The Wanderer

It wasn't until there were whispers of you being married off to some other lord; he then knew he could no longer remain taciturn, inactive. He was no longer the scarred, diffident boy, shadowed by bastards with dragons and a recalcitrant, brutish brother, Aegon's only pedestal an earlier name day.

He now rode Vhagar and had grown in more ways than one. Cunning and observant, he watched the way you looked at him through dinners, from across the corridors, beneath hooded eyes, and low lashes. That coy, indiscreet smile was for him and him alone. A childhood infatuation had evolved into something more primal, and he saw it in how your lips moved, how your bearing shifted towards him when he was near. 

But now, for the first time, that fire in your blood burned down to embers with word of a betrothal looming. Aemond feared some boorish, lumbering oaf of a lord would claim you for the sake of alliances; the Targaryen reign had no need to sully their bloodline with the seed of lesser houses.

You should be his, by right and by want.

Aemond has never been wont to vulgar displays of rashness; he would strike when he saw fit.

Finally, he found you alone, walking back from dinner. Aemond had the power to dismiss your guards; no chaperone would be necessary between the two of you, in the open. But at present, the corridor was blessedly emptied, save for the two of you; your chest heaving with nervous breaths. He watched as your hands splayed over your abdomen, as if holding yourself together. Candles nestled in their golden sconces illuminated the stone passageway, bathing you in a pale, orange light.

“It appears that felicitations will be in order soon,” Aemond said, barely capable of containing the fury in his tone as he stalked closer to you. “Otto Hightower had some rather interesting suggestions this evening.” Dinner had been impossible to stomach, what with the king’s Hand drolling on about the sons of the Frey’s, of the Tully’s, even Baratheon’s. The mere thought of you lying with them made his hand fly to the hilt of his dagger. He crowded you into an alcove, but you did not cower from him. He wanted hungrily as your mouth parted as he leaned closer, pressing his body to yours. Aemond’s heart began pounding in his chest when you gripped the leathers of his tunic, dragging him into you. “Is that what you wish for, my lady?” In a single, swift movement, both of your hands moved in a flurry, you gathering your skirts towards your hips, Aemond propping one of his knees between your thighs. One deft hand gripping your waist, the other closed firmly around your throat.

His thumb positioned beneath your jaw, tracing it gently, his hold possessive. “Would you like to know where I’d cut them, if they so much as looked at you?” he murmured. “Or would you like to know just how I’d take you if you were betrothed to me, as you should be.”

You hummed with pleasure, rocking over his thigh, his lips like gossamer over yours. “I’d rather you show me,” you breathed, lips trembling against his.

His mouth pressed against yours – full and bruising – and he drank from you, greedy, as if he wasn’t a prince, not wanting for anything but you. You brazenly parted his lips with your tongue, and he replied with fervor; his hands abandoned your throat to cradle your face in his hands. You anchored onto his shoulder, shamelessly riding the length of his thigh pressed into you, chasing a sensation you’d only known alone in your rooms. You felt him hard beneath his trousers.

“I thought you’d forgotten me,” you whispered between kisses, his hands returning to your waist to drag you over him. “I was afraid you’d let me be sent away.”

Aemond’s laugh was low in his throat, and the feeling of his chest reverberating beneath your palms made your belly pool with heat. “I suppose I’ll have to find a way to dispel any doubts, then.”

Aemond isn’t as brash as some that share his blood. Even after your betrothal, the two of you an unstoppable, thriving force, many lords and even lady’s have a difficult time keeping their eyes from you. Aemond can silence their thoughts, slash their roving eyes in an instant with a single, crooked grin. While supping during princess Helaena’s name day celebration, a drunken lord from gods know where had the audacity to demand a dance.

“I couldn’t dance another moment,” you’d told him politely – much kinder than the lord deserved, but Aemond always admired you for your poise and dignity, waving him off and reaching for a glass of wine.

The lord forgot himself – Aemond watched with boiling blood as the lord snatched your wrist, pulling you back towards the coalescing crowd, swaying to the chamber music. Your wine sloshed, the cup cascading to the floor. Aemond stood so quickly, the chair knocked from behind him, silencing the entire room.

The lord froze, loosening his grip on your wrist. He laughed uncomfortably. “Forgive me, my prince. But the lady promised me a dance.”

Aemond slowly strode around the table, not caring that the entire room watched on bated breath. He pried your arm free, kissing the skin over your veins lovingly. “Are you hurt, darling?” he whispered.

“No,” you assured him, meeting his eye gratefully. “I’m unharmed.”

“Good.”

Aemond drew his dagger with such speed, only a sliver of steel flashed past your vision before the point of it pressed into the flesh of the lord’s jugular.

“Shall I slash your throat and hang you, like a cow? Or gut you where you stand like the vermin you are, hardly good enough for crows to peck at?”

The lord sneered back, perspiration beading on his brow but too proud to show fear. Holding his hands in unwilling surrender, he stepped backwards in vain; Aemond only stepped closer, his dagger pushing harder.

“Apologies, my prince,” he drawled.

He shoved the lord away, tucking his dagger firmly in place back in its sheath.

The lord rubbed at his throat, narrowing his eyes at Aemond. “We all know you are not the one to do the cutting.”

Aemond’s smile was chilling. “Not in the company of women and children, no. But you dared laid your hands upon my bride, in front of the realm to see. Take him to the dungeons,” he commanded, and several white cloaks spun into action, seizing the stammering lord. “And once I’ve finished dining to my heart’s content, I’ll take both of your hands myself, for good measure, lest you think to use it to touch her again.”

“Please!” he begged, his voice slowly ebbing away as the knights wrestled him away. “I only meant to dance, my prince; she owed it to me!”