Lacey Bunny

Time proved kinder to flesh than it did to memory. The angry purple beneath his skin softened to yellow before disappearing altogether, until there was no injury left for you to tend.

You tucked the last strip of clean linen onto yourself instead of reaching for his wrist. And the small gesture felt strangely final.

The wound had been their permission—his excuse to come, your reason to touch. Now that it was gone, neither of them knew what was meant to fill the empty space it left behind.

Aemond, on the other hand, stayed put.

Some mornings it was a book he insisted had been mistranslated. Other days it was a map spread across the table because he claimed the Riverlands' borders were drawn incorrectly. Once, he spent nearly half an hour criticizing the embroidery on a cushion before admitting, that it was not the stitching at all that had kept him there.

The maps became the most frequent excuse.

At first, you thought nothing of it. The prince had always been a creature of knowledge—of histories, battles, and the careful study of men who had lived and died before him. If he wished to complain about the mistakes of some long-dead cartographer, you had little reason to stop him.

On one evening, when he pushed the parchment toward you and said, "This road cannot be correct."

You glanced down at the ink markings. The route was familiar. "It is correct," you answered.

Aemond raised his head. Not offended but curious. "You disagree?"

"I do."

Few people disagreed with Prince Aemond. Fewer still did so while looking him straight in the eye.

"The crossing here," you continued, pointing to the marked river passage, "will not serve as a reliable route for your men."

His brow furrowed by a bit. "Why?"

"Because it floods after heavy rain. The villages surrounding it have old alliances with one another. A force traveling through this road would be seen long before they reached the first village." A second later, you realized he was no longer looking at the map but at you.

"How do you know this?"

"Because it used to be my home."

The answer should have been obvious. Yet somehow, he had spent weeks looking at the Riverlands without once seeing the people who lived upon it.

To him, it was territory. To you, it was memory.

After that evening, the maps returned often. Though, they were no longer brought only for correction.

Soon, the turning point did not come from Aemond, but from the Hand of the King. Whispers bled through the servants that Lord Otto had begun questioning the usefulness of keeping a nameless hostage whose house no longer possessed lands worth bargaining for. To Otto, you were a problem to be exported, married off to a landless knight in the Reach and there to be forgotten.

But Queen Alicent understood the optics of mercy—and the danger of her son's withdrawn, deepening obsession.

You were summoned to the Queen Dowager's solar on a Tuesday.

Alicent did not look at you with warmth, but with the calculated care of a woman moving a vulnerable piece out of harm's way. A ward of the crown had an expiration date; a servant of the Queen did not.

She had seen the way Aemond silenced her father at the council table—a single "She remains" that left no room for debate. Left unchecked, Aemond's refusal to surrender you would harbor a scandal that tore the court apart.

"You cannot remain a prisoner in the shadows," Alicent had said, her rings clicking together as she laced her fingers. "It serves neither the Crown's dignity nor our grace. From today, you shall reside in the Maidenvault and serve Queen Helaena. You are her Lady-in-Waiting now."

Just like that, the iron locks of your captivity were removed.

Lush satin and muted silk replaced the spun wool of confinement. Freedom, it seemed, could be tailored as carefully as imprisonment. You were given a stipend, a schedule, and the privilege to walk the manicured gardens and lit halls of the royal wing. To the court, you were a shining testament to the Queen's devotion.

Unintentionally, Alicent had placed you within his reach. And perhaps that was the cruelest part. You were no longer his prisoner. So now, before the eyes of the court, you were simply what they believed you to be.

A prince and his lady-in-waiting.

Queen Helaena had not yet learned what to make of you. She did not know what to do with a new lady-in-waiting, especially one who bore the weight of the Riverlands in her eyes. When the Queen Dowager's older ladies invited Helaena to walk the lower gardens, she had accepted with a distant nod, leaving you behind in the sunlight of her solar.

Left alone, you did the only thing you knew how to do: you made yourself useful.

Princess Jaehaera had spent the morning on the matted floor, leaving a scattered trail of carved wooden dragons, brass rattles, and tangled spools of embroidery silk in her wake. You dropped to your knees, gathering the painted toys into a wicker basket, your skirt pooling around you on the floor.

With a creak, the door opened.

You assumed it was a returning maid or a servant and didn't glance up right away. Then, though, you heard the sound of steady boots hitting the ground—a measured stride that always told you the presence of a certain someone.

The boots stopped precisely a step away from your knee.

Your attention followed the line of black leather up to a riding coat, past the silver glint of his sword...until your eyes met a burning violet eye looking down at you.

Prince Aemond.

Not a single sound had crossed the distance between you in a week.

An entire seven days of learning the strange halls of the Maidenvault, of memorizing the faces of servants who knew your name but not your story, and wondering whether the fragile understanding between you had existed anywhere beyond your own imagination.

He smelled of cold rain, oiled leather, and the unmistakable bite of dragon-smoke.

"The Queen is in the gardens," you said, your voice breaking the tension. You remained on your knees, holding a tiny wooden dragon in your palm. "She took the Princess with her."

"I know," Aemond murmured. His tone was gravelly from a week spent riding hard or shouting orders over the roar of Vhagar's wings.

"Then you came to see her rooms?"

"My sister," he corrected too quickly. But he didn't move toward the door. He stood in the same place with his shadow blocking out the warm afternoon sun streaming through the arched window.

Your eyes moved back down to the basket, reaching for a tangled mess of Helaena's green silk thread. "She will return before the afternoon light fails."

You started trying to pull the silk apart, but your fingers—suddenly warm and clumsy under his unblinking stare—only pulled the knot tighter.

Before you could react, Aemond knelt down.

The sheer size of him flooded your space, his knee hitting the matted floor beside yours. He reached out, his long fingers closing over yours to stop your useless picking at the thread.

"You're making it worse," he muttered.

"I was trying to fix it."

He didn't take his hand away, but his eye stayed fixed on the tangled silk between your hands.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

"You were gone a long while," you said. Not accusatory. Just...the truth.

He didn't even look up. "I was occupied."

"Clearly."

One word. That was all. But it carried just enough sting to cut through the air. Aemond felt the implication as he finished loosening one knot, "did you require something?"

You hesitated, attempting to pull back slightly against his grip. "...No."

"You managed well without me."

He was trying to convince himself, to establish the cold logic he lived by. But you couldn't help yourself. Almost under your breath—an involuntary mumble only meant for the floor—you breathed: "It changed more than you suppose."

"Repeat yourself."

"Nothing."

"No, you meant something," His hand stopped moving.

You turned away from his sight, flustered because you hadn't meant to invite an interrogation. "It does not matter."

"It mattered enough to say."

"I merely thought..." you uttered, brushing your thumb over the tangled thread around your finger.

"What did you think?"

"That...perhaps you might have sent word."

It was such a quiet, reasonable expectation. And that was why it landed like a strike to his chest. The truth was plain and exposing: he hadn't thought to send word.

"I am not required to send ravens to my sister's ladies regarding my whereabouts," he responded, his voice dropping to a regal bite. "You forget yourself."

You lowered your head, but you didn't bow down. "No. It is you who has forgotten."

Aemond blinked, clearly taken aback. No one in the Red Keep spoke to him that way.

"You granted me these rooms," you continued, the words breaking into fractured pieces. "These gowns. This title."

You nodded once, a bitter gesture. "You did."

Then came the blow: "And then you had vanished."

Suddenly, speech deserted him.

"I know no one here," your voice trembled—not from tears, but from the burden of your isolation. "I do not know the Queen. I scarcely know Princess Helaena. I have no home to return to."

You looked at him with an honesty that stripped away his title, his armor, and his dragon. "You brought me here."

Aemond forgot the thread as it hung loose between them. You became responsible for me.

You began to shift, preparing to stand up and leave the solar, to put distance between your foolish confession and the prince.

For once, pride yielded to instinct, and Aemond darted forward.

His calloused fingers caught the trailing edge of the green silk sash tied around your waist—the very fabric of the gown he had granted you. Then the softness slipped slowly through his fingers as you stopped, he didn't pull. He barely held it at all.

And only then did he understand.

"I did not know..." he admitted. I didn't know you waited. I didn't know I mattered.

But before he could say any further, the lingering sound of Helaena's voice echoed down the outer gallery, accompanied by the gentle patter of Jaehaera's tiny steps.

"Look at the beetles, sweetling...it has gold on its back..."

Aemond's fingers reluctantly let go of your sash. He stood up in one fluid motion, his coat sweeping around his boots just as the solar door swung open. "Sister...I was ensuring the guards were posted outside your doors."

Those pale eyes of Helaena switched between her brother's hand, to the loosened silk, then back to his face. She offered a dreamy smile. "The guards are very loud today, Aemond. They sound like storm clouds."

The prince returned his sister a fleeting nod, and stepped out of the room without another word. He did not look back until the door had closed between them.

"Have you taken a vow of silence?"

The question came from behind you, level and unmistakable. Your fingers did not falter as you continued separating the dried purple stems into neat bundles upon the worktable. "No, my prince."

"Then why have I heard barely a word from your these last three days?"

You picked for another stem, keeping your gaze fixed on the rough timber beneath your hands. "I am occupied."

Silence followed—the heavy kind that bear the load of an unsheathed blade.

"I lost an eye," he said at last. "Not my sight."

You closed your eyes briefly. Of course he had noticed.

Three days earlier—you had replayed the agonizing exchange on the solar floor so many times that the words had ceased to sound like your own.

You brought me here.

You became responsible for me.

How painfully naïve those words seemed now. You had spoken as though there were some unwritten agreement between you—some stupid promise that existed only because you had been desperate enough to wish it into being. He had looked down at you as if you were speaking a language he had yet to learn, his pride raising before anything softer could reach the surface.

And then, before you could speak any further—"the guards are very loud today, Aemond."

He had stood, wiped his face clean of every human emotion, and left without looking back. Not once had he sought you out afterward. Not once had he sent for you, or looked for you in the Maidenvault, or offered even the smallest sign that he had heard the horror in your confession.

The realization brewed slowly over those three long days, like dusts settling upon the forgotten furniture in an empty keep.

So, when he crossed the courtyards, you walked another way. When his stride sounded outside Helaena's solar, you found a reason to slip into the nursery. When duty forced you into the same space, you bowed deep, answered only what court rules demanded, and gave him nothing more.

Least of all the intimacy your eyes can give.

And for now: "You are avoiding me."

"I serve the Queen."

"You avoid me while serving the Queen."

Despite the hollow ache in your chest, you allowed yourself the smallest breath of amusement. "I did not know Your Grace had begun keeping count."

His expression shifted—barely—the muscle flexing taut against his pale skin. Before his arrogance could catch it and pull it back, the words rushed from his mouth. "I have."

At last, he let out an angry exhale—the sound he always made when he felt cornered by his own actions. "Cease your sulking. I have been judged unfairly," he growled.

A brittle laugh escaped you before you could stop it. "Have you?"

The pale scar pulled him tight against his cheek. "You misunderstand me."

Right when you gathered your lavender to step away. In one effortless step, Aemond covered the last distance. He didn't give you room to retreat. Instead of seizing you, instead of trapping you with his body, his hands slammed down onto the timber worktable on either side of your waist.

The wood sunk under his weight. He didn't touch an inch of your skin, but he caged you completely, his shoulders blocking out the light from flowing through.

He leaned down, his face inches from yours. "You think you are abandoned," he rasped, looking genuinely rattled. "You think you are at the mercy of this keep."

His arms braced like iron pillars as he fought the overwhelming impulse to reach out and flush you against him. "Listen to me. You entered this castle beneath my name. No one in this keep decides your fate while I breathe."

He tilted his head down slightly, his breath brushing across your lips, smelling faintly of winter mint. He was so close you could feel the erratic thud of his chest, yet he kept his hands to the wood, choosing not to touch you.

"I do not write letters," he said, pausing as if the words were being dragged out of him against his will. "I do not...speak prettily."

He looked almost annoyed with himself—annoyed by the absurd weight of what he was about to say.

"But you will be cared for. No harm will come to you," he whispered, the sentence unpolished and jagged. "Not while I live."

It wasn't flirtation. It was a vow carved in dragon-fire and blood—an oath sworn before a court of empty air and dried lavender.

The promise altered very little at first.

Aemond did not become gentler. He did not suddenly discover easy conversation, nor did he begin lingering at your door with flowers or apologies. He stayed the same impossible prince who spoke in commands more often than questions, moving through the Red Keep like a storm waiting to break.

And still, everything had changed.

The shift was subtle, felt only in the space where his protection fell over you. Lords who had once looked through you in the galleries bowed their heads as you passed. Servants moved with brisk efficiency whenever you requested anything.

In the days that followed, his promise revealed itself in an unexpected way.

A messenger arrived at the Queen's solar just after noon. You expected a summons from Helaena or a request from the seamstresses, but the guard bore the seal of the Prince Regent.

"The Lord Regent requires your presence," the guard announced, "in the council chamber."

A strange tremor ran down your spine. The Small Council Chamber was the heart of the Green war effort—a room off limits to everyone except grand maesters, kingsguard, and powerful lords.

When the doors were pushed open for you, the atmosphere inside was thick with mounting tension.

Around the long table sat the ruling core of the Realm. King Aegon II sat at the head, slouched lazily in his padded chair with a goblet resting on his chest, looking bored and flushed with drink. Ser Otto Hightower sat to his right, his lean face carved from stone, tapping a quill on the map of the Riverlands. The Dowager Queen Alicent sat beside him, her rosary beads weaving through her fingers.

And at the far end stood Aemond.

He was leaning over the table, shoulders squared, both hands planted flat over the wood as he stared down at the Hand of the King.

"...a fool's errant," Aegon was whining as you stepped across the threshold, his voice slurred and grating. "Why send men into the Marches when we can just burn Harrenhal and be done with it?"

"Because Harrenhal is not an empty castle, Your Grace," Otto replied, sounding impatient. "It commands the supply lines from the Blackwater. If we march blindly without securing the river crossings—"

"We lose the grain," Aemond interrupted.

Every eye at the table snapped to you when the doors clicked shut behind you.

Aegon squinted, leaning forward in his chair with an ugly grin spreading across his face. "What is this? Aemond, did you order a cupbearer?"

Ser Otto didn't laugh. He only lifted his head, his eyes settling on you, then moving back to Aemond. "Prince Aemond."

Just that.

Aemond didn't look up from where his eye was at. "The Hand believes Lord Vance will pull his archers back toward the whispering wood. I disagree."

Alicent did not object. She stilled her rosary, her brown eyes switching between her son's rigid shoulders to your pale face, observing. Trying to understand.

Aemond finally raise his head, fixing his gaze to you with authority. "The question was directed to her," he said.

Aegon's grin faded just as Otto's quill stopped above the parchment.

He didn't explain why you were there. He offered no defense, no title, no justification to his King or the Hand. He simply established the law of the room: she is allowed to speak because I say so.

You stepped forward, stopping a pace away from his left shoulder. The burden of the room pressed down on you like steel. Your throat closed up. The knowledge was there—you were aware of every hidden track, every flooded crossing, and every vantage point along the Red Fork because you had grown up riding those hills—but under the dismissive stare of Ser Otto, you hesitated.

Aemond never turned to you and kept himself fixed on the map resting on the timber table.

Slowly, his hand fell behind his back. He didn't need to look. He would not give them the satisfaction of seeing that he needed to reassure you. But his palm remained there, waiting.

It was the closest thing to comfort Aemond Targaryen knew how to offer.

And without drawing a single eye at the table, you slipped your fingers into his open palm quietly. You kept your fingers resting in his secret hold behind his back. A silent agreement passed between you.

Speak. You will not be silenced.

"The Hand is mistaken, Your Grace," your voice ringing out surprisingly clear across the chamber. "Lord Vance will not retreat into the wood," you added, keeping your gaze on the map.

"The autumn rains flood the lower pass by the third turn of the moon. If he moves his archers there, they will be trapped against the mud. He will hold the high ridge near the old watchtower. It is the only ground that remains dry enough for horses."

Aemond resumed to study the map as you spoke, nodding once—not as if he were being convincing, but as if you were confirming what he already knew to be true.

Ser Otto looked down at the parchment, dipping his quill, tracing the narrow line of the high ridge near the watchtower. The Hand of the King didn't argue nor mock you.

But the unsettling realization dawned in the old man's eyes.

Aemond slowly released your hand behind his back. He didn't gloat. He didn't boast. He didn't say a single word of triumph to his brother.

The Prince Regent simply picked up a bronze marker, placed it firmly on the ridge, and moved on to the next order of business, leaving the silence to speak for itself.

The council chamber emptied bit by bit.

You were escorted back toward Helaena's apartments by a pair of Kingsguard, leaving Aemond behind with the maps still spread across the oak table.

Only the Dowager Queen stayed behind.

She stood near the tall window, her hands fidgeting through her green rosary beads as the last footsteps faded down the stone corridor. She waited until the doors closed shut before turning her attention onto her son.

"Aemond."

He knew that tone—calm and layered with the weight of the Crown.

Aemond didn't look up from the map. "If you wish to discuss the grain stores, Mother, Ser Otto has already taken the ledgers."

"You cannot continue this," she said softly.

His hand hovering above the timber as he went still. He looked at her then, his face completely unreadable. "Continue what?"

Alicent offered him the look of a mother who had already unraveled every thread of his mind. "Bringing her into council. Defending her standing before your brother. Giving her access to matters that concern the Crown."

"She knows the Riverlands," Aemond replied, "better than our scouts."

"You know I did not mean that."

The words hung between them, cold and unavoidable. Alicent moved closer, the rustle of her heavy silk filling the room.

"The court is already talking, Aemond. " Her tone dropping into a urgent, maternal whisper. "She is a captive from a defeated house. You are a prince of the realm, acting as Lord Regent. You have granted her an unprecedented amount of favor—and people are beginning to assume an understanding exists between you."

The pale scar pulled taut as his mouth set into a grim line, a fleeting flicker of tension crossing his features.

"You are not a free boy to marry according to affection," Alicent resumed. "Your marriage must serve the realm. Lord Borros has four daughters at Storm's End. A match with Floris Baratheon would secure the stormlands permanently, strengthen the King's position, and—most importantly—she would not give the lords of this court another reason to question your judgement."

She paused, taking a slow breath as she delivered the last ruinous truth.

"You cannot make a wife of a girl whose family you helped destroy."

He never blinked, nor did his voice betray the slightest tremor of heat of defense as he met his mother's eyes.

"I heard you," came his low, even reply.

Alicent searched his pale face, hunting for any trace of the boy who might still submit, but saw only a wall of detachment. With a resigned nod, she turned and retreated, abandoning him to the fading amber light.

Night fell over King's Landing, dead and breathless, bringing no sleep with it.

Slumped in a chair by the fading fire, you pulled the heavy shawl tighter around you, your mind trapped in the memory of his hand—a fierce claim that had anchored you to him before the King.

A tentative knock sounded at your door. The guards outside were under orders not to disturb you after dusk. But still, setting your shawl aside, you pulled the oak door open.

Aemond stood in the threshold.

He was still in his coat and high leather boots, but his silver hair was loose, cascading over his shoulders in slight disarray, as though he had spent the last three hours pacing his chambers unable to settle.

"My prince?"

"My mother is displeased," he rasped.

You stepped back, opening the door wider to let him step into the quiet sanctuary of your room. "With me?"

"With me bringing you to the council."

He couldn't sit. He walked to the center of the room, standing tall and imposing amidst the faint shadows, his hands resting naturally on the hilt of his dagger.

"She believes the court will talk,"his tone was almost distant. "She insists I take a highborn wife before the whispers become something more difficult to silence."

You already knew what you were supposed to be—a captive, a lady-in-waiting, a ghost in his keep. You knew how the world worked outside these stone walls.

"Is it Floris Baratheon?"

"Yes."

"She would be a good match," forcing your voice to remain gracious and steady. "Storm's End is a crucial alliance. It is...politically sensible."

Aemond's chest rose and fell in a distant rhythm. "Would you like me to?" he asked.

"Like you to what?"

He stepped into your space with purpose, bringing the towering warmth of his body against the cold air surrounding you.

"Marry Floris Baratheon."

He wasn't asking if you were hurt. He wasn't asking if you loved him, nor was he offering a romantic line. He was asking whether he should make the choice the Realm expected of him.

"I do not want you to marry her," you admitted.

"That is not what I asked."

You looked straight to his eye, refusing to hide behind courtesy any longer. "I know."

"If I refuse my mother's wishes, there will be consequences."

"That, I am aware of as well."

"The court will talk."

"Will you let them?" you questioned.

Something in his expression changed. You had answered every warning with the same quiet certainty. The tension in his posture gave way to a quiet clarity, as though he had finally been asked a question he had been too proud to ask.

His hand rose, rough and weathered, pausing for a second as if bracing for rejection. You didn't take a step back, meeting his gaze without a doubt. As his fingers rested against your cheek, he leaned down and claimed your lips in a long-denied surrender.

His lips were dry and warm, pressing on yours with pressure—committing the feel of you to memory, sealing the bargain you had both just struck in the dark. A groan broke the back of his throat as he parted your lips, taking your breath, your protests, and your air all at once.

A low moan escaped through his lips as he deepened the kiss, one hand remaining on your cheek while the other settled at your waist.

He didn't pull you violently or push you toward the bed. He held you there, at the exact precipice where political duty ended and forbidden truth began, taking your breath and giving you his own in return.

When he finally pulled back, it was only by an inch.

His forehead rested against yours, deep and grounding, his single eye half-lidded. His hand stayed on your face, his thumb still resting against your skin.

There was no oath left to recite, no political excuse left to hide behind.

Aemond took one last breath, lingering in the warmth of your skin for a second longer before his hand slid down your cheek, brushing your neck gently before dropping to his side.

His eye clear and unwavering in the dying firelight, before turning toward the door and stepping silently back out into the shadowed corridor.

You remained standing where he had left you, your lips still tasting of winter mint beneath your trembling fingers. From the time since he had brought you to King's Landing, you had no idea what came next.

He had prepared himself to become the villain of another story.

When the shadow of Vhagar blotted out the sun over the courtyard, Prince Aemond Targaryen had expected terror. He had expected curses hurled at his head, weeping maidens, and a desperate daughter who would throw herself between his blade and her father's dying throne. He was a warrior by birth, conditioned to meet hatred with harsh, ruthless efficiency.

Aemond stepped through the scorched archway of the Great Hall, dark leather armor gleaming, hand resting heavy on the pommel of his sword.

He had walked through castles reduced to cinders before. None had ever felt this quiet.

Instead of screaming, he found stillness.

You were sitting in a high-backed carved chair beside the dais, your posture impossibly straight, hands folded tightly in your lap. You weren't wearing armor or grand silks—just a simple, muted gown of a house whose glory had quietly bled out over generations.

Your eyes were red-rimmed, the skin beneath them swollen and discolored. A single, frantic tremor ran through your fingers before you forced them still, burying them in the folds of your skirts.

You weren't fearless. You were simply a girl who had already lost everything, standing in the cold ashes of her world.

Aemond's stride faltered. The metallic thud of his boots echoed against the stone, his single eye narrowing as he took in the silence of the hall. His jaw set, searching your face for the panic that was supposed to be there.

"Your house has failed to send word to the King," Aemond gritted out, his voice a raspy threat that usually made grown men tremble. "By order of the Crown, this holdfast is—"

"Could you please lower your voice?"

The words were soft, almost a breath.

The One-Eyed Prince froze mid-sentence. His fingers tightened around the pommel of his blade. "Hmm?"

You couldn’t bring yourself to turn to him. Your gaze remained fixed on your father's still form in the chair beside you, whose pale, cold hand you had been holding for hours.

"My father is asleep," you whispered, your voice shaking at the edges, thick with a shock so deep it left no room for terror. You swallowed hard, finally turning your swollen eyes to the prince looming before you, your gaze lowered to the floor. "And...you're tracking ash into the hall."

Aemond kept still in the center of the room.

He had come to end a bloodline. He was meant to burn the stone and leave nothing behind. Yet as he stared down at you—grieving, composed, and asking him to wipe his boots—the Prince of the Realm found himself with no words prepared.

His hand remained on the hilt of his sword. He didn't draw the blade. He didn't order his men forward.

Instead, he reached out, caught you by the elbow with force and pulled you along with him out of the cold room.

He told himself she was a hostage. Nothing more.

As Vhagar lowered her great, leathery neck, he dragged you ahead of him, securing the iron safety chains around your waist with practiced knots.

You did not resist. You did not plead.

Only once—just once—did you look back.

Not at the castle and nor the burning banners. At the open doors of the hall. As though some part of you still expected your father to wake and call you home.

When Vhagar's shadow swallowed the courtyard once more, it was not victory that followed Aemond into the sky.

It was a question.

Sweat and melted wax clung to the close air of the Small Council chamber, though nothing cut deeper than the blank smiles trading glances around the mahogany.

"A new whore for the dragon's lair, brother?" Aegon sneered from the head of the table, swirling his goblet as a mocking grin spread across his face. "I sent you to wipe out a traitor's line, and you drag back a sad little lamb in dusty velvet. What is she meant to be? Your personal prize?"

Aemond didn't look at his brother. His posture stood rigid, while the pale fingers of his danced a weighty gold coin across his knuckles. "She is a ward of the Crown," he responded, the subtle threat in his voice vibrating through the room.

"A ward with no gold, no army, and no family," Alicent cut in, her voice tight, clutching her Seven-Pointed Star. Her son's stone face was inspected by her dark eyes. "What is her purpose here, Aemond? Aegon is right to question. If she is no longer a hostage, and she is not an ally...what is she?"

The Prince offered no answer. He simply turned on his heel and strode from the room.

The hefty wood door of her quarters didn't slam; it swung open with a slow weight.

Aemond brought the chilling draft of the corridors into the room, along with the lingering tension of the Small Council chamber. Aegon's mocking laughter still rung in his ears. Alicent's pleading eyes still buried in his mind.

"What is her purpose here, Aemond?"

He had nothing to say. For the first time in his life, he had done something he could not justify.

The motion drained from his limbs as he crossed the room in long strides.

You didn't move as he closed the distance. You sat by the narrow window, your hands folded over a blank sheet of parchment. When the shadow of his tall frame fell over you, you merely turned your head.

Aemond's gloved hand caught the front of your collar, dragging you to your feet. The polished steel of his dagger pressed flush against your throat.

Just inches from your ear, he spoke in a hoarse whisper.

"Give me one reason," his lone eye searched your face as he clinched his teeth. "Give me one reason why I should not cut off your head right now."

The blade bit just enough to leave a small red bead.

He waited for the flinch, waited for you to reach for his wrist, and plead for the mercy of the Crown.

A shuddering breath heaved through your chest. Trembling, your fingers gripped your skirts, but you didn't resist his hold. You looked at the steel, parting your lips as your swallowed hard.

"I do not have one, my prince," as your lashes lowered to the thin ribbon of blood slipping toward the toe of his boot. "Forgive me...you'll stain your boots."

Held by a hand that had killed men without a second thought, the knife rested at your neck. But his fingers felt unbearably heavy.

Aemond let out a frustrated groan from the back of his throat—a sound of pure, bitter defeat.

He yanked the dagger back, sheathing it in one precise motion. He turned his back on you and paced towards the door.

In the weeks that followed, Aemond established a rule: he did not cross her threshold.

He had placed a buffer between them—an older maiden named Elsie, commanded to attend to your needs and report to him. It was a practical arrangement. It allowed him to manage a ward of the Crown without standing before the only person who consistently left him without an answer.

He trained and studied history. He sparred with Ser Criston Cole until his palms were raw. Everything in his life remained disciplined.

Except for the end of every evening.

At dusk, his steps carried him down the dark corridor of the Maidenvault. He stopped two paces from the posted guard, and waited for Elsie to step into the hall.

At first, the inquiries were plain and straight to the point.

"Has she taken supper?" "No, my lord. A few sips of broth, nothing more."

After a fortnight, he stood in the exact spot, his eye fixed on the grain of the wood. "Has she left her chambers?" "Not yet, my lord."

"Has she spoken?" "Only to thank the servants when they clear the hearth."

He absorbed the answer in silence, pivoting on his heel before the maid could read his face.

Soon enough, the questions became second nature. "Did she sleep?" "I believe so, my lord. She asked whether your arm still pained you."

Aemond's movement locked in his shoulders. "What?"

"She asked about your arm," Elsie repeated. "I did not know what she meant."

His fingers twitched against his side. He had sprained his wrist against Cole's shield three days ago and told no one, hiding the joint stiff beneath his sleeve.

Yet behind a closed door, staring out at the bay...you had noticed.

He carried that shift with him through another long week of council meetings. Standing in the hallway once more by the fourth week, weary and stripped of his usual composure, the question escaped his lips before his mind could filter it.

"Has she smiled?"

The maid blinked, silent for a long beat as she looked at the prince.

Aemond caught himself. His jaw clenched as the realization of what he had just asked striking him like cold water. He didn't wait for an answer. He turned and strode away before the maid could speak.

The boundary between them did not shatter; it eroded, stone by stone.

One evening, after a terrible session in the yard where his mind had been elsewhere, Aemond walked the corridor again. He lingered outside your chamber.

He did not call for the maid. He only stood in the dimness, staring at the door, wrestling with an urge to step through.

Inside, you heard footsteps halt outside.

You only wrapped your shawl tighter around your shoulders, attention fixed on the bay. When Elsie opened the door a crack, you saw the prince's shadow disappearing around the corner.

"Was that the prince?"

"Yes.”

You turned back toward the window, a faint crease appearing between your brows. "Did he need something?"

Elsie looked around the empty corridor, letting out a knowing sigh. "I don't believe he knows, my lady."

By then, grief had started to change its shape.

You did not leave the Maidenvault out of defiance, nor out of a sudden desire to explore the labyrinths of the Red Keep. You walked because your room had ceased to feel like a refuge and had become a cage.

So you drifted. Aimlessly.

The servants stepped aside when you passed. The guards posted along the covered archways did not stop you—their orders from the prince had been strict: Do not restrict her within the walls, but keep her within sight.

It took three days for word to reach Aemond.

He was in the armory, adjusting the leather straps over his forearm, when Elsie brought the report.

"She had begun taking walks through the lower courtyards, my lord."

His response was fast and dismissive, "Let her walk. So long as she remains within the Keep, it is of no consequence."

He pretended not to care. Aemond forced himself through his usual routine, stepping into the brisk afternoon air with his sword heavy at his hip as he made for the outer training yard.

He didn't expect to see you.

You were standing under the shade of the grand, arched colonnade overlooking the yard, wrapped in a plain cloak. You stood with your head tilted, watching the dust rise from the dirt pit.

You had only followed the sound of steel.

The ring of iron against iron was a sound that belonged to every castle in the Seven Kingdoms. It was the rhythm of your childhood—the sound of your father's men sparring in the early morning, the scrape of armor being polished, and the grounding background noise of a home that no longer existed.

In the center of the yard, Aemond was in the middle of a fast-paced match with Ser Criston Cole. He moved swiftly, his long blade whistling through the air, parrying Cole's experienced blows with sharp focus. The yard was alive around them—guards cheering, weapons clattering.

Then, as Cole backed off to reset his stance, Aemond turned his head.

Through the subtle haze of dust and sunlight, his lone eye caught you standing under the arches.

You were somewhere you had never been before. Out of your chamber. Just out in the open air, staring directly into the yard.

Aemond didn't call to you. He didn't break his stance as he forced his eye back to Criston Cole, trying to pretend he hadn't seen you.

However, he had lost his pace.

His strike landed an inch too far to the left. He was a second behind in his footwork. Ser Criston spotted the hesitancy immediately. The Lord Commander struck Aemond's ribs with his blunted practice sword in a quick, blinding arc.

The dull thud rang through the yard. Aemond stumbled back, his breath hitching as a harsh sting shot through his side.

Criston's eyes tracked the prince for only a beat before returning. "Again," he said.

Aemond's hold on the blade stiffened as he straightened his back, but his sight uncontrollably returned to the colonnade.

By the time the match ended and the weapons were cleared, you had prepared to leave, your boots making no sound over the flagstones as you walked back toward the inner Keep.

Using the back of his glove to wipe the sweat off his brow, Aemond headed out of the pit and crossed the gallery path. He stopped you just as the colonnade gave way to the narrow doorway, stepping into your path with enough weight to get you to halt rather than blocking you.

The scent of sweat and steel clung to him as he spoke, "Why were you watching?

"I heard the swords," you responded as you raised your eyes to meet his.

"And?"

You looked past his shoulder, toward the empty dirt pit where the guards were sweeping up the dried leaves. "It reminded me of home. My father's men used to spar at noon."

The words settled quietly between them.

Something felt tightening sharply in his chest. You hadn't come to watch him or had been captivated by his skill. You were just listening to a sound that made you think of a dead man and a burned castle.

He stared down at you, searching your face. "Are you afraid of me?" He questioned gently.

You considered the question carefully without answering right away. Your gaze strayed to the armor over his chest, at the hilt of his sword, and then back to his face.

"I think..." you whispered, your voice quieting slightly against the afternoon breeze. "I think I was."

I was. Not I am.

He parted his lips to speak, but before he could, your attention dropped to his right forearm. You paused, fingers clutching tightly at the edge of your woolen cloak. "Does your arm still pain you, my prince?"

For a long moment, Aemond only looked at you.

Five weeks.

Five weeks of asking after you through closed doors. Whether you had eaten. Whether you had slept. Whether you had smiled.

You had never once asked anything of him. Up until now.

"It no longer troubles me," he heard himself answer. The words left his tongue before he realized they weren't true.

You gave a tiny, almost unnoticeable nod. "I am glad."

Moving past him, your skirts rustling lightly over the stone as you continued down the sunlit hallway toward the Maidenvault.

Long after your footsteps had faded, Aemond was still looking at the place where you had been.

The invitation came at dawn, before the sun had fully burned the gray fog from the Red Keep's lower walkways.

When you opened the door to your chambers, expecting Elsie with morning tea, you found Prince Aemond standing in the pathway instead. He was dressed in his riding coat with his silver strands catching the subtle torchlight.

He didn't greet you or ask you how you had slept.

"Walk with me," he said. It was not a question but a demand, yet it lacked his usual authority.

After a few seconds of doubt, you nodded quietly, wrapping your shawl around your shoulders, and went out into the hall next to him.

It was the closest you had been to him without a blade or a dragon between you.

As you turned the corner near the lower battlements, two guards carrying an iron-bound chest came marching around the archway, moving too fast through the gray mist.

"Out of the way—" one called out ahead, turning abruptly.

Before you had the chance to step back, Aemond's right arm shot out. His hand caught your forearm, pulling you firmly back against his side out of the guards' path as they hurried past.

You quickly reached out and grasped his right arm to balance yourself as you stumbled a bit on the wet ground.

A short, strained breath came from Aemond's lips as soon as your fingers pressed into the coat of his sleeve. His hold on you loosened at once. His teeth clenched so hard the muscles in his cheek twitched as a tense flash of pain rushed through his injured arm.

You fell silent right away.

You kept your palm on him and felt the tremble passing through his arm. You glanced up from his sleeve to his face—noticing his pale lips drawn into a thin line, and the slight trickle of sweat on his brow.

"Your arm still troubles you," you whispered, pulling your hand back slowly.

Yesterday, when he had stood under the training archway, he had told you it no longer pained him. You had believed him. You had even begun to think that perhaps behind the Prince of the Realm was simply a man who spoke plainly.

"Why did you lie to me?" you asked, your voice holding a wounded weight. "Why would you—"

You held yourself back when you saw that look in his lone violet eye—struck, defensive, and completely exposed.

Swallowing hard, you suddenly remembered who he was, where you were, and the great sea of blood and war that separated your home from his. The brief appearance of trust was as fleeting as it had been.

You took a step back, lowering your head down to the muddy walkway.

"Excuse me, my prince. I have taken enough of your time." You left before he could process the words, the hem of your skirt swaying around the corner as you walked back, leaving him alone in the fog.

Five seconds. Ten seconds. Twenty.

Until the last sound of your footfall vanished into the wall, the emptiness on the rampart stretched dark and repressive. The first time you had looked at him with something other than grief...he had answered it with a lie.

Aemond reached with his left hand, unbuckling the vambrace from his wounded arm, and threw it into the fog in a single, impulsive move.

The crash of iron against stone echoed across the mist-veiled yard.

Then—total silence.

His anger rashly shifted inward as he stared at the place where the padded guard had landed, his eye fixed on the discarded vambrace, his chest pounding. He had spent weeks holding himself to strict discipline, and in a single moment of weak pride, he had frightened you away again.

Aemond leaned on his heel and headed straight down the hall in the direction of the Maidenvault.

Ten minutes later, when Elsie stepped out of your room carrying a pitcher of stale water, she found Prince Aemond standing outside the wooden door. His hand was unlacing his right sleeve with awkward fingers as he sank back on the cold wall, his faded curls wet from the mist.

The maid stopped, bowing her head in surprise. "My lord?"

"Bring hot water and clean linen to her room," he commanded, avoiding the maid's eyes entirely.

Elsie paused in confusion, "For the lady? She is not injured—"

"For my arm," the prince interrupted, the words clipped.

"Shall I send for the maester?"

"No." The answer came too quickly.

Elsie noticed—his stiff posture, the faint flush climbing his neck, and the way he steadfastly avoided looking at her. A wordless understanding passed through the older woman's mind.

"Tell her the binding has come loose."

"I shall inform her at once, my prince," Elsie murmured quickly.

Aemond stood outside the threshold he had sworn not to cross, waiting in silence for an answer that might never come.

Inside your chambers, the mist clung to the arched window like a shroud.

You sat at the edge of the wooden bench, your fingers laced in your lap, studying the floorboards. The sting of your departure still burned in your chest—the sound of your own voice calling him out on the ramparts.

When the iron latch clacked open, you didn't look up. You assumed it was Elsie returning with morning tea.

Instead, the maid set a bronze basin of steamy water and a stack of clean linen cloths onto the side table. Her movements were unnervingly calculated and slow.

"The prince's binding has come loose," Elsie replied.

You nodded politely, picking up a strip of clean linen, folding it with neat motions, and preparing it for the maid to take back out into the hall.

Elsie didn't take the cloth. "My lady..." she muttered, "he requested no maester."

Your hands hovered over the folded linen.

"He is waiting outside," the older woman added softly.

He lied. He was the Prince of the Realm. The man whose dragon had scorched your home. The man who had dragged you to King's Landing in chains.

But his arm really was hurting.

You ignored the lump rising in your throat, your knuckles turning pale against the soft cloth. "Why me?"

Elsie raised her head in response, her eyes filled with a solemn honesty. "Because he asked for you."

The room fell silent again.

You got up slowly, stepping over to the bronze washbasin to dip your hands into the warm water, soaping away the chill of the morning. You picked up the folded linens and a small jar of apothecary salve.

Every second seemed to drag on forever. Beyond the door, he waited.

When you finally unlatched the heavy door, it gave a low creak against the stone frame.

Aemond was not standing anymore. With his knees bent and his back to the cold wall, he sat on the damp flagstones. His right sleeve was pushed up over his elbow, exposing the terrible, angry flesh below his unbuttoned coat. He appeared less like the prince the kingdom feared and more like a weary young man with his head resting back upon the wall.

He then heard the creak of the wood.

His eye softly rose to meet yours. His shoulders stiffened the moment he saw you standing in the doorway, and he lifted himself to his feet by pushing his left hand into the ground.

"Please don't," you spoke carefully.

His eye was locked onto yours. Then, deliberately, the tension drained from his shoulders, and he sank back down to the ground.

Carrying the warm bowl and the cloths, you knelt on the flagstones beside his right side. Your palm hovered above the rough bruising for a moment before setting around his wrist.

Up close, the injury was dreadful—deep, mottling shades of purple and sickly yellow bruised the pale skin around his wrist. "This should have been seen by a maester," said quietly.

Aemond looked straight ahead at the opposite wall, his voice still flat and defensive. "It is not broken."

You dipped a cloth into the warm water, wringing it out with care. "That was not what I said."

He looked offended, but he offered no retort.

The heat radiating from the swollen joint surprised you, "this will sting," you warned softly.

He didn't pull away as his gaze flickered down to your face.

"I'm going to move your wrist," you murmured a bit later, cradling his hand gently in yours. "Tell me if it's too much."

You took his quietness as permission.

With a steady gesture, you applied the soothing salve over the swollen area, wrapping clean linen around his forearm before binding the joint securely.

After tying the last knot, you picked the bronze basin and gathered the dirty rags. You rose gracefully to your feet, turning back toward the open doorway of your chambers.

"Why?" The single word cut through the quiet hall.

"Why what, my prince?"

The wind whistled through the outer arrow slits, carrying the scent of rain when there was a passing lull between you.

"Why did you help me?"

You looked at the white bandages covering his arm, then back up into his eye. "Because you're hurting."

The pulse in Aemond's throat went rigid.

You stepped back through the threshold, and the door clicked shut behind you.

Aemond stayed where he was. His newly bound arm rested across his knee. He turned his wrist once, feeling the linen wrapped around the joint.

Then, very carefully, as though afraid it might somehow come undone...he touched the knot with his fingertips.

Before the court split into Green and Black, there had only been Dragonstone and a silver-haired boy who hated being pitied for lacking a dragon.

A lifetime ago, you had been children playing in the shadow of the stone beasts. You were Rhaenyra's eldest daughter; he was King Viserys's second son. Your mother's blood made you his niece, but back then, the word 'uncle' carried no weight. He was just Prince Aemond: solemn, and protective of you in a way he was of no one else. You had shared peaceful afternoons in the library, stolen dragon eggs, and written secret letters pushed through the cracks of the castle walls.

Then came the night in the caves of High Tide. The night Aemond claimed Vhagar—and lost his eye to your brother Jacaerys.

The blood spilled that evening severed their world in two. Your mother gathered you and your brothers to flee to the safety of Dragonstone, tearing you away from King's Landing and from Aemond. For ten long years, the distance stretched like an unbridgeable sea.

In your absence, the quiet boy you once knew had died. In his place grew something far more formidable—a prince of ice and steel, lethal with a blade, and bearing a sapphire beneath his eyepatch. He had grown into the realm's most dangerous weapon, his heart hardened by a deep-seated hatred for your brothers.

And you? You had spent those long winters remembering the boy who used to hold your hand in the dark.

Tonight was the first time in a decade you stood in the same room. The feast hall of the Red Keep was stifling, dense with tension, heavy Arbor wine, and false smiles.

When you had first arrived at court earlier that day, you had caught his towering frame in the Great Hall. You recognized the gentle boy from childhood, but standing before the foreign stranger he had become, your courage faltered.

"Uncle..." you had murmured sweetly, your head bowing as you nodded with your eyes lowered to the cold stone ground, unable to hold the weight of his stare.

Aemond had paused, stepping intentionally close. The dark leather of his shoulder brushed firmly against yours as he leaned down. His single eye burned through you, taking in every line of the woman you had become in his absence: the dark, thick curls, the striking features that proved you truly had grown into your Strong genes, just like your brothers. It was a sight that should have disgusted him, yet it served only to awaken a dormant hunger within him.

"Niece," he had replied, his deep voice smooth as silk and sharp as Valyrian steel. he gave only a fleeting glance before sweeping past you, but the brief warmth of his stare had left you burning for hours.

Once the feast began, the unspoken tug only grew worse. Aemond didn't just glance at you; he haunted you.

As you moved about the hall to greet your families, his towering figure trailed you from a distance, moving like a shadow along the stone pillars. Every time you stopped to take a sip of wine, his eye lingered on the movement of your throat as you swallowed. Every time you laughed, his jaw clenched tighter.

When you finally settled across the tables, the air between you was vibrating with wordless promise. You were meant to be enemies by every law of gods and men. He was your uncle, and you were Rhaenyra's daughter, bound to the faction that sought to deny his family the throne.

So when Jacaerys raised his cup—and Aemond stood to deliver his poisoned toast to the "Strong" boys—you knew the fragile peace was about to crack...

The echo of the feast hall still rang in your ears, loud and oppressive.

When Jace's fist had collided with Aemond's jaw—all over a poorly disguised insult—you had not dared to step in. A decade ago, as a child, you would have thrown yourself between them without a second thought. Tonight, you had frozen, the sweet arbor wine turning sour in your throat. It was Daemon who had finally stepped between the roaring tempers, bringing a tense silence back to the hall.

Bastards. Strongs. The whispers court had fed you and your brothers your entire life has reached a feverish pitch tonight. The relief had been fleeting, instantly swallowed by a sickening humiliation.

Your anger had not died down when the King tried to restore peace; it had only grown teeth.

Excusing yourself before the hall could fully disperse, you gripped the silk of your skirts to keep from tripping over your hasty steps. You floated past the Kingsguard, ignoring the handmaidens huddling in the stone alcoves—their hushed, gossiping murmurs dying the second you drew near.

You cared nothing for their whispers. Not when a familiar silhouette with silver-white hair caught your hazy vision further down the corridor. Aemond was moving fast, his broad shoulders set in rigid stone.

You quickened your pace, the wine in your veins making your heart pound twice as fast, until you were directly behind him. You reached out, your fingers locking tightly around the dark leather of his sleeve.

"Must everything be a battle with you!?"

Aemond stopped dead. He spun on his heel, his single violet eye wide with genuine shock. He clearly had not expected anyone to follow him after the disaster at dinner. Least of all you.

"You knew exactly what those words would do," your voice cracked, the childhood softness completely buried beneath years of resentment. "You know how they have looked upon us for years—and you just could not stay your tongue!"

His eyes narrowed as he looked down at your hand still clutching his arm. He turned toward his private quarter at the end of the hall, forced to drag you along for two paces before you let go to keep up. Two heavily armored guards stood outside his doors, their brows furrowing in silent judgement as Rhaenyra's dark-haired daughter trailed right behind the Prince into his dark room.

You brushed past them as though they had no authority to stop you, slipping into the shadow of his chambers before the oak door slammed shut behind you, locking the two of you in suffocating quietness.

Only the dim, amber glow of the hearth illuminated the room. Aemond unbuckled his sword belt with efficiency, tossing the leather onto the table with a sharp thud.

"You ought to go back to your mother," he said with his back turned. "Before the rest of the court realizes Rhaenyra's little bird has flown straight into the rogue's nest."

"I am not going anywhere until you look at me," you snapped, taking three swift steps forward.

He spun around, looming over you. The single violet eye blazed with a cold, terrifying rage. "I spoke the truth. Is it my fault the truth tastes so bitter to them? Or to you?"

"They are my brothers!"

"Are They?" he roared, the word tearing out of his throat, raw and vicious. "Harwin Strong's plain-featured, fatherless bastards—and you hide behind them as if their blood is not a farce."

Driven by years of humiliation, grief, and the fierce instinct to protect your blood, your hand whipped through the air.

Crack.

The force of it turned Aemond's head to the side. Silence crashed back over the room, deep and deafening. Your palm burned, stinging from the impact against his high cheekbones. Your chest heaved, breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

Aemond stood frozen, his silver hair falling forward to shadow his face.

The silence stretched as neither of you moved.

Your breathing slowed as you stared at the angry crimson stain blooming on his pale cheek, right where his jaw was already beginning to bruise from Jace's fist. The sight of his injury hit a forgotten nerve in your chest. Instinctively—your hand drifted upward to his face, the old childhood habit of checking if he was hurt bleeding through the anger.

His hands shot up and caught your wrist in mid-air.

He did not squeeze or force you back. He just...stopped it. His calloused finger wrapped around your skin, holding your hand inches from his bruised cheek. He was staring at you, caught in the exact same ghost of a memory neither of you had spoken aloud in years.

A low, hollow groan rumbled from the depths of his chest.

He did not yank you; he leaned down, his eyes dropping to your mouth with a desperate question. And as your breath hitched, your fingers twitched in his light grip, reaching to tangle into the lapel of his doublet—pulling him the rest of the way down.

When your lips finally met, it was a mutual collision.

It was ten years of bitter solitude, stolen glances across court, burned letters, and long-buried childhood devotion all coming to an end. His lips tasted of copper. His hold on your wrist loosened, his arm sliding around your waist to haul you flush against his chest, while your other hand drifted up to cup the back of his neck, anchoring him to you.

He pressed you back until your spine hit the wood of his bedpost, completely enveloping you in the dark warmth of his body. When he finally broke the kiss for a fraction of a second, his forehead rested against yours, his breath hot and unsteady. "Ñuha dōna… dōhaerās,"(My sweet...yield.) he rasped, his voice seeping seamlessly into an eager, breathless High Valyrian.

Your fingers moved up beyond the dark leather, gentle and unhesitating, until your palm rested against his bruised jaw—your thumb carefully brushing the edge of his scar.

"I'm sorry, I—" you whispered against his lips.

Aemond was a prince of discipline and strict duty; he would sooner burn the Seven Kingdoms to ash than claim the only woman who held his heart without her grace.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eye blown wide and burning with desire. "Ruarās. Tīvarās lēda issi, ōdrikīs teptas ksīzi rēbī." (Speak. Tell me you want this, tell me you desire this.)

A shaky sigh slipped past your lips. The slow, honeyed ruin of the drink melted away the last of your defenses, leaving only the intense, aching truth of what you had long yearned for.

The High Valyrian spilled from your lips like a vow as an aching liquid pooled heavily between your thighs, "Kepus...gūrogon nyke," (Uncle...take me.)

His large hands slid down from your waist, locking beneath your thighs to lift you effortlessly off the stone floor. You gasped softly, wrapping your legs around him as he carried you the few paces to his velvet-draped bed. He lowered you onto the dark covers, hovering over you like a looming shadow, dead sober and absorbing every moment of you with clarity.

He worked the laces of your bodice with deliberate touch, peeling back the silk to reveal your flushing skin. The sight threatened to swallow him whole. His long fingers strayed downward, trailing past your waist to slip under the folds of your skirts.

Two of his fingers stroked along the slick, tender folds of your aching bud, and the reaction was instantaneous—a faint groan released from your chest into the still room. "Mhmm...f-fuck"

Aemond's breath caught in his throat. Sober and fully-aware of every sensation, the sheer, overwhelming heat waiting for him between your thighs to disarm him whole. He had known you would be delicate, possibly cautious—but feeling how thoroughly your body had already yielded to him provoked to break what little composure he had left.

Filthy. Disgusting.

The words echoed darkly in the back of his mind. To be touching Rhaenyra's daughter this way, to ruin the only sacred thing left in his world...the guilt should have stayed his hand. Instead, the forbidden thrill of it sent a brutal wave of heat straight to his cock.

He had desired to take you slowly, to master himself as he always did, but the way your slender figure arched from his mere touch—your bare throat and your willing cunt—made every nerve in his body ache for release. His chest was heaving now, his sober control fraying to threadbare ribbons.

Your trembling hands reached out, helping him remove his clothes—layer by layer—until the velvet and leather fell away, leaving his scarred chest to press flush against your bare skin. Aemond sank his face into the comfort of your neck, his lips tracing a path down to the curve of your breasts—his tongue nipping over your sensitive peaks to draw out those helpless whimpers he craved.

Overwhelmed by the rushing pleasure, your hands stayed tangled in his silver strands, shifting unsurely as your body twitched pinned under his weight.

Seeing that you were uncertain, he sought to anchor you.

He broke away from your chest, taking one of your hands from his hair, he brought it down between your hips and his, guiding your fingers until your palm cupped the heavy length of his.

The second your fingers closed around him, a raw, shuddering groan dragged straight from his lungs—a sound so ruined and needy it hardly belonged to a prince.

"Hold me," he groaned against your neck, the ancient Valyrian moving past his teeth in a pathetic whisper. "Avy jorrān." (I desire you.)

Your thumb tracing the swollen vein of his cock. "If anyone hears us...."

He growled softly, leading your hand in an unhurried, agonizing rhythm.

"Quiet," Aemond murmured, his fingers pushing deeper, drawing a loud gasp from you. "Unless you want those guards outside to know how wet you get for the uncle they protect you from."

Below the deep drapes of your skirts, his slicked fingers worked tirelessly—stretching, coaxing, and parting you until your smaller body gave way to him fully. The wet, steady cadence of his touch matched the urgent pumps of your hand, filling the dark room with a haze of shallow breaths, stifled whines, and unrestrained moans.

Locked in his single, dark eye, you shattered first.

The climax hit with a violent, cresting heat. Your thighs clamped tightly shut, trapping his hand between them as a high cry tore from your lips. Your free hand clawed upward into the silver silk of his hair, pulling him down as his name seeped from you again and again—"U-uncle—gods, Aemond!"

He watched as the shuddering wave ripple through you. The sight of your chest rising and falling, your pale skin flushed red and corrupted.

When you drew him down into a messy, bruising kiss, your whimpers feeding directly into his mouth, the friction of your trembling body grinding against his bare length almost pushed him to the verge of release.

His broad hands dug ruthlessly into the tender flesh of your hips, leaving blooming marks on your skin as he glided the head of his shaft through your sweet moisture. He didn't rush the descent; he used his weight to pin you, moving his leaking tip back and forth down your swollen core before slowly nudging his head past your entrance.

A tight, breathy whine filled your chest at the sudden fullness, a gentle "Wait—" escaping from you.

Hearing your distress, Aemond arrested his movement instantly. He remained anchored at the threshold, his muscles taut with tight restraint.

"Shh...let me." he soothed, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your pulse point, your jaw, and your cheek.

Your nails bit deep into the muscle of his shoulders, your dark hair spread across his pillows like spilled ink as the initial tightness faded into a dull ache of need.

Looking down at you—hazy, shaking, and entirely open under him—he knew no lady in Westeros could match the sight.

He held himself still for a second, buried to the hilt within you as your hole tightens itself around him. His knuckles turned red where he griped the mattress beside your head, his muscles coiled tight as steel as he fought to master his own surging breath.

"Please don't stop—fuck."

The broken request wiped away the last thread of his morals.

His single violet eye completely undone, locking onto yours as he began to move. He pulled back slowly, tortured by the feeling of slipping away from you, only to drive back in with a deep, rough thrust—as if ensuring no other man in the Seven Kingdoms could ever wed you after tonight.

He set a relentless pace, his hips slapping against yours with a wet, sloppy cadence. Every long stroke pulled the head of his cock against your entrance, milking a stream of stickiness that coated his length and made every push smoother and deeper. His hands left the mattress to stray down your torso, lifting you slightly off the bed to alter the angle and push himself even better into your tight walls.

Your thigh, held wide and pinned on either side of his waist, quivered with each thrust. He didn't speak; the chamber overflowed with the visceral noise of your joining—the ragged friction of skin on skin, your gasping cries and the guttural grunts that broke from his chest every time his cock struck against your entrance.

Leaning down, Aemond lapped and bit at your nipples, sucking them firmly into his mouth while his lower body maintained its punishing pace. The dual feeling of his mouth working your breasts while he filled you pushed your sense past the edge.

He altered his pace—changing from long, slow drawls to quick, shallow thrusts, his pubic bone grinding on your wet clit with every drive. Your inner walls shuddered, rippling around his shaft, and your toes curled into the sheets.

"Aemond—" you sobbed out, your voice cracking as the second crest built immediately, far more intense than the first. "I'm—fuckk, I'm close!"

Recognizing the climax gripping his length, Aemond picked up the pace into a furious, desperate drive. The frantic, wet slap of his hips against yours echoed louder, his gasp coming in short and harsh as his own release hovered.

"Together," he gritted out through clenched teeth, "Yield to it."

Your body snapped, clamping down on his cock in wild, rhythmic spams that milked him mercilessly. The violent tightness of your coming broke his control entirely. With a final groan, Aemond slammed forward to the root, his frame shuddered as he poured his cum deep inside you.

He stayed buried inside you as the intensity of the moment began to settle into something more warm and quieter. You moved beneath him, your legs trembling as you made a small shift to pull back and give him room.

His hand slid down to lock around the small of your back, while his other hand came up to press firmly on your hip, pinning you flat. "Don't," his tone fully stripped of its usual edge. He didn't pull out even an inch, keeping himself within your slick warmth. "Do not move from me."

"Uncle, you're heavy," you breathed out, a soft laugh catching in your throat as your hands rested on his sweat-dampened shoulders.

He stayed put. Rather, he leaned just enough to take the brunt of his weight off your chest with his elbows, laying his forehead against yours. His single eye fluttered open, unusually gentle in the dim amber light of the hearth, staring down into your eyes as if ensuring you were still right beneath him.

"Let me have this," he whispered, his thumb brushing your lips as he pressed a lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth.

"Just...stay with me."

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The Arguments

Arguments with him are never won.

He refuses to yield, even when the silence following his words cuts too deep. His pride was forged in cold mockery long before he ever knew intimacy, and it does not bend for anyone. He will dismantle your stance with the unnerving precision of a scholar, speaking in High Valyrian with the absolute certainty of a man who believes himself incapable of error, before sweeping from the room, lest his temper betrays him further.

Hours later, when the Red Keep has grown hollow and dark, and his anger has curdled into regret, there will come a measured knock upon your door. Never an apology.

A Targaryen prince does not beg forgiveness.

Only the ancient history tome you had casually mentioned wanting weeks ago, a heavier cloak folded over his arm because the night air off the Blackwater has turned bitter, and a low, almost hesitant—"May I come in?"

It is the closest thing to "I was wrong" he will ever learn to say.

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Propriety

Affection is rarely spoken aloud.

He takes your hand whenever the stone corridors grow crowded with gossiping courtiers. His gloved fingers curl around yours—never interlocked, never needy, but with an unyielding grip that anchors you to his side. He always positions you on his right—his good side—where he can keep you entirely within his line of sight.

Should a gossiping lord dare inquire why he keeps such a firm hold upon you, he merely stares them down with bleak indifference and replies: "She has an unfortunate habit of wandering. I have little patience for retrieving lost things."

As though he has convinced himself this is purely a matter of discipline.

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The Armor

Every gift he gives serves a purpose.

The hairpin carved from pale dragonbone conceals a stiletto no longer than your palm. The silver torque he fastens around your neck hides a spring-lock for a tiny key. The signet ring upon your finger masks a hollow compartment for powdered hemlock or nightshade, should you ever find yourself cornered in a castle full of traitors.

Let other lords woo their ladies with useless silks and perishable flowers.

Aemond would rather know you can survive the court that raised him.

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The Door

Whenever you enter his chambers, he always closes the door himself.

Not hurriedly. Not secretively.

Simply because he has spent his entire life under the scrutinizing watch of a castle that measures his worth in what he lost. He glides the heavy oak shut, throwing the iron latch with an echoing click that keeps out the whispering halls of the Red Keep.

The court may speculate. The gossips may whisper.

But for a few stolen hours, behind carved wood and thick stone, the prince allows himself to drop his shoulders, unwind his guards, and exist without an audience.

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Silence

The weighty, scared silence of his hearth is a better sign of comfort than a sweet talk.

Entire evenings slip away with barely a word traded between you and him. You work a needle through silk beside the fire; he hunches over some impossibly dry, ancient Valyrian manuscript, the firelight catching the sharp line of his jaw.

Then, without ever lifting his eye from the archaic script, his gloved hand glides across the space between your chairs, resting his palm flat over yours. Warm. Hefty. Anchoring.

He doesn't press. He doesn't pull. It is merely a scholar's habit—reaching out to confirm that the only thing in the castle he trusts has not vanished into the dark.

You never do.

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Aemond Targaryen Masterlist ⚔︎⋆.˚

His breath hitched. The gentle composure flickered, replaced by a hot friction that made his large hand snap up to catch your wrist—not to push you away, but holding you there, pinned gently against him. His thumb dragged over the fast pulse in your wrist, his knuckles brushing the side of it.

"No," he rasped, his voice dropping an octave, losing every but of its Kansas politeness. "You look like you're taking advantage of the fact that I'm trying very hard to be responsible."

"I'm not asking you to," leaning in just enough that your lips brushed the stubble along his jawline.

A low groan caught in the back of his throat. The moral high ground collapsed as his grip tightened, pulling you off your feet and flush against the edge of the counter. His mouth finding yours with an urgency that proved he was done counting years.

You only moaned around his fingers, tongue swirling greedily, sucking harder like you wanted to pull the marrow out of him. Every time he twitched to take his hand back, you whined and pawed at him, clinging until he relented.

"Five more minutes, honey," he promised through his clenched teeth, fingers flexing against your tongue. "Let me just finish this draft, then I'll—fuck—then I'll give you what you want."

But five minutes were too long. You slipped off his fingers with a wet pop and a pitiful whimper, nuzzling at his thigh until your face pressed against the hard bulge in his slacks. He cursed under his breath, hand trembling over the keyboard.

"Persistent little thing, aren't you," he muttered, reaching down at last. His zipper slid open, and his pulsing length spilled free—already sweetened with pre-cum, flushed, leaking just from watching you ruin yourself on his hand.

"Alright, puppy," he smiled, teasing now, guiding you close. "If you need it that bad, then warm me. Sit pretty with your mouth full and let me work."

You were on him in seconds, lips stretching wide as you sank down his length, spit bubbling and sliding past the gap between your warm cheeks and his slicked cock to drool off your chin. You gagged lightly, throat fluttering around his fat tip, but you didn't pull back—your eyes rolled up at him, glassy and wet, desperate for his approval.

Clark's breath caught, his typing faltering. "Pup," he groaned, left hand tangling in your hair, holding you steady. His cock sat heavy on your tongue, drool spilling freely as you tried to take more, choking yourself just to throat him deep.

"Good puppy," he rasped, hips bucking when you bottomed him out. "You're so messy—so fuckin' messy. You like sittin' there droolin' all over yourself while I work, huh Can't go five minutes without havin' something to suck on."

You whimpered around his cock, spit dripping onto your chest now, strings of it connecting your lips to the thick base every time you bobbed shallowly before sinking back down. He groaned helplessly, glasses all messed up, words on the screen turning sloppy as his focus fractured.

"Supposed to be finishin' this story," he muttered, breathless, eyes locked on the slick mess of your mouth around him. "But how the hell am I supposed to write when puppy's makin' love to my cock like this?"

You blinked up at him, spit-slick cheeks hollowing around him as you gagged again, throat convulsing, saliva gushing down his shaft in filthy rivulets. His chair creaked as he sagged back, one big hand unsure on the keyboard, the other gripping your head like he couldn't decide whether to push you deeper or pull you off.

"Goddamn it," he groaned, biting down on his lip as his thighs twitched under you. "Be a good puppy. Keep me warm—open wide, yeah—fuck—keep me warm 'til I'm done, and then I'll fuck you on the couch, hm?"

And you waited, messy and drooling and obsessed, his cock nesting in your throat while Clark Kent, Pulitzer-winning journalist and part-time savior of the world, tried—and failed—to finish his article with his needy puppy choking happily on his lap.

His breath stuttered, hips bucking just slightly, "God—honey, don't talk like that—" Clark groaned, deep and desperate, "Look at you—fuck, let me come, baby. You're too good—"

"Mhm," you hummed, sliding faster, smothering him in softness. "My good boy's losing it already? Can't even last through a titjob?"

"Yeah," he gasped, and the sheer need in his voice made your cunt ache with dripping need. "Please, baby, lemme come—I can't"

You pulled off with a cruel little smile and crawled into his lap, lining his throbbing cocktip against your soaked sex. "Shh. You can. You're gonna be such a good boy for me."

You sank down on him at all once, burying all his length into your soppy folds, Clark's cry was raw, almost broken, his hands pulling you tight to his chest as though he'd fall apart without the anchor.

And then you started to bounce.

Little, quick hops at first, your cunt sucking him in on every descent, making his hips jerk up to pound you balls deep from below. His eyes locked on the in and out of his girth stretching your cunt, wide and sloppy. "Jesus Christ—bunny—fuck, you feel so warm inside—love watchin' you hop on my cock...don't stop—"

Hopping on him in short, hungry bounces that had the couch creaking. He sounded ragged and filthy. You cupped his jaw, riding him harder, pressing your forehead to his. "That's it, Clarkie. Let go. My good boy, let your bunny fuck the stress out of you."

And he did—shuddering beneath you, undone and helpless, nesting in his favorite bunny hole.

You blinked up to him, lashes wet, trying to obey—but your eyes fluttered shut again as another wave of pleasure surged.

He growled, pulling almost all the way out, leaving you empty and throbbing. His cock slapped wetly against your swollen cunt before he slid back in slow, cruel inches. "No. Uh-uh. You don't get to cum if you can't even look at me. You wanna fuck yourself stupid on my cock? Then you better show me those eyes."

"Clarkie, please...ah," you whined, chest panting, thighs trembling around his waist.

HIs hand tightened on your jaw, not painful, just commanding. He bent close, slipping in another inch, lips brushing yours, voice both harsh and coaxing. "Don't beg me. Beg me with your eyes. Keep them open for me, sweet girl. Let me see you lose it."

And you tried, you really did...forcing your gaze up to those blazing blue eyes, but they rolled back again, your body betraying you.

The punishment was immediate. He stilled, grinding shallowly, keeping you right there on the knife's edge. His tone dropped into a filthy growl. "You feel that? All this cock, and I'm not giving you shit until you do as you're told. Wanna cum? Wanna soak my cock like a good girl? Then fucking look at me."

Tears spilled, frustration burning hot under your ribs. "I'm trying—"

His thumb stroked your cheek, gentler now, his pace resuming in slow, deep thrusts that punched the breath out of you. "I know you're trying. That's my girl. Keep going. You're so close, I can feel it—this pussy's begging me. Just hold on for me. Don't shut me out. Eyes wide, sweetheart. Right there, stay with me."

You forced your eyes open, wide and unblinking, even as your vision blurred with tears. That sight seemed to unravel him—his jaw clenched, a groan ripping out of his throat.

"That's it. Look at you, taking this so god. Such a pretty little thing when you listen. My perfect girl, keeping her eyes on me while I ruin her pussy." His pounding grew harder, rougher, slamming into you with pulsing rhythm. "You're mine. Every twitch, every scream—you give it to me with those eyes wide open."

Your body shattered, orgasm tearing through you so violently you almost lost your focus. But his voice soothed you back, praise coating over you like fire.

"Good fucking girl, Like that—don't look away. So beautiful when you cum for me, fuckfuck—you're squeezing me so tight. You're perfect. My perfect girl."

His thrusts faltered, hips stuttering as he chased his own release. He moaned low into your mouth, eyes burning into yours until the very end. His cock throbbed, driving deep inside you as his praise broke into wrecked gasps, "Mhm—Christ...eyes on me...perfect little cunt."

Even when you collapsed beneath him, cockdrunk and spent, his hand still framed your face, thumb brushing your cheek, keeping your eyes on his as though the command had sunk deep into your bones.

One long, miserable day of your laugh ringing out across the bullpen, of watching you chew the end of your pen, of you leaning over Lois's desk and his gaze dragging down to your tight cleavage. His jaw almost cracked from clenching, his fat cock straining to break free from his slacks the second he gets the scent of you.

By the next afternoon, his resolved cracked.

The office was thinning out. Fluorescent lights buzzing, papers rustling, Lois and everyone else long gone. You were still seated at your desk, glasses perched low on your nose, highlighting notes for the story he had half-assigned you to keep you close. He came up behind you, silent, a shadow too heavy to ignore.

"Hi, Clarkie..." you smiled at his presence without looking.

He exhaled like he had been holding his breath in all day. Then his hand slid to your wrist, slow, primal. "I can't—" his voice broke off. He bent close, his chest a cage around your back. "Sweetheart, I can't take it anymore."

"What—?"

He kissed you before you could finish. Not the careful, boyish Clark kiss you knew. This was raw, frantic, tasting, devouring. HIs hand tangled in your hair, titling you back, swallowing every noise you made. And then he pulled away just enough to breathe against your lips. "Do you have any goddamn idea what your body's doing to me?"

Your heart stuttered and the words you meant to say died down in your throat. His hand slid under your blouse, heat branding your skin. "Every time you walk by, it's like you're begging me. Pheromones, hormones—you're ovulating, sweetheart. I can smell it. Feel it." His hips pressed into you, hard bulge grinding into the thin fabric of your skirt. "And my body won't let me stop."

You whimpered, unsure if you should be shocked or aroused. But his need was suffocating, contagious. How could you refuse him when he's looking at you with those big sweet eyes?

That was all it took for him to snap. He pulled you from your chair, papers scattering, lips chasing your skin as he shoved you into the nearest empty office. The door clicked shut. He settled you to the desk, being you with ease. His voice came begging. "I've been hard since yesterday—aching. You don't know how sweet you smell, how you body's calling for me."

Your skirt was up before you could gasp. His palm smoothed over the curve of your plump ass, a worshipful groan escaping him. He didn't bother with patience or pulling your panty down, only with getting inside as he pushed it aside, answering that primal need to fuck you raw.

The first thrust punched the air from your lungs. He cursed against your shoulder, rutting inside you impatiently, each stroke deeper, hungrier. "There it is—Christ, there is it. Your body's ripe for me, soaking for me. That needy little pussy wants me."

"—oh my...god, fuck me—ahhh"

"Already doing it, baby, shh—" he soothed, though his pace was brutal. "I'll take care of it. I'll give you what you need." Every pound was a sermon, every moan a confession. He stuffed you full until he bottomed out, leaving you to hopelessly moans like a pathetic mess and clawing at his back.

"Sweetheart, I swear I'll fuck you raw until your body can't forget me. You'll take it, take me—every drop—because you're mine. Your body's asking, and I'm answering."

You sobbed, walls fluttering around him, and he growled, forehead dropping to your back. "Don't hold back, honey. Let me hear those pretty noises."

The orgasm ripped through you, blinding, shuddering. Clark chased it with his own, hips stuttering, throbbing into you with a guttural cr. But he didn't stop. Not when you whimpered, not when your legs shook and your eyes rolled back to white.

His hands pinned you down, cock still pounding inside. "One more," he rasped, already pulling back a slow drag to slam inside you again. "Oh baby, I know— just one more. I know its too much. But your body's ready. I feel it."

You tried to speak, but he swallowed it with another kiss, fucking you through overstimulation, his voice was drunk with need. "You'll be leaking my cum by the time I'm done." He thrust harder, groaning as his aching tip feels your walls spasming again.

"Sweet bunny, I'll keep it inside, keep filling you until nature takes what it wants." And as you collapsed against the desk, fucked dumb, he bent over you like he was praying—every move single-minded, obsessed, reverent.

He wasn't just making love. He was answering instinct.