I am not a fangirl !! I am a fan queen

“shh… not yet,” he whispers, kissing the tender skin just above your clit. “you’re so beautiful when you’re aching for it. let me savor you a while longer.”

you sob softly, thighs trembling around his shoulders. “please, daeron… i can’t… i’m right there…”

he leans in again, tongue moving in slow, loving circles around your clit before he sucks gently, fingers curling deeper with patient affection. pleasure surges once more, pulling you right back to the brink in moments.

your voice breaks. “daeron… i’ll be good… just let me cum…”

he draws away at the last second, delivering another soft, wet slap to your throbbing pussy. you cry out, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes as your body shakes with unfulfilled need.

“i know, love,” he says gently, licking a slow stripe through your folds to taste your desperation. “but i want to keep you right here… so wet and needy for me. you are so perfect like this.”

he presses two fingers back inside you, stroking with tender care, and seals his lips around your clit once more—sucking softly, tongue flicking with delicate precision. each time you near the edge, he eases back with a gentle slap or a soothing kiss, murmuring soft words of affection as he holds you there in sweet, aching denial.

“you’re doing so well for me, sister,” he breathes between slow licks, his voice warm and full of quiet affection. “just a little longer… i love how you tremble for me.”

“In those circumstances, we have to assume your betrothal to her daughter is broken,” Otto continued, and while he knew the man to be right, he loathed to face this truth. “And as such, you are now free to make another alliance.”

Aemond’s chest tightened at the prospect—he had been betrothed to you in childhood, no long after the birth of little Joffrey, as a gesture of goodwill and reconciliation, and despite what had occurred later on, he had always been satisfied with such a match. 

The two of you shared interests and had an understanding of duty and your place in the world. Over the years, temperaments settling and characters growing, he had found a kindred spirit in you and had come to privately cherish you, as any man should his betrothed. 

In many ways, you completed him, and by your side, he felt a sense of freedom and belonging he had never experienced anywhere, and in anyone's presence. 

Ignoring his grandson’s inner torment, Otto stood and paced the room as he talked. “House Baratheon does not want for girls to marry, and still has not declared,” he said, and Aemond understood now he had not been summoned for a discussion, but to be given his marching orders like a soldier. “You are to fly out to Storm’s End and choose a bride.”

“I do not wish for a Baratheon bride,” he protested. He loathed how quickly you were set aside, and how he was expected to turn his back on you without a second thought.

The Hand sighed, looking at him sternly. “I understand, but in matters of war, our wishes must take second place now to what is necessary to preserve your brother’s reign.”

Aemond stood in turn, knowing that all protest was futile. His fate had been sealed before he had even stepped into the room. “I understand,” he said as though the words burned the roof of his mouth.

“Lord Borros has four girls, you may have your pick of them,” Otto said as though it was a favor he was bestowing, handing Aemond a roll of parchment no doubt containing the terms of the alliance. “Wed the prettiest, or the most cunning, it matters not. What matters is an alliance sealed in flesh.”

The image disgusted him, but he nodded—in his hand, the parchment weighed more than paper.

Never had you thought that you would live to see a war, and now that it was your reality, you were finding out that it was quite unlike what you had learned in books. It was slow and agonizing, days spent bent over maps and drafting letters, waiting for banners to declare themselves and men to march into place.

This slowness did little to ease your anguish, and even after months, the devastation of Luke’s death still weighed heavily on your mind, grief as fresh and sharp as the first day. It seemed the cruelest fate that he had met his death at the jaws of Vhagar, under the command of the man you had once been promised to, and you could not reconcile it. Even though you knew of the hatred Aemond harbored for your younger brother, you could not bring yourself to believe it had been done out of cruelty. 

In the first days following the death of the king, you had flown to the Eyrie on your mother’s orders, to negotiate with her cousin, only to return to tragedies—the death of a brother, by the dragon of a man who you loved, who had in turn wed another.

Secretly, almost ashamed, you mourned Aemond as well as Lucerys—despite the hatred that now lived in your heart, the love you once felt for him was festering, like neglected flowers rotting in a vase that you could not bring yourself to throw away. Even though you had never spoken those words to him, and he had never spoken of love either, you had found respite and ease in your courtship, admiring his mind and his calm demeanor, and you knew you would have been proud to call him your husband.

It seemed to you as though your future had now been stolen from you, your whole life in ruins around you, and you standing among the rubble. In the deepest corner of your heart, you loathed how quickly he had wed another, and the permanence of it was near unbearable—a simple betrothal would have been easy to break, to buy off in gold, but a marriage was permanent.

Such thoughts plagued your evenings until sleep claimed you, exhausting forcing you into rest, which you spent in the library, searching for escape in books. One such evening as you were pouring over a tome on the Reach, footsteps interrupted you.

It was Jacaerys, dressed in his riding clothes, hooded cloak draped over his arm. “Why aren’t you abed?” you inquired.

“I can sit still no longer. I must act,” he replied, to which you discarded your book to the side and rose, suddenly worried as he was prone to rash actions. “The Freys control the crossing at the Twins, and Cregan Stark’s men are marching south.”

“Are you flying out?” you asked, coming to face him. He took your elbows into his palms, your hands curling at his forearms, and nodded decidedly.

“If his men had a direct route into the Riverlands, we would not have to wait for Daemon to act,” he explained with conviction. “I will treat with The Freys to secure it.”

“And leave me here, being forced to play the coddled princess,” you retorted.

“You may find an expedition of your own,” he encouraged. “Hide my absence from mother, and I shall hide yours when I return.”

With a sigh, you brought up what had been your preoccupation these days. “The Tyrells still haven’t declared for either side. I may fly there, persuade them,” you mused, and Jacaerys nodded along. “Perhaps a dragon in their courtyard will convince them to call their banners in mother’s name, and they might unite the Reach.” 

With that, your decision was made.

Highgarden sat alone upon a hill, nestled in a small patch of woods, and Aemond thought it was truly unremarkable from the skies, but then he had hardly expected otherwise from a house who had refused to pledge itself to either side of this war. Lord Lyonel was still a child, but his mother, a severe woman with a practical approach, had refused to call her banners and risk lives for a conflict she believed the House of the Dragon should resolve on their own—at least, that had been her words.

Aemond thought that with a dragon at the bottom of her hill, she could be persuaded. He circled the castle slowly, evening falling over its eastern side, and it was only when Vhagar had landed on the slope that a chirping sound came, a call he knew only too well—that of another dragon.

There were only so many riders it could have been. Aemond’s heart lurched in his chest and he found himself praying as he made his way past the first gate, the guards letting him in without issues after a glance at Vhagar. Overhead, gray clouds were gathering and a thin, cold rain was pattering on the ramparts.

Crossing into the first courtyard, he released the breath he had been holding when he saw that it was indeed your dragon waiting near a fountain, the beast making another one of its chirping sounds as Aemond walked past. 

Entering the hall, his heart was thundering under his breastbone and his stomach coiling in on itself, and he could not prepare himself for the sight of you—there you were, the object of his regrets, of his laments, standing in front of the lady of Highgarden, wearing riding clothes and a cloak bearing your mother’s colors. 

However, he quickly had to set his torment aside, as Lady Margot, unimpressed by his arrival, had risen from her seat. “If you have come to wage war, you will not be well-received,” she called, and the rows of guards on either side of her hall suddenly stood straighter, their hands twitching towards their belts.

Breath catching in his throat as he came to stand in front of her—and thus, closer to you than he had been in months—it took him a second longer to find his voice. “I have not come with threat of violence, my lady, but to negotiate,” Aemond replied, clipped, and handed her a roll of parchment.

To his utter disappointment, your eyes remained firmly ahead of you, refusing to even glance at him. In that moment, he bitterly regretted his loss of control, faced with the living, breathing evidence of what Vhagar’s attack had truly cost him. 

Lady Margot glanced down at the seal, but did not open it. “An offer has already been made to me, and I reserve my judgment for later,” she declared, but his eye was still on you, fearing that the moment he would look aside, he would miss a glance, a sigh, any sign that your cold indifference was only a mask. 

Ears ringing with your silence, he thought that he would rather face your fury and your grief. 

It was then that you spoke, and hearing your voice was almost enough to quench his thirst. “I shall leave you with my mother’s proposal, to discuss it with your council,” you offered in a perfectly controlled tone before turning on your heels and making your way towards the door.

In a split-second, Aemond’s heart made the decision to follow, as though pulled by an invisible thread weaved around his breastbone.

“Leave her be. Do not bring bloodshed to my hall,” Lady Margot shouted, a sense of alarm in her voice. “Prince or not, I will not tolerate it.”

Ignoring her call, he rushed after you. “Do not let him leave the courtyard!” she ordered her guards, but his longing was so, it would take dozens of them to keep him from you.

Uncaring that his negotiation would likely fall through, he knew that if he let you go now, you would be lost to him forever, and it mattered to him more than any army. 

Rushing outside under the arches, Aemond called your name, but you barely heard him over the thundering of your heart—it had nearly frozen in your chest when you had heard a guard announce him, breaking anew at the sight of him crossing the doors. It had taken all your strength not to shatter here and then, and now you needed to escape his presence, else you feared what would occur.

“Would you at least look at me?” he shouted, urgency bleeding through his tone. 

Rain had started to fall, chilling you to the bone and running down your temples as you checked the buckle of your dragon’s saddle. “Look at me!” he repeated, catching up to you and looming over your shoulder.

He almost regretted his request when finally you turned, showing not only fright but contempt. “Or what, will you fly after me as you did my brother, subject me to Vhagar’s jaws?” you accused, your voice strangled. 

“Never. I would never cause you any harm,” he replied, nearly shaking with the prospect. The cold rain and the curve of Vhagar’s spine over the rampart brought back that fateful night, and he cursed his grandsire then, who had ordered him to wed another, as well as he cursed himself for not having refused. 

“And yet you have,” you cried, four devastating words that undid him as your unshed tears did.

“I did not mean for it to happen! I did not intend to kill him. Vhagar flew out of my control,” he confessed, and for a moment you stared, searching his eye. There was a frightening glint in his eye, one you had never seen before, but you knew enough of him to know he was telling the truth. 

“Even if I were to believe you, we have nothing else to say to one another,” you replied, taking a step back towards your dragon, reaching back to grab its rein, but Aemond stopped you, curling a hand around your arm firmly—it was the tightest he had ever held you. “Unhand me! Do not make this torment even more so—”

“So you admit it is torment, as it has been for me,” he said then, his face contorted in anguish, and never before had you seen him so undone, untethered. “You have plagued my every waking hour.”

The words escaped your mouth before you could reign them in. “And yet you wed another.”

It seemed to shatter him, a flinch crossing his graceful face, and to see a man usually so composed tearing at the seams from your words soothed your anguish and filled you with arrogant pride. “I loved you,” you said, as much an accusation than a confession. “My heart was yours until you—” 

“Tell me it still is!” he cut you off, crowding you against your dragon’s flank, his breath hot on your face.

“It isn’t,” you lied, and you could swear a sob tore out from his throat before he pressed his mouth to yours, his lips carrying words he could not say. 

Never before had he kissed you so fiercely, so desperately, and you closed your eyes as more tears flooded your cheeks. You sobbed as you mourned what could have been, loathing him as much as you longed for him, and you hated yourself for the way you responded to him. 

Aemond felt the moment you surrendered, and while he had thought it would soothe the ache inside of him, instead it tore a new wound across his chest. He pulled away slightly, enough to force you to look at him, and you held his gaze through your tears. 

There was no disgust on your face, no horror, only the worst heartbreak he could have ever imagined. “Let me go,” you whispered, and as though your words carried a spell, he complied, stepping away, his chest suddenly hollow.

A/N: Dividers by @/saradika. Based on an anonymous request.

Comments are always deeply appreciated ♡

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