Belladonna

Prince Aemond Targaryen wakes with a start, confusion and a flicker of fear clouding his thoughts as he finds himself lying naked in a bed that is not his own, in a room far removed from the familiar confines of the Red Keep. For a moment, he feels the rare vulnerability of being unarmed and exposed, his usual certainty stripped away.

The smell of damp stone fills his nostrils, while the slow, irregular drips of water echo off the unseen floor. When he tries to raise himself, a sharp pain lances through his lower back, forcing him still. His hand trembles as it finds rough cloth wrapped tightly around his trim waist.

The prince claws at his memories, desperate to recall how he came to be here, but his mind offers only fog and silence.

Wanting his clothes and sword, he is about to rise again when shadows move in the hall beneath the heavy chamber door. The door opens slowly, and by the light of a single flickering candle, Aemond makes out a woman entering the room.

Recognition flashes through him. He recalls seeing her as he collapsed to the floor.

He watches silently as the woman, clad in a long white nightdress and barefoot, slips into the room and shuts the door behind her.

“Where am I? Who are you?” He demands.

She tilts her head. “Don’t you remember, my prince?”

“This is Harrenhal.”

His brow furrows as he fights to recall. He and Vhagar easily dispatched the guards. He killed the Strongs. Then he saw a woman standing there, watching him. Then weakness, blood, falling to the floor, and pleading for her help. He hums in frustration when he cannot recall any more.

He watches the woman set the candle holder on a table by the door and walk toward his bedside.

“Who are you?”

“Didn’t your uncle tell you?” She smiles as she poses her question.

“Tell me who you are,” he commands, confusion and growing impatience evident in his voice as he manages to sit up slightly, wincing in pain. He cannot quell the frustration that swells within him, driven by a need to regain control of this unfamiliar situation.

“I’m a witch,” she replies airily, unfazed by his annoyance.

“Speak plainly, woman, and tell me your name,” Aemond demands, his anger rising. He will not be left guessing.

With a humorous lilt in her voice, she says, “I’m no woman at all. I’m a barn owl cursed to live in human form.”

“You’ll learn my name in time,” she tells him as she stands beside the bed. “But we have no need tonight.”

She places her knee on the bed, looming above him, and peels the blanket away. Her fingers trace the bandage at his waist—gentle, assured, claiming. The heat of her skin sparks along his side, and he holds his breath, nerves raw, utterly captive to her touch.

“What do you think you’re doing?” He demands, now annoyed with her silly talk and impertinence.

“I’m checking to make sure you haven’t opened your wound with your fussing,” she replies, her tone calm and practical.

“Stop that,” Aemond orders. “Go and fetch the maester to tend me.”

The strange woman chuckles. “There is no maester here,” she informs him. “Who do you think has been tending to you?”

“I cleaned and dressed your wound,” she continues. “I’ve spoon-fed broth into your mouth, bathed you, and changed your sheets these past days.”

There is no anger or annoyance in her voice; she is simply stating a fact, and Aemond feels somewhat sheepish for his sternness.

Finished checking his bandages, she sits on the bed beside him. She examines his face for a moment before placing her palm on his forehead.

“Good, you have no fever,” she remarks.

She leans forward, inching closer to his face, the air thick with a longing he cannot name. The weak candlelight barely touches her features, illuminating the haunting depths of her gaze. Her eyes glint, sharp and unblinking, impossible to read, and yet they seem to strip him bare, seeing him in ways no one ever has. He cannot guess her age. Her breath is warm against his cheek, and he is suddenly aware of the wild, uncertain tension that crackles in the space between them.

Her gaze pierces him as if she sees not only his face but every secret he thought was safely hidden. Beneath her stare, he feels a chill crawl along his spine, as if his entire being has been laid bare before her silent judgment.

“You should never wear an eyepatch,” she says, gazing down at him. “Your sapphire eye is too pretty to hide.”

Aemond lies still under her stare as she brushes loose blond hair from his forehead. He offers no complaint as her fingertips graze his skin, tracing his jawline, then the scar on his cheek. Each touch lingers, and he wonders if she can sense the way his pulse quickens beneath her fingers.

He cannot help but press his face into her palm when she cups his cheek.

What little he can make out of her in the darkness seems beautiful to him. His eye lingers on the softness of her lips, and he wonders what it would be like to kiss her.

As if she read his mind, the mystery woman closes the distance, her gaze locking with his for a heartbeat longer, just enough to make his anticipation almost unbearable. She finally presses her lips to his in the lightest of kisses. He closes his eyes and delights in the suppleness of her lips as she glides across his regal features, barely grazing his warm skin.

His cheek still rests in her palm when she finds his scar in the dimly lit chamber, and he can’t hold back a sigh as her lips brush his old wound. The pain from the wound in his back absent with her touch.

When she rests her forehead against his, his trembling hand grasps her wrist, fearing she will pull away or, worse, leave him.

For a breathless moment, he allows himself to whisper, "Don’t go." The words surprise even him, but she only smiles, her eyes softening.

A low, soft laugh vibrates against his skin before she kisses his forehead like his mother would. Now cradling his face in both hands, she softly caresses his face with her thumbs.

“You’re safe here,” she tells him, her voice pleasing to his ear. “I will not leave you unless you tell me to go.”

A barely murmured “Stay” falls from his lips without thought, laden with a rawness he cannot hide.

Aemond feels her lips on his again, and what begins as gentle gradually deepens with growing hunger. He’s enthralled by her shift from motherly to a lover’s kiss. His cock twitches with a growing ache for this strange woman who annoyed him only moments before.

As their tongues dance and delve, her hand slides down to his bare chest and over the finely muscled planes of his torso.

His arm glides around her waist, determined to pull her closer, needing to hold her to him. He grabs hold of the rougher fabric of a lowborn woman’s nightdress, trying to reclaim some measure of dominance, but she is quicker. With effortless confidence, she twists free, reminding him who is truly in control tonight.

His mystery woman tugs her wrist from his grasp as her mouth glides down his neck, leaving a trail of wet kisses along the way. Her hair tickles his skin as her mouth finds his breast, her tongue swirling around his pebbled skin.

Aemond can’t suppress a sharp intake of breath as she palms his growing bulge beneath the blanket covering his lower body. He thinks he sees a smile spread across her face as she flings back the covers, then spits into the palm of her hand and takes his soft shaft in her gentle grip.

A low whimper escapes him as she begins to work her hand up and down the growing length of his cock.

She sits on her heels beside him on the bed with her nightdress bunched up near her waist.

“Give me your hand,” she tells him.

He complies, willing to do anything she tells him so long as she does not remove her hand from his hardening shaft.

She guides his calloused hand, worn from years of sword practice and gripping Vhagar’s reins, beneath her nightdress and between her spread thighs as she kneels beside him. Soon, his fingers find the warm, wet place between her legs. She grinds her hips on his hand, stimulating herself as she strokes his manhood.

“You have such a lovely cock, my prince,” she tells him as she leisurely rubs her thumb over the leaking tip of his fully hardened shaft.    

She gives a low, throaty laugh as Aemond begins to thrust his hips upward, desperate to chase the pleasure she so expertly doles out and denies. She pins him with a knowing, almost wicked smile, her eyes glinting with amusement.

“Tsk, tsk.” Her voice is velvet and steel, the soft admonishment sending a shiver through him. She slows her hand, letting his need crest and fall, reminding him that it is she who decides the rhythm, the reward.

“Not yet.”

Aemond’s groan is pure frustration, raw and needy. When she removes her hand from his cock, the loss is almost unbearable—a sharp ache of yearning that leaves him trembling.

She leans down, claiming his mouth in a kiss that is all hunger and domination, her lips devouring his, her tongue tangling with his own. He arches up, straining to reciprocate, but she keeps control easily, grinding her hips against his hand, letting him feel the heat of her arousal, without giving him what he wants.

She pulls back just enough to let their breaths mingle, her eyes locked on his. “Do you wish me to continue?” she teases, the question rhetorical. Her power over him is absolute, and they both know it.

“Please, yes,” he murmurs, his voice stripped of all princely command, reduced to pleading. “Do not stop.”

The witch rewards him with a slow, deliberate movement, lifting herself and swinging a leg over his pelvis. She settles her wet heat over his engorged shaft, but instead of granting him entry, she torments him with slow, slick strokes, sliding his cock through her folds, coating him, but never taking him in. Each pass is a promise and a denial, feeding the ache that grows inside him.

Aemond breathes in sharply, his body rigid with anticipation. The heat of her, the torturous slowness of her movements, drives him to the edge of madness. He clutches the sheet, every muscle taut, his need mounting with every teasing grind of her hips.

“I saw you in the flames,” she murmurs to him. “I saw you come to Harrenhal long before you flew here on your dragon.”

He barely hears her, so intent on chasing his release.

Her nightdress is bunched around her hips, spilling over the place where their bodies almost, but do not truly, join. She plants her hands on either side of his torso, pinning him beneath her, moving with infuriating patience, drawing out his need until it is almost agony.

He tries to slide his hand under her nightdress, wanting to seize her hips and force her to give him what he craves, wanting her to move faster. But she catches his wrists, her grip iron and inescapable, and pins them on either side of his head. Her face hovers over his, eyes bright and unreadable.

“Not yet,” she chides him, the way a mother would a child. She stills her hips, letting him feel her heat, her weight, her unwavering control. His pulse hammers in his throat; the loss of agency is dizzying and more arousing than he could have imagined.

He whimpers, the sound shameful and unguarded, pride dissolving beneath the relentless tide of want. The loss of control terrifies him, and yet, he cannot help but crave it, cannot help but crave her.

She leans down, her mouth finding his chest, kissing and licking the sweat-slick skin. Her teeth graze his pebbled flesh, making him gasp.

“Please,” he begs, his whiny voice desperate. “Please, let me touch you.”

She ignores his plea at first, continuing to mark his skin with her mouth, staking her claim. When she finally sits up, her weight settling atop his cock, he groans, every nerve in his body straining for more.

With deliberate slowness, she gathers her nightdress in her hands, lifting it over her head and baring herself to him. The garment falls away, and for a moment, she sits astride him, regal and commanding in the candlelight.

“Since you’re being so good for me,” she says, the threat of denial still in her tone, “you can touch me.”

His hands, released from her grip, find their way to her thighs, trembling with anticipation. He moves them reverently to her waist, then up her torso to her breasts, cupping and caressing, desperate to please her, desperate for more.

She resumes her slow, sensual movements, guiding his hands where she wants them, keeping the pace excruciatingly slow, making him yield to her every whim. He rolls her pebbled peaks between his fingers, drawing a shiver and a satisfied moan from her.

"Umm, I like that," she whispers, rewarding his obedience with a brief quickening of her hips, but just as swiftly returning to her torturous rhythm—reminding him, again, who truly commands this night.      

Ameond feels his release building, and he tries to grasp her hips to increase her pace.  But his attempts are only rewarded with the stilling of her hips and a wicked laugh.

“No, I'm not ready yet,” she tells him. “You have to wait for me.”

He whimpers again, biting his lip to keep from begging her.

She leans down over him, her tits dangling over his mouth. He greedily captures a firm peak with his lips and begins to suckle like a child, lost in the need to please her.

Pride surges through him as she moans with pleasure.

He lavishes his attention on one breast, then the other, lips and tongue working to please her. His need to please her nearly rivals the ache building inside him.

“Do you want me to fuck you?”

“Yes, do it,” he begs. “Please…”

The witch lifts herself up enough to guide the tip of his engorged shaft to her entrance.

Aemond shamelessly whimpers as her wet heat envelops his cock.

She sinks down on his length with agonizing slowness until their bodies are truly joined.

She grabs hold of Aemond’s wrist and guides it back between her legs until his fingers are on her stimulated pearl.

“Rub here while I ride your cock,” she instructs him.

She rides him with wild abandon at last, granting him the pace he’s craved.

One hand grips her hip, his fingers digging into her flesh while he continues to work between her legs.

The sounds of their fucking fill the room's dark void, drowning out the drips of water from the leaking ceiling.

Now she welcomes each thrust of his hips as she rides her dragon prince.

“Wait for me,” she tells him, breathily, panting from her exertion.

Aemond tries desperately to hold back his peak, not wanting to disappoint her.

“Give me your seed, dragon prince,” she says between pants for breath. She reaches behind her and finds Aemond’s heavy stones. She cups them in her hand, gently fondling them as the heat building deep in her belly snaps, sending bolts of pleasure through her body and making her cry out in the darkness.

The combination of her hot cunt squeezing his cock and her hand teasing his stones is too much for him, finally triggering the explosion of euphoria that he’s been chasing.

His shaft begins to twitch inside her, and he cannot hold back the loud moan in his throat, and his cock shoots his seed towards her womb.

“Yes, yes, my prince,” she cries out. “Fill me with your seed.”

When both are spent, she collapses atop his chest, their bodies slick with sweat and need, both panting heavily, his length still nestled within her. For a long moment, neither speaks. Their heartbeats thunder in sync, filling the silence with something raw and secret. In the darkness, he dares to believe she might be the only soul to truly see him, to hold him as he is, not as a prince, but as a man laid bare.

They lie like this, with one long arm around her, holding her to him until he softens and slips out of her.

“You did so well, my dragon prince,” she praises him. “I knew you would.”

After a few moments, she pushes herself up and rolls off of him to lie at his side. She gently cradles his head to her breast and murmurs, “Your dragon seed will take in my womb.

“I will carry your child,” she tells him.

As some semblance of reason begins to return, he briefly questions how she could know this. But the solace and comfort he feels in her arms push any rational thoughts away.

Eventually, she reaches around him for her nightdress and holds it in her grasp.

Aemond tries to hold onto her, not wanting her to dress and leave him.

“Stay,” he whines, desperate for her to lie with him longer.

The witch cups his chin in her hand, her face mere inches from his, and says, “You should leave this place and never return.”

Confused, his eye searches her face. “Why?”

“Because if you don’t, you’ll die here.”

Giving him a tender kiss on his forehead, she says, “You should rest now.”

Prince Regent Aemond Targaryen bolts upright in bed, a sharp, stabbing pain lancing through his lower back makes him hiss.

Panting hard and utterly spent, Aemond finds himself covered in a sheen of sweat and naked in a bed that is not his own, in a room far from the Red Keep's confines.

His hand trembles as it finds rough cloth wrapped tightly around his trim waist.

Just then, the heavy door to the damp chamber begins to open, and a woman in a purple gown enters, balancing a tray in her hand.

“You’re awake,” she says in a familiar voice with a pleasing lilt.

His eye widens in disbelief at how she could be in the doorway, fully dressed, when she had been lying beside him only moments ago.

He winces when he tries to move.

“Now don’t fuss, my prince,” she chides him gently. “You’ll reopen your wound.”