aemond week 2026

at first, it's subtle; a candle flame flickers brighter when you pass by, even though no draft should reach it. the laundry you left half-folded in the servants' quarters is folded when you return, and the ribbon you thought you'd lost appears on your pillow. when you walk alone down the long, darkened corridors, you sometimes feel a sudden warmth—brief and soft as a breathless sigh—brushing the back of your neck.

you tell yourself you're imagining things, that harrenhal has always managed to play cruel tricks on lonely girls. then one night, as the rain lashes against the high windows and thunder trembles through the stones, you wake to find the room heavy with presence. the air hums like a plucked string, and your candle, though long burned out, glows faintly blue.

and in the far corner—where shadow meets the ruined wall—you see him. tall, pale, draped in a ghost-light shimmer that outlines the hard planes of a face too beautiful and terrible for this world. a silver eye glows faintly, like moonlight through mist; the other is covered by a dark patch that seems to drink the light around it. his hair, long and pale as a comet's tail, stirs though there is no wind.

you cannot move. he does not speak, but something in your soul knows his name before your lips can shape it. prince aemond targaryen, rider of vhagar, kinslayer, ghost of the gods-forsaken lake below. but he does not look like a monster. no, not to you. his expression—when he does turn fully and looks upon you—is heartbreak itself.

when at last your voice returns, it is soft-spoken, barely a whisper. "are you real?" he tilts his head, and though no sound leaves his pale lips, his answer hums through your bones. i was.

you do not scream. instead, you rise slowly, the hem of your nightdress brushing the cold floor, and approach him with trembling, doe-like curiosity. his image wavers as you approach, like a reflection disturbed by ripples—but when your hand reaches out to him, you feel it; a chill that is not cruel, a cold that feels almost protective.

"i've seen you before," you murmur, voice soft and slightly breathless, realizing it even as you say it. "in my dreams."

the ghost's mouth curves faintly, sorrow carved into beauty. i have watched you, the voice in your mind admits, soft as fallen snow. you are kind—you tend to the wounded birds, you leave bread for the stray cats, and you speak to the walls as if they listen.

your throat tightens, your stomach twisting with nerves. "do they listen?"

i do.

from that night on, he never truly leaves you. you sense him everywhere—in the way the frost never touches your hands when you fetch water in the cold mornings, in how the candles burn longer when you pray, in the soft warmth that surrounds you when nightmares threaten. he does not haunt you as a specter might, with rattling chains or moans of rage. he simply exists near you, tethered by something older and deeper than reason.

when you walk the empty corridors, you whisper softly to him now, your invisible companion. "good evening, my lord," you say with a shy, almost secretive smile. "'tis a fair night for ghosts." sometimes you catch glimpses of him—reflected in a windowpane, standing at the edge of the courtyard in moonlight, watching you with devotion that borders on agony.

one night, you find yourself standing by the lake below the castle—the gods eye, vast and dark as night itself. the mist curls low, swallowing the reeds, and the air feels almost alive. you can feel him close. "why are you here?" you ask softly. "why do you stay?"

the voice that answers is a whisper of thunder. because i cannot leave you, little maid… your soul shines through this cursed place like dawn, and i have waited centuries for light such as yours….

your eyes fill with tears you do not understand, bottom lip wobbling. "you should rest," you tell him, your voice full of sorrow for this lonely soul. how can i? he murmurs, his deep, raspy voice echoing inside your mind, stepping closer until the chill of him grazes your skin. when the gods grant me a glimpse of the heavens each time you smile?

your heart aches—-for him, for the centuries he has spent alone, for the tenderness buried under all his ruin. you reach out again, and though your hand passes through his, you swear you feel a pulse—a flicker of life, stubborn and desperate to return.

from that moment, love grows like ivy—slowly, stubbornly, entwining life with death. you talk to him by the firelight, share stories of your childhood, whisper prayers for his peace. and sometimes, when you drift to sleep, you dream of him not as a ghost but as a man—whole, warm, real, holding you as though the world might end if he dares to let go.

in those dreams, his lips touch your forehead, reverent. one day, little maid, he vows, the gods will take pity… either i will live again, or you will cross the veil—and i will be waiting for you by the shore of the gods eye…

when you wake, the dawn glows faintly gold through the broken window. a single white lily rests on your pillow, still wet with little droplets of dew. and though the halls of harrenhal remain cold and haunted, you feel no fear… because somewhere between heaven and ruin, a prince's ghost keeps watch—his love for you burning quietly, a light in the endless dark.

ɪɪ. · ♰

the days grow longer, but harrenhal never warms. the sun might shine on the lake and scatter diamonds across its surface, but within those towering, twisted halls the air stays heavy with memory. yet even the stones seems gentler now, for wherever you walk, there's the quiet awareness of him—a presence lingering at your back like a hand just shy of touching.

you begin to speak to him more freely. when you rise before dawn to fetch water, you whisper a sweet good morning. when you sweep the hallways, you tell him about the latest gossip of the kitchens, your voice lilting with soft laughter. when you lie in bed, you whisper the things you dare not confess to any living soul—that you are lonely, that you dream of leaving, that you fear no one will remember your name when you're gone from the living.

and always, the air stirs in reply, soft as breath against the shell of your ear. i remember you, he says, sometimes in the hush between heartbeats. i will remember you for as long as the gods remember flame…

sometimes, you think you see him more clearly. in the reflection of a bucket of water, you catch his lean silhouette behind you, his silver hair glinting faintly like frost, the dark patch over one eye stark against pale, almost translucent skin.

once, when you walk through the great hall, a shadow passes beside you, and the faintest brush of cold grazes your fingertips—as if his hand reached for yours and couldn't quite manage to hold on.

the other servants start to notice you speaking softly to no one. they mutter when you pass, whispering of hauntings and madness, but you only smile. let them gossip. you know better, because the ghost that haunts you means you no harm.

still, he does not let you forget what he is. one evening, as you polish the silver in the great hall, a horrific storm breaks over the gods eye. lightning sears across the heavens, throwing the ruined towers into stark, skeletal light. the wind shrieks through the cracks of stones, and for a moment you swear you hear screaming—real, terrible screaming—from long ago.

you flinch, covering your ears. the air around you crackles with something fierce and ancient. then you see him, clearer than ever—standing in the center of the hall, tall and regal, drenched in ghost-light, his one eye blazing with cold fire.

the room bends around him, the air thick with power and sorrow and longing. startled, you drop the cloth. "aemond?" his voice comes not in your mind, but aloud this time, low and echoing, carrying centuries of torment. "i burned this place once. i killed and died and yet... i remain."

you approach carefully, your voice trembling. "you don't have to be angry anymore." then, he looks at you—really looks—and something in his fury softens. "you do not understand, sweet girl. the dead cannot forget what the living will not forgive." you reach for him, hands shaking and heart pounding. "then let me remember you kindly. if the world cannot forgive, then i will."

for a heartbeat, you think you see him smile. the storm outside falters. the candles flare, then steady. and suddenly, he is no longer distant, he is standing so close that his breathless cold seeps into your skin, yet it feels like warmth. his large hand hovers inches from your cheek, trembling in its ghostly half-form. "i should not linger near you," he murmurs. "you draw me back toward something i am not meant to ever feel again."

you lift your chin, doe eyes glistening with unshed tears. "and what is that?"

"hope." he says, looking down at you in awe, as though you've struck his non-beating heart back to life.

the word lingers between you like a fragile thread. from that night, something changes. he appears to you more often now—not just as a whisper, but as a figure half-formed from moonlight and shadow.

sometimes, when you pass a mirror, his reflection stands beside yours. when you sit by the fire, he kneels across from you, silent and ever so watchful. and one night, when the castle is still and the lake below glows with ghostly light, you dream again.

you are standing in a field that blooms beneath your feet, spring flowers pushing through rich, blackened soil. he is there, not as a ghost, but as a man—his skin warm, his hair gleaming like molten silver under the sun.

he reaches for you, and this time, when his hand finds yours, there is no cold, no distance, no death. only the steady thrum of his heart against your palm. "i have waited for you," he says softly. "through fire and ruin and centuries of silence."

when you wake, your pillow is wet with tears. a pale feather—fine and strange, tinged faintly silver—rests beside you. you hold it close, trembling, heart aching for something unknown.

the next morning, you go to the lake. the mists curl thick and white, hiding the horizon. you whisper his name into the fog, and the water shivers in answer.

aemond, aemond, aemond….

you feel him then—not beside you, but all around you. the trees sigh with his breath, the mist glows faintly with his presence. the air hums with devotion too deep for the living world to understand. "i'm not afraid," you say, voice breaking. "if i stay, will you stay with me?" the wind shifts, the faintest touch grazes your hair, a kiss of cold that feels like true love.

always.

and though the dead cannot weep, you think—just maybe—the ghost of prince aemond targaryen smiles. in harrenhal, where love has never known peace, your small, gentle soul becomes its first prayer in centuries. and somewhere between ruin and redemption, a ghost learns to hope again.

ɪɪɪ. · ♰

the moon hangs over harrenhal like a silver coin, suspended over the black mirror of the gods eye. the castle sleeps, though sleep feels too gentle a word for this place—it merely lies in uneasy silence, waiting for dawn that never truly warms its blackened stones.

you cannot sleep either. something inside you has begun to ache with a quiet, insistent pull—an ache that feels older than your own bones. you have lived with his ghost for many weeks now, long enough that the world of the living feels too dim beside the one you share with him. it begins when you hear your name being called—softly, as if the night itself exhales it, and then, the sweetest of endearments.

my love….

you rise, heart pounding, and wrap a thin cloak around your shoulders. the hallways are cold as you move through them, lit by the flicker of dying candles and torchlights. the air hums faintly, that strange, familiar warmth brushing the edge of your skin.

he is waiting for you at the great door that opens toward the lake. moonlight streams through him, painting him in hues of silver and shadow. his face looks more human than it ever has—his sharp beauty softened, his single eye sorrowful and bright.

"you called for me," you whisper, shy.

he inclines his head, the movement graceful, regal even in death. "you heard me."

"always," you breathe.

the air between you trembles. his gaze drops to your lips, then back to your eyes, and for a moment it feels as though the entire world holds its breath. "i should not have kept you for so long, sweet girl," he murmurs, his brow scrunching slightly as though in pain. "you belong to life, to warmth, to days i can no longer touch."

but his voice breaks on the last word, and the agony in it twists something deep inside you. "i do not belong anywhere," you whisper back. "not since you found me."

aemond steps closer, his form flickers faintly, and for the first time, you see how weary he looks—how the centuries have hollowed him, leaving only the shape of longing behind. "if i were a man again..." he begins, but the words crumble before they're whole.

"then you would have kissed me by now," you finish, your voice trembling. the ghost of a smile flickers across his lips. "little one," he breathes, his expression full of fondness, but you can still see the pain that makes his eye glisten, "you tempt a soul already damned."

and then he does it, slowly, reverently. his hand rises, pale and almost solid, and cups your cheek. the cold of him seeps into your skin, but it feels right, like starlight rather than frost. you lean forward, closing the distance that should not be closed.

when his lips touch yours, the world disappears. it is not warmth you feel, but light. a rush of memories, not your own—flight through the skies on dragonback, the roar of fire, the crash of steel, the fall into water, the endless dark that followed. his entire life—his fury, his loneliness, his love—surges through you in a heartbeat.

you taste salt, and smoke, and sorrow. and beneath it all, his whispered thought, i have waited so long. when you pull away, your breath catches in the cold air. "you are still here," you murmur, silently relieved that he remains with you.

"for now," his voice trembles. "but the dawn drives me away. i am bound to the lake, to the moment of my death. and soon, soon… even this shadow will fade."

you stare past him toward the black water glimmering beneath the moon. the lake calls to you—not cruelly, but tenderly, as though it has been whispering your name for years and only now dares to speak aloud. "what if i came to you?" you ask, your voice small and nervous.

he stills. "no."

you huff, frowning. "i am not afraid, aemond."

he immediately shakes his head, the silver strands of his hair drifting like smoke. "no, you do not understand what you would be giving up, my love… life, breath, sunlight—"

"all things that mean little without you," you say, pleading, trying to make him understand that life without him by your side is not a life you wish to live.

for a moment, there is only silence between you, broken only by the soft lapping of water against the shore. then he reaches for you again, his long, cool fingers trembling as they ghost against your throat, gently, worshiping. "if you cross the veil, there is no returning," he warns, voice firm yet tender all at once.

"i do not wish to return."

he closes his eye, and a tear—bright as molten silver—slides down his pale cheek before vanishing into mist. "then let it be by your choice, not mine," he whispers, his voice cracking slightly.

you walk together to the lake's edge. the wind has gone still, the world holding its breath. the water shimmers faintly, reflecting the stars as if it were a doorway to another sky. you take his hand—or rather, you place your hand where his would be—and smile softly. "i am ready."

he leans close, pressing his forehead to yours. his voice is low, broken. "then i will meet you in the depths, my heart…" you step into the lake, and the water is cold enough to steal your breath, yet it feels alive, pulsing with ancient magic.

the hem of your dress billows around you as you wade deeper—ankle, knee, waist, chest—until the moonlight above blurs. you take one last lungful of breath of the living world and let yourself fall.

the water closes over your head, and everything goes quiet—utterly, beautifully quiet. there is no pain, no fear. only a vast, weightless peace… and then, there is light.

you awaken on the lake's shore beneath a sky of soft silver dawn. the ruins of harrenhal stand in the distance, but they are whole again, radiant, no longer burned. flowers bloom where ash once lay, vibrant and beautiful, and the air hums with life that does not fade.

you stand barefoot in the grass, your white gown dry and gleaming with starlight. when you turn, he is there. not as a ghost, not as a shadow—but as aemond, whole, alive.

his skin warm, his hair shining like polished moonlight, his single violet eye alive and gleams with wonder. he looks at you as if seeing the sun for the first time. "you came," he whispers, stunned, his lips parting in awe of you. you smile, lighthearted. "i promised."

he reaches for you, and this time, his hands are solid, strong. when he pulls you into his arms, it feels like the world settling into its rightful shape. the lake gleams behind you, the sky bending low, and all the pain of both your lives melts away like morning mist.

he kisses you again and again, slowly, tenderly, as if to memorize the miracle of your being. each kiss tastes of moonlight, forgiveness, and true love. and when you pull apart, the horizon is no longer gray but gold, as if the gods themselves have opened the heavens to watch.

in this place beyond death, time ceases to wound. the castle stands unbroken, the fields bloom eternal. you and aemond walk its halls hand in hand, his laughter echoing softly against the stones that once mourned.

sometimes you still visit the water's edge. the living cannot see you, but sometimes, when the mist curls and the candles in the hall flicker, someone feels a warmth brush against them. a kindness, a whisper of something holy.

they say harrenhal is no longer cursed. they say it is watched over by two gentle spirits—one with silver hair and a sapphire eye, the other with soft hands and a heart too kind for this world. and in the quiet between life and legend, love reigns eternal.

© 𝑎𝑒𝑚𝑛𝑑. est, 2025.

As you move your chair a bit from the sun, trying not to burn your own skin, and as you fight for your life to move the umbrella so your chair has some shadow, you see him. 

The resort was big, but only a few people had actual membership. Did you? No, but your friend did, and you paid her to use it. And in the spaces that only members were allowed, you discovered him, the white haired dude, tall and always wearing those sunglasses. And the best of him: an arm tattoo.

You tried to decipher the ink, as it took part of his left shoulder and his bicep. Gods, he had nice biceps. It was well done, and it neatly fit his appearance. One day, as you were on the beach, enjoying the soft waves, he was close enough to you to see that it was actually a dragon tattoo, the ink curving and showing a detailed work. 

And the best wasn’t only that; but that he noticed you. 

You were alone, taking a vacation on your own, so you tried new things. And by that, it means you did almost every possible activity on the island and in the resort. The island was not as cool, since one day was enough to discover it all. So, enjoying the resort wasn’t so bad (plus how expensive it was, you damn sure will use everything)

And now, you wanted another drink. Maybe a piña colada? Or a mimosa. Oh, a mimosa would be good.

You put one of those sheer pool dresses over your bikini, and you take your things as you walk over the open bar near the pool. It was near sunset, and so it was more empty than in the morning. 

And life surely loves you, because as you wait for your order, you see this tattoo man coming up to you.

“Hey” 

You smile, looking at him and you move your sunglasses up to see him better; and you notice he wasn’t wearing his, strangely enough. You saw that he had purple eyes, with a scar on his left one. 

“Hey” you say, your lips turning slightly upwards. 

“Is this seat taken?”

“No, not at all”

He knew it was not taken. You knew he knew, because the place was almost empty, since the families went to the other pools (which were way cooler, you had to admit) and this was lowkey an adult-only space (though it seems more like an implicit rule)

“Can you get me the same as her?”

Nice. You think, as you drink your mimosa. Fuck it, you had promised to try new things, and you had the courage to be bold since you will never see this man again… you hope. 

You tell him your name, and he introduces himself: Aemond Targaryen. 

“Nice tattoo” You say softly then, sitting straighter and leaning closer “Can I see?”

“Sure” he says, and you don’t waste time to grab his bicep and inspect the ink on his skin.

You shamelessly lean closer, and you don’t even mind that your face is so close to his naked chest. Gods, you’d love to bury your face in all of his muscular body. He surely went to the gym, it was obvious as the sky was blue. And he was hot. In capital, big letters. Aemond Targaryen was HOT. 

“Nice biceps too” you add, smirking as you look at him.

You see the smug smirk his face shows, as he hums. If you were being bold, he was being shameless, checking you out with no shame at all. You saw how his eyes went to your tits. 

“Is it a dragon?”

“Yeah” He murmurs, his voice a bit hoarse. “You mind if I smoke?”

“Not at all” You say, as you watch how he takes a cigarette out and lights it up, the same time his mimosa arrives.  “Got a story behind it?”

“My family is very close to dragons” He explains, exhaling the smoke. “Even now” he adds, looking at you. 

“It is a nice tattoo” you say “Fits you well”

You drink your mimosa, but you are doing your best fuck me eyes to him, and he seems to catch on it. Still, he drags the moment.

“Thanks, darlin’.” He says, drinking his own mimosa before saying. “What about you? Came with family?”

“All by myself” you say to him with a smile, shamelessly flirting with him. “All alone”

Aemond hums, his smirk growing a bit as he smokes. He approves, you think. “So am I”

“What an eventful coincidence”

“Indeed” he agrees, and then “You busy now?”

You don’t exactly now how you end all naked in his room, getting fucked ruthlessly by him, but you are not complaining. His room was big, bigger than yours, and he wasted no time by kissing you and grabbing you in his arms towards the bed.

He kisses as if he had been hungry forever, devouring you as a man possessed as his hands were roaming in your back, holding you close to his chest. You were in his lap, arms wrapped around his neck as you kissed him back, keeping up with his passion.

Aemond was a catch, by how handsome he was, and even gentlemanly, since he held the door of the room open for you. And mostly, because of how hard he was, and you did not need to see his cock to know how big he was, and how much he wanted you.

“That tattoo is so fucking hot” You murmur against his mouth, as you take off the top of your bikini, quickly moving to take off the bottom as well. 

“Yeah? Tell me about fucking hot, baby… fuuuuck” He says, watching your body with lust and pure animalistic hunger. “Come here…” 

As he sits back in the pillow, in the neatly made bed, you see how he pulls off his swim trucks little by little, as his dick jumps out, hitting his own abdomen by how hard he was. It was a great dick, good size, trimmed and the tip was a bit reddish. 

“Let me suck it” you say quickly. 

“Go on” he says quietly, as he grabs the base of his cock, stroking it softly as you move your face to the same level of it. 

You never actually thought that sucking dick would be so delicious, as you wrap your above his, and take the tip in your mouth. And hearing Aemond groan in pleasure was worth everything. 

It’s more a delight he’s allowing you, and you lowkey now it, because you just see in his eyes how he wants to fuck you on the spot. And you want him to do so badly. 

“There you go” he murmurs, his other hand moving to the back of your head. “That’s all you wanted, hm?” Aemond’s voice is smooth, as he moves your head to thrust on his cock. 

He is merciful, as he doesn’t make you take him fully, only the tip, and it hits ever so slightly your gag reflex, but he doesn't push further. He coaxes you so sweetly. “That’s why you flirted with me, didn’t you? To have a taste of this cock?”

Even with your mouth full, you let out a soft noise of agreement. He did know how to dirty talk, as you feel your pussy on fire as he speaks to you, only spurring your arousal. 

Tasting the precum on your mouth, you look up to him, meeting his lusty eyes as you softly suck his cock, your head moving both on your own and with his pace. It was slow, and at the same time, more arousing than ever. 

“Enough” He says after a while, pushing your head away from his cock. 

You see it once again, leaking and full of your saliva. It was a delicious cock, you could cockwarm him with your mouth and not complain a bit. 

He pulls you to his lap, moving to kiss you once again. What a hot man he was, his hand on your neck as he eagerly kissed you. He was a great kisser, and it only served to fuel your arousal as much as sucking his cock did.

“You ready?”

“Yeah” you say against his mouth, as he practically accommodates you, telling you to grab the headpost of the bed, as he makes all the rest. 

You feel his hands on your hips, making himself a place between your legs as one hand goes to push himself into your pussy. 

“Ah, fuck..” you moan, making him groan as well. “Don’t stop”

“Shit, sweetheart” he growls. “Needy, needy girl”

You were soaked, which didn’t go unnoticed. It made him slide easier inside your cunt as your hands weakly moved to support yourself in the bed mattress. You were never great being on top, because as he starts thrusting up in your pussy, all of your body just feels limp. 

He is quick to thrust in you, moving his hips to meet yours and making you feel him so deep, it makes you roll your eyes.

“Fuck…” You moan, trying to keep yourself up. 

“I know, I know…” you feel his thumb on your pussy, blindly searching your clit and finding it quickly enough. 

“Shit, shit, shit, shit” you murmur, giving yourself up and simply falling on his chest as he fucks you. Your arms simply give in to the pleasure, and you just allow him to ravish your cunt however he sees fit. Hells, he could do anything to you, and you would be on board. 

Aemond wraps his other arm on your waist, keeping you in place as he simply keeps fucking you as if you were his fuckdoll. You moan at the idea, feeling how the tip of his cock rubs inside you, the girth of him making you see stars behind your eyes. 

“It’s so big” you say incoherently, your hand moving to grip his bicep. “So, so big…”

“You love that dick, sweetheart?”

“Fuckin’ love it. I’m obsessed…”

You open your eyes, and are practically laying atop of his chest, and your head is at the same height as his dragon tattoo. The irony makes your lips curl, as the slick sounds of his cock pounding inside you in a relentless, practically animalistic way. 

Life is good, you think, you love mimosas, and getting fucked by a hot man with a tattoo.

The wine was dry and tart on his tongue, but Aemond did not seem to be paying it any attention. His usually insightful and piercing gaze bore traces of softness and engagement as he observed the woman sitting across from him in the dim, intimate light of the restaurant hall. Minerva. Her noble name was a spell, a prayer, and a curse all in one in his mind.

This was their third date. The first one was coffee. A short, sharp clash of their intelligence and business intellect that had left him stunned. The second, a walk through the art gallery at an exhibition dedicated to Vincent Van Gogh, where her precise commentary about "The Café Terrace at Night" had put even the guide to shame. And now, this. Dinner at an exclusive restaurant where the tables were set up to provide privacy for the clients. Although they didn't need privacy, that evening the hall was only theirs, and the only sounds carrying through the room were the woman's quiet laughter and Aemond's low voice as he told anecdote after anecdote. He had brought Floris here once. She had complained about the lighting and spent the whole evening scraping her fork against the plate's coating to throw him off balance.

Minerva, in a fitted grey waistcoat and trousers that emphasized the graceful figure of a dancer, was dissecting the agreement between Targaryen Enterprises and her father's company, Sinclair's, with a precision his oldest sister would have envied.

"Your father and his lawyers fought hard for that non-compete clause covering the subsidiary assets," he said, dipping his lips into the wine.

"And your father's lawyers were naive to think we would agree to that," she replied, and a malicious spark flashed in her eyes. "It was a bluff, and you knew it. You conceded that point to secure the bigger prize. A calculated loss."

A sharp and electrifying shiver ran down his spine so that he had to adjust his posture in the chair. She saw the board, not just the pieces. And most importantly, she saw him as the strategist behind this entire corporate giant. For twelve years, his marriage had been an empty and chilled room. Now he found himself in the middle of a spring, warm rain, and every drop of her intelligence, every decibel of her low laughter made him not want to open an umbrella.

"Yes," he admitted lightly. This confession was more intimate than anything else. "But few have the acuity to see it."

"I don't belong to the few," she replied, hiding behind her wine glass and not taking her eyes off him. She was provoking him. The corner of his mouth twitched, and the gaze he fixed on her became darker.

He had planned this evening as a challenge to his control and restraint. He hadn't been with a woman for over ten years. Desire was an imprisoned dragon that tugged at its chains with increasing rage. She was twenty-three years old. She was carefree, brilliant, and completely unpredictable to him. The fear that this was just a game to her. That she would drink his obsession and then spit it out, leaving his room uninhabited once again, filled him with dread. He, Aemond Targaryen, who was ruthless in business meetings and in managing billions, was afraid of a little girl.

His driver, Criston, stopped in the underground parking of the modern and starkly elegant apartment building.

"Will you require anything else, sir?" Criston asked, averting his gaze.

"No. That will be all," Aemond replied. His tone sounded more tense than he himself had intended.

He led her inside. The elevator ride was tense and full of awkward silence, which hadn't happened to them before. Her grey irises observed him in the mirror. He was no coward. He had been given a challenge, even one as small as maintaining eye contact during an awkward moment, and he had accepted it.

The windows of his apartment revealed a dazzling panorama of the city that never slept. She looked unearthly against this view. Her silhouette was outlined against the blinding neon lights as she stepped closer to the glass, and he felt a primal need to take her from behind, until her hands were permanently imprinted on the pane. His breath hitched for a moment as he considered this thought.

Control. You are not an animal.

"Something to drink?" His voice trembled. He had to clear his throat before walking to the kitchen counter.

"Just water, please."

He poured them both a glass of water from a tall carafe, and his long fingers brushed against her warm hand as he handed her the glass. It was not an accident. A deliberate action, a match thrown onto a gasoline-soaked pile of wood to see if it would catch fire. An impulse, immediate, struck him and she felt it too. Her breath hitched; in the deafening silence of the apartment, he heard it as if it were a scream. She feels it too.

Encouraged, yet terrified by this new wave of courage and boldness, he let his fingers slide slowly onto her graceful and delicate wrist, tracing a line on the point where her pulse was throbbing. Like a dragon, he watched her tremble. The corners of his mouth lifted in triumph.

"You are..." he began, but froze when she let out a quiet whimper and drew air into her lungs violently, though she tried to hide it from his sight.

"I am what?" she prompted, her voice barely audible.

"An extraordinary distracter," he finished, and the half-truth tasted bitter. She was not a distracter. Not for him. She was becoming the main star of the event.

He led her to the guest bedroom on the upper floor. Earlier, he had personally changed the sheets, aired out the room, and dusted it, because the room hadn't been used for years. He tried to restrain himself from leading her to his own bedroom. He stood in the doorway, putting his hand in his pocket, which was the first crack in the mirror of his resolve. Doing so, he drew her attention to the lower part of his body. Minerva did not hide the small smile circling her face when she noticed his visible bulge.

"The bathroom is there. Fresh towels are there too. If you need... anything." Ask. Ask for me, please.

"Thank you, Aemond. For a wonderful evening." She smiled tenderly, innocently, and that smile made him bite the inside of his cheek so a shameless moan would not leave his lips.

He only nodded his head quickly and turned away abruptly so as not to do something he might regret.

In the soothing silence of his own bedroom, the tension did not break; it grew to impossible sizes and pressed not only against the front of his trousers. It became a physical pain. First, he took off his glasses, placing them in their case with trembling hands. Next, he took off his suit, and every accidental or less accidental brush of the fitted fabric seemed to steal the breath from his lungs. He could still feel the subtle scent of her perfume on his clothes, from when they had hugged in greeting. They were floral notes, but within them was an aroma that was so completely her. Aemond didn't know what it was, but it was definitely suffocating him, and he surrendered to it without a fight. He poured himself a whisky and drank it almost in one gulp, standing naked before the window. The chill of the cold air did nothing to cool the dragon fire in his blood.

Every interaction of that evening, of the magnificent date, played in his mind to torture him. The way her small lips enveloped the glass to take a sip of wine. Her triumphant defiant smirk, which made him want to discipline her. The shiver when their hands met. And that tenderness, ahh, in her eyes when she thanked him for the well-spent time.

He was hard. Painfully so. The basic, utterly animal function of his organism filled him with shame and fear. A thirty-five-year-old man pushed to his knees by a few virtuous touches and one piercing glance. He was pathetic.

Letting out a hoarse sound of frustration, he marched into the bathroom and turned the shower on to a brutally cold stream. He stood under the stream and hissed as the spring warm rain turned frigid. It was completely meaningless. Only one thing could cure him of this treacherous need, and it was the thing he wouldn't dare do now and couldn't have.

He leaned his back against the wet, cool tiles and tilted his head back, hitting the back of it lightly against the wall to wake himself from this sick state. He slid his right hand down his tense abdomen and closed his fingers weakly around his aching length. He closed his eyes. The sense of sight was not needed at all now, especially since he could see little in this darkness and due to his defective sight.

She appeared before his eyes.

Not a fleeting imagination, but her. Minerva Sinclair. In his imagination, she was in this very shower with him, her back pressed against the wall, just like he was now. Her raven-black locks stuck to her skin and curled at the ends. Her fitted, perfectly tailored suit replaced by nothing but her pale skin covered in freckles. He saw her firm breasts, which earlier had been encircled by the material of her waistcoat, he heard the sigh that would have escaped her lips if he had touched her. He imagined her long dancer's legs wrapped tightly around his waist as he would push into her with a slow rhythm.

His breath became ragged, stifled by the loud noise of the water stream. It flowed over him chaotically, matching the desperate movement of his hand. It wasn't about pleasure. It was an attempt to regain the control that until now had been unshaken by anything or anyone. It ended in failure, because Minerva had already left her mark on his heart, on his restless soul, and she had no intention of leaving it.

"Minerva..." Her name was torn from between his lips. In prayer? In penance?

His release was sharp and violent. His knees buckled under him during the shuddering convulsion. It left him weakened and empty. He leaned his hands against the pane. The icy water finally scalded him, provoking a shiver that pierced him to the bone.

The hunger and obsession had not been banished, they had joined his shameful list of things. The proof was swirling down the drain, and he did not dare open his eyes, so as not to torture himself with this pathetic physical act which had dishonored not only him, but above all the woman sleeping in the room next door.

Drops of the spring downpour beat against the shutters, creating a repeating sound that seemed to calm Rhaella. She was sitting on cushions with an embroidered stag in her mother's chambers. In her hands, she had a large storybook which she was reading to her youngest little brother. Her voice was cheerful and engaging. She was trying very hard to interest Aegon in the story about a traveling knight and his minstrel. The boy, as befits a two-year-old, was not at all focused on the pictures in the book that Rhaella was showing him. Instead, with sparkles in his eyes, he was observing the pearl pins entangled in her silver hair, which shimmered in the weak candlelight. He tried to stretch his chubby fingers in that direction and fussed when he didn't manage to catch the shiny ornament. He climbed onto her knees, pulling her hair and mumbling sentences that were not understandable.

"Hey, that's not for you, little lamb." Rhaella laughed and gently took out the small fingers which had clenched tightly onto her hair. She wondered where such a small being could have so much strength. Aegon protested, letting out a loud sound of displeasure.

Rhaenyra, who until now had only been sitting in an armchair and observing the dripping drops on the windowpane, let out a loud sigh. Then she cleared her throat. That sound pierced the girl as if she had been scolded. Her laughter, so rare in these times, fell silent abruptly. Her face fell. She took out one of the pins from her hair and placed it in the boy’s little hand. Aegon put it in his mouth and wrinkled his little forehead when it turned out to be tasteless.

Rhaella put the book aside and rose from the floor. She smoothed out the creases on her violet dress and approached the window where Rhaenyra was sitting.

"Are you tired, Mother?" the twelve-year-old girl asked cautiously. "Is my little sister restless today? Should I call for someone?"

My little sister. Every time her mother was heavy with child, Rhaella wished for a sister. Brothers were okay, sweet and all, but they weren't girls. A girl with whom she could play tea parties and comb each other's hair.

Hesitantly, she extended her right, scarred hand towards her mother's large belly. She stroked it gently, murmuring soothing words in High Valyrian. It lasted only a moment, because Rhaenyra stiffened, looking at the pink scar on her delicate hand. She stood up abruptly, forcing Rhaella to withdraw her hand.

The girl furrowed her brows and bit the inside of her cheek.

"Take Aegon and go play somewhere else. I must rest."

The woman grabbed her belly and stepped closer to the window, standing with her back to her daughter.

"Of course, Mother," Rhaella replied with disappointment and curtsied, which Rhaenyra saw only in the reflection in the windowpane.

Rhaella, saying a few sweet words of affection to her little brother, took him in her arms. The boy was heavy, but he didn't squirm as she carried him out of the room, holding him like the most precious object. In his little hand, a gnawed hairpin, and on his face, a gummy smile.

⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧

In the evening, the rain stopped drumming, leaving only a damp smell that hung everywhere. Especially in Rhaella's chamber, which was located on the sea side. The waters were unusually calm, which could not be said about the girl's restless soul.

The quill trembled in her left hand. The letters came out crooked, smearing the ink on the nicely scented parchment. She clenched her teeth harder on her tongue, as if punishing herself for this imperfection.

My dear Aemond,

I most sincerely apologize that you had to wait for my next words for so long. My lessons and duties drag on mercilessly and at the end of the day I just want to wrap myself in a blanket and close my eyes. But I think of you constantly and I hope you do too.

The weather is awful. My hand pulsates constantly, which annoys me. It rains all the time and Mother forbids me from going outside for fear that I'll get soaked and catch a cold. Although my last illness was milder. Instead of lying in bed for a month, I was fully recovered after just a week. Even the maester said that I am getting stronger and stronger. I don't want to be a burden, or sadden you with my sudden death, because I am weak. I want to be strong for you.

Mother is large with child. Sometimes I read to her in the evenings, but she gets tired quickly and sends me away. She will give birth any day now. I very much hope that it will finally be a girl. I want to have a little sister. Aegon is sweet, Joffrey too, but it's not the same.

I am writing this letter for the sixth time, because I want it to be perfect, but it still doesn't work out. Forgive me, please.

Yours,

Rhaella V.

Ps. How is Vhagar feeling? Has your mother allowed you to fly on her yet? Sometimes I see ships sailing to King's Landing and I look at the sky, thinking that I will see you there too. Can you give Vhagar a little scratch under her muzzle from me? My father said that dragons like that, maybe your old lady will be pleased too?

⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧

Three days later in King's Landing, in the abandoned courtyard, one could only hear the loud praises or corrections of Criston Cole and the quiet grunts of Aemond as he hit the straw dummy with his training sword. His tunic was sweated through, and on his forehead was a wrinkle resulting from concentration.

"You're exposing your left side too much. You must try to balance it."

The patient voice of the guardsman rang out. For Aemond, it was another failure of his. One of many. He wanted to give up, to scream to the whole world that he'd had enough. But he didn't do it. He grabbed the sword again, narrowed his eyes, and corrected his mistake in the next series of blows he delivered.

"My prince. A raven from Dragonstone."

Another voice, quieter, reached his ears. This one pleased him more. A letter from Dragonstone. A letter from her. He had waited forty-eight days for her letter. He was becoming impatient. Finally, he had gotten it. The sword fell from his hand.

Not hearing Criston's words anymore about continuing the training, he snatched the rolled paper impetuously from the messenger's hands. He ran to his chamber. On his lips a wide, foolish grin, as he crumpled the piece of paper in his hand.

He read the letter exactly seven times. Once, with a blush on his face, he even smelled the parchment. He would recognize that delicate scent of lilac and salt anywhere. When he caught himself thinking about it for too long, he cleared his throat, and his smirk was replaced by a serious face. What was he even doing?

That night, he decided to fulfill his confidante's request. He dressed warmly, chose the most inconspicuous cloak. He fastened a dagger to his belt, and into the pocket of his doublet, right over his heart, he placed an embroidered handkerchief. In the corner, it had two embroidered letters, R and V. And it bore the marks of her courage and loyalty. He had tried many times to wash the linen fabric, but the dried, brownish stains of his and her blood remained. He considered it a symbol. Of their bond, sealed in blood.

The journey through the hidden corridors and passages was usually straightforward. It was accompanied by a gentle tingling in his chest, excitement, or perhaps stress, that he would be discovered. The hardest part, however, turned out to be the path to the forest, and then to the cave which lay on the edge, and where Vhagar had her lair. The dragoness rarely left it, only to eat something.

Queen Alicent had strictly forbidden Aemond from flying. The nearly twelve-year-old boy followed his mother's orders, but he couldn't resist secretly sneaking out to the cave to be with his prize.

He carefully entered the cave. It was warm and stuffy inside. Aemond had to remove his cloak and hang it over his forearm. The dragoness opened her eyes and lifted her head slightly before Aemond even noticed her in the darkness.

The boy shouted a few words in High Valyrian to calm the dragon. On his face, a smile so wide it reached his eyes. His feet were even swaying with excitement.

Vhagar was probably counting on food, because she wasn't interested in the boy and laid her head back on the stones. Aemond approached her cautiously and placed his small hand on her muzzle. He scratched it. He did it uncertainly, because he thought the dragoness wouldn't like it. For the first few moments, Vhagar didn't react. But just as Aemond was about to remove his hand, she pressed her maw against his warm palm. A loud sound came from her throat, which shook the entire cave. Aemond had to regain his balance before he laughed sincerely with satisfaction.

"This is from Rhaella," he stated. "She sends her greetings."

When he returned to the castle, it was completely dark, and the courtyard and castle were deserted. He was content and calm. In his head, he was composing the words he would write in a letter to Rhaella, not focusing on not being detected.

He was about to enter the hidden passageway through which he was to get to his chamber, when the silence was broken by a cough. He turned towards the sound, finding there the tall and tense posture of Criston. He was just about to start explaining when the guardsman spoke:

"I hope your walk was fruitful, my prince."

The boy nodded. His face suddenly serious and focused.

"That's good," the man murmured. "Come, I'll escort you to your chamber."

You were sitting on the couch of your shared chambers. Waiting all night until this time; nearly midnight. He never passed the hour of the bat, he was always either before or during it; but never so late. 

You’d hear from your mother that suitors changed with marriage, that they became the same dull or abusive men to their wives. Your Aemond was never like that, he was sweet, loving and caring with you. 

Aemond was respectful of your choices, he heard you and worked as a team to resolve any issues. He has never raised his voice to you; he had never even hit you, not even in bed. 

He would worship your body with kisses, caresses, and holding you close always. He was not afraid to be a little affectionate in public, not too much, but he’d always respect you and make you feel appreciated.

The war, of course, changed everything. Even your marriage. 

Not only the war, but when the crown fell on his head, after Aegon got injured in battle. 

“Small council” he says in a tired voice as he undresses himself. The maids were already asleep and off duty, and so, he had to take off his own clothes. 

“That long?” you ask leaving the book beside “You could remind them that you have a wife” you joke softly. 

“All of them have wives, don’t be ridiculous”

Lately, he doesn’t have time for you. He doesn’t have time for anything else than the stupid war, and the tactics, and killing Daemon, killing Rhaenyra, killing anyone against him and his family. 

He spent more time in Aegon’s bedchambers than yours, where he rested, plotting alongside his brother, tactics and ways to win. He also now had suppers with his mother, and sometimes she’d offer the invite to you too. 

It was such a strange dynamic, so uptight and little warmth. You were used to Aemond being… different. 

“I’ll undo your hair” you say, making him sit as you took the small ring that tied his hair. You brush it softly, seeing the silver locks shine under the candle’s light. 

You wore one of the nightgowns he liked. It showed the skiing of your clavicle and some of your chest, and it ended near your knee. It was a bit riské, but you know how he loved it, and how it turned him on.

You missed the intimacy, the whispers, declarations of love and even the soft sounds of his moans and groans whenever you two had sex. 

“I missed you”

“Hm”

He always seems in the state of thinking, in his own world. That’s all he does nowadays, think and scheme. 

Why?  you think… I am right here. 

“A lot” You add, your hands moving to massage his shoulders.

“That feels nice”

You feel frustrated, as you grit your teeth and think of squeezing his head. 

“Didn’t you miss me..?”

At the same time, he interrupts you “Love, I am really tired for this..”

“For saying that you missed me?”

“For… fighting”

“Tis’ no fighting.” You say frowning, as he turns his head to watch you behind him.

“Come here” he says trying to pull you in front of him “Please”

You feel upset over his words, as he pulls you to stand in front of him as he was sitting. 

“I do miss you, it’s just that…” he starts, but somehow, his words feel rather empty now. “I have a lot to do”

You don’t say more, as he slowly tugs you closer to his lap so you can be closer to him. He looks up at you, trying to remain calmed as he looks at you. 

“You know that I just have to take care of everything” He says quietly. “It’s my duty, for now I wear the Conqueror’s crown” 

You are tired of this war. Of the strain it has on your marriage, how he seems to prioritize anything above you. 

It was fucked up, and you couldn’t help but be a little bit upset.

“I don’t care about whose crown is it” you say, standing up from his lap and you practically hear him rolling his eyes. “Aegon the bla bla bla”

You walk towards the untouched bed, and if you had hoped to achieve a calm night… not today.

“He’s not-” he says exasperated “he’s not Aegon the bla bla. He was the conqueror, the first King…”

“I do not care about it” you repeat pretending not to hear him. “And it was a joke”

“The only thing I want, after a fucked up long day, is to relax, and here you are making a fuss like always. Gods, woman.” he says, frustrated and annoyed. 

Aemond sighs, as he takes his things and turns around, walking out of your chambers as he doesn’t even try to fix things. 

You watch him as he walks away, as you move the covers of the bed softly. You want to scream, but instead you sigh before getting in bed. 

Dining with Queen Alicent used to be pleasant. All of the family before the war used to be pleasant. Happy, even.

Now you have to swallow Maelor’s cries alongside the smashed potatoes. You feel in a bad mood, especially after Aemond has been avoiding you like the plague. You have been avoiding him like the plague too, to be honest. 

“Don’t you wish to hold him?”

“No… thanks” You say to your good-mother, as you swallow your wine in an attempt to relax.

“You know, with the throne’s situation, perhaps it would be time you and Aemond start your own family”

You place your fork down, this family is driving you insane.

“Amidst war?” You ask her incredulously. 

“Heirs are never not welcomed, my Lady. I hope you do remember that” She says in that sharpening tone of hers, which made you always feel chastised. Aemond had inherited too, it seems. “And marrying the prince, the prince Regent has duties along with it. Not only pretty jewels and dresses”

Your jaw clenches, trying not to lash out at her. She was so out of touch sometimes…

“I married prince Aemond, not… the prince Regent”

“There is no difference now. Learn your place”

And how hard that is. 

You wait for Aemond, in a better disposition. You had taken a bath, taken Hot cocoa and even did some relaxing things before waiting for him.

He enters your chambers, his disposition perhaps not as happy as it used to be. Okay, no issue… you think, as you welcome him with a strained smile.

“My love”

Your tone is somehow forced, yet trying to be gentle.

“Darling” he says back. 

You help him take off his cloak. He had been with Vhagar, you think. 

“I was thinking… I wanted to apologise for what I said last time” you say, not even sure if it was even that serious. But yes, you knew he was stressed, and perhaps you had placed salt in his wound. “I’m sorry” you say, placing a cast kiss on his cheek. 

An offering of peace. Peace…

“Thank you” he murmurs, his hand going to your waist as he leans to accept your kiss. 

If you waited for an apology, you would be waiting still. Instead, he sits on the edge of the bed. You see him taking off his clothes, mumbling something about the Vale.

You turn around to fetch some wine, wine would be good… it would relax us both you think as you lean to place two cups full of wine. You bite your lip as you think of the Queen Dowager’s words. Having a baby… now? You weren’t opposed, perhaps you could convince Aemond to let you go back to your home so you could be safe in the pregnancy as he finishes the war. 

You take off your robe, once again, as if trying to seduce him. This nightgown is bolder, made to get him worked up, so you hope it is worth it. 

Aemond was lying, a book lazily open in his hands, as he had just begun to read it. You can see his bare chest, and probably he was wearing those breeches he used for pajamas. 

“Here” you say softly, extending the cup of wine in front of his face.

“Thanks” he says, not seeing you at all. He grabs the wine, and takes a sip almost in a robotic way.

“So… I was thinking” you said softly. “I…” you didn’t want to repeat the same phrases. I miss you. “We could do something fun”

“Something fun?” he asks, a bit interested yet pretty much expectant.

“Like before. When we would… you know, do riské things, like… giving massages, or on the balcony…”

“Darling, I am not in the mood” he says simply, as he leans back on his side of the bed.

“Please. I just… I miss my husband”

“I know, it’s just that things have changed”

You try not to roll your eyes. You try not to dismiss him. 

“Yes, I am aware. But it doesn’t have to change for us”

“Just- Let this war be over”

Aemond seems not tired, but annoyed. At you, especially. You had never seen him so upset lately, mostly when he was with you. As if you were the most undesired lady in the world. 

“And how long is that?”

“I am trying for it to be short”

“We have been in this at least one year-”

“You think I don’t know it?!” He asks exasperated again. “All I am doing is for you, for my brother the King and my family. Don’t pretend that I am out there having fun.”

“Not even in the brothels?”

He looks at you as if you had slapped him across the face. He genuinely thought you didn’t know, as a poor naïve wife he thought you were.

“That’s… different”

“Why? Because in my book, it is the same effort. Even the walk to my chamber is shorter” 

“Because they do not expect me to be the sappy and loving husband, and they don’t make me pretend to care” he says exasperated. “You could learn a thing or two, and stop demanding things like a little infant does.”

As he remains in bed, you take the wine out of his hands. Walking back to leave the cup back at its place, you feel the tears burning your eyes as you feel impotent and powerless to fight him back. You know the things he’s capable of when he’s mad, and he certainly does not have the patience for a wife. 

Where has your sweet husband gone? It is as if he has forgotten his feelings and devotion for you all together, and now there is only blind rage and hatred. 

Where has he gone? Only Gods know.