unwell as the days passed, and you had yet to make sense of why she had left King’s Landing in the first place.
You willed your fingers to stop their twitching.
As best you tried, you could not prevent the stutter that escaped.
“I-I do not understand. Why did she not come in your stead if she wished to see me?”
He scoffed under his breath and took another step closer.
The smile on his face no longer met his eyes. There was a hint of darkness in his features.
“Are you really this naive, Aunt? Do you not see the treachery being swept under the very rug you stand!” his voice raised slightly.
You flinched.
Scanning the room, you did not recognize any of the guards that slowly closed in on you.
Lord Larys was gone. Hyland was gone.
You took a step back.
“I c-cannot come with you nephew. Perhaps Rhaenyra may come to visit another day ” another step back.
Hints of purple and red began to fill in the whites of his eyes.
Another.
It couldn’t be.
He looked behind you and nodded.
“I do regret this, jorrāelagon sodjisto,” the fourth step and your back met a hardened surface. (sweet aunt)
Before you could regain your balance, a rag emitting a pungent odor covered your nose and mouth.
The room began to spin and spin until you succumbed to the darkness.
—————
“Excellent work today, my Prince,” Sir Criston Cole bowed and wiped off his training blade.
Aemond was exhausted, silver strands stuck to the perspiration on his hairline.
He had been training with his sword all morning, yet his mind seemed transfixed on you, his irresistible sister.
He craved to see you again. To trace his fingers across your milky skin. To taste the sweet nectars your cunt wept for him and his brother.
“Someone! Please help!” A frantic servant woman burst into the training yard.
“The princess has been abducted! Princess Y/N!”
The blood drained from Aemond’s face as he painfully gripped the hilt of his sword.
He made quick strides toward the women.
“Tell me everything you saw,” his voice eerily calm as his heart pounded in his ears.
“The prince. Pr-prince Jacaerys, m’lord. He and a group of soldiers took the princess from the castle. Carried her onto a small ship and headed east, likely to Dragonstone. My prince”. She bowed shakily, her gaze fixed to the ground.
Wordlessly, he turned on his heel and stormed into the council room.
Conversations went silent as the prince burst through the door.
Alicent sat at the head of the table, having been anointed queen regent in Viserys absence.
“Aemond! What is the meaning-
“They took her.” He continued further into the room.
“Out.” His back was turned to the rest of the council.
The council members remained frozen in their seats.
“Get out!” The prince boomed.
Like rats, they quickly scurried from the room.
He turned back towards her.
“She has declared war on us. That traitorous cunt sent her bastard to abduct your daughter”.
Alicent stared in disbelief.
“My sister!” he spat.
Her lack of response prompted a scoff from Aemond.
Rhaenyra would never stoop to such treachery, Alicent shook her head.
“I shall take Vhagar and retrieve her at once,” his long hair swished behind him as he exited.
Pleas from his mother fell upon death ears.
He could barely contain his rage.
His sister, his blood.
He vowed to answer this challenge with destruction. Even if it meant burning the lot of Dragonstone to retrieve you.
He found the door to Aegon’s chamber left ajar, with clothes strung on the floor as he tugged his riding leathers on.
Aegon turned to his brother.
“To Dragonstone.”
authors note: eeeeee!!! kinda a filler but it’s for the plot.
I changed the story from having daemon as king to fit the narrative of the book a bit more. You’ll see why moving forward ;)
