from lover to lover.

The hall erupts in polite murmurs, like everyone’s been waiting for the other shoe to drop.

You don’t look at Aemond.

You look at your father.

Daemon’s mouth curls, lazy and wicked, like he’s enjoying a joke only he understands.

You cross the distance in three strides, skirts snapping around your ankles like a banner of war.

“Father,” you say through your teeth, smile plastered on for the watching court. “A word.”

Daemon’s eyes glitter. “Of course.”

He follows you with all the urgency of a man strolling toward entertainment.

The moment you’re out of earshot—behind a tapestry, near a shadowed archway—you whirl.

“You sold me,” you hiss.

Daemon lifts a brow. “Betrothed you.”

“You didn’t ask me.”

Daemon’s smile sharpens. “If I asked, you’d say no.”

“Yes,” you snap, “because I have taste.”

Daemon tilts his head, studying you like a painter deciding where to place the next stroke. “Aemond is not a fool. Not like Aegon. He’s disciplined. Dangerous. A good match.”

You glare. “A good match for you, perhaps. Another blade for your collection.”

Daemon’s gaze goes flat, sudden as winter. “You’re my daughter. No one collects you.”

The words should soothe.

They don’t.

Because if you’re not being collected, then why does it feel like you’re being moved like a piece?

You breathe hard and force your voice lower. “I will not marry him.”

Daemon’s eyes glitter again, amused. “You will.”

“Watch me,” you whisper.

Daemon leans close, voice velvet-soft and cruelly affectionate. “I’m counting on it. Make it interesting.”

He straightens and strolls away, leaving you with the echo of his laughter and the suffocating reality of your own name tied to Aemond’s.

You turn back toward the hall just in time to see him looking at you.

Aemond’s gaze finds yours like a blade finding its sheath.

He inclines his head—polite.

Possessive.

And something in you snaps.

Fine, you think.

If I am to be trapped, then I will become a cage of thorns.

⸻

You declare war the next morning.

It begins with a simple plan: inconvenience him at every turn until he regrets ever agreeing to this betrothal. Make him wish he’d married a rock.

You start small.

When Aemond arrives for your first “getting-to-know-you” walk in the gardens, you are fifteen minutes late.

Then twenty.

Then you appear carrying an apple, chewing like you’re in a stable and not the Red Keep.

Aemond waits the entire time, hands clasped behind his back, posture perfect, not a flicker of irritation on his face.

When you finally stroll up, you smile sweetly. “Oh. Were you waiting?”

“Yes,” he says.

No bite. No anger. Not even sarcasm.

Just yes.

You blink, thrown off.

You recover quickly. “How unfortunate for you.”

Aemond’s visible eye drags over you, unhurried, assessing. “If you hoped to provoke me, you should have been later.”

Your jaw clenches. “I was later.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “It did not work.”

You stop walking. “Why are you like this?”

Aemond keeps moving, forcing you to follow or look childish. “Because I was trained.”

You match his pace, seething. “Trained to be insufferable?”

Aemond’s mouth twitches—almost a smile. “Trained not to be moved by tantrums.”

You gasp in outrage, scandalized. “Tantrum?”

He glances at you, calm as still water. “What would you call it?”

“Principled resistance,” you snap.

Aemond nods once as if filing it away. “A principled resistance that arrived twenty minutes late with apple on your breath.”

You choke on your fury, and he—Seven save you—keeps walking like your anger is weather.

Fine.

Plan two.

If you can’t break him with lateness, you’ll break his routine.

You start showing up everywhere.

Training yard? You’re there—sitting on the fence, commenting too loudly on every strike.

“Too slow.”

“That one was decent. For a prince.”

“You missed an opening. I saw it from here.”

Aemond doesn’t look at you. He doesn’t pause.

But his sparring partner starts sweating more.

Library? You take the chair he always uses, draping yourself across it like a lounging dragon.

When he enters and sees you, he stops.

Finally, a crack.

You grin. “Oh no. Is this your special chair?”

Aemond’s gaze doesn’t flicker. “Move.”

“Make me.”

He sets his book down, leans over you slightly, and speaks in a low voice that should not send a shiver down your spine.

“I will.”

Your heart stutters—annoyingly.

You sit up fast. “I meant in a social way.”

Aemond blinks once. “Then your threat was poorly worded.”

You glare. “You’re enjoying this.”

Aemond takes the chair beside yours instead, smooth as silk, and opens his book. “I am tolerating you.”

You scoff. “Same.”

Except you aren’t reading.

You’re watching the way he turns pages with careful hands. The way his focus is absolute. The way he doesn’t give you what you want—reaction—because he refuses to hand you power.

It would be infuriating…

…if it wasn’t also strangely safe.

The realization makes you angrier than anything else.

So you escalate.

At dinner, you announce loudly, “I’ve decided I will not be attending any betrothal celebrations.”

Alicent’s smile tightens. Daemon looks delighted. Half the room holds its breath.

Aemond sips his wine.

Then he sets the cup down and says, very calmly, “You may refuse celebrations. You may refuse smiles. You may refuse embroidery and songs.”

You narrow your eyes.

“But you will not refuse respect,” Aemond continues, voice even. “Not from me. Not for you. Not in front of everyone who would like to see you made small.”

The hall goes quiet.

You feel it—those watching eyes. Those waiting jaws.

You hate the way his words land like a shield you didn’t ask for.

You hate even more that part of you wants to step behind it.

So you lift your chin. “I don’t need you to protect me.”

Aemond’s gaze meets yours, unblinking. “Good.”

You blink. “Good?”

“Yes,” he says. “Because I am not offering protection. I am offering partnership.”

The word hits you in the ribs.

Not because you believe it.

Because you want to.

You stand so abruptly your chair scrapes the floor. “Enjoy your… partnership.”

You storm out.

And you do not notice—until later—that Aemond does not watch you like a prize.

He watches you like a problem he’s decided to solve gently.

⸻

It rains the night everything changes.

Not a soft drizzle—real rain, heavy enough to make the castle smell like stone and storm.

You slip out because you can’t breathe inside those halls. Because your father’s laughter and the Queen’s careful looks and the endless murmurs have you feeling like a dragon trapped in a jewelry box.

You end up on a balcony slick with water, hair damp, hands braced on the stone.

You whisper to the dark, furious, “I will not be owned.”

Behind you, a voice answers—quiet enough not to startle you.

“Then don’t be.”

You spin.

Aemond stands under the archway, cloak dark and dripping at the edges. He looks like the night made him and then taught him manners.

“I didn’t hear you come,” you snap, because anger is easier than vulnerability.

“I didn’t announce myself,” he agrees.

You huff. “Spying?”

Aemond steps closer—but stops at a distance that’s respectful, deliberate. “No.”

“Then why are you here?” you demand.

Aemond’s gaze slides over your damp hair, the tension in your shoulders. Something in his expression shifts—so subtle it’s almost nothing.

Concern.

“I saw you leave,” he admits. “And I followed.”

Your throat tightens. “To drag me back?”

Aemond shakes his head once. “To make sure you didn’t fall.”

You scoff, defensive. “I don’t fall.”

His mouth twitches. “Everyone falls.”

The rain thunders around you both. The castle feels far away, and for once, the world has no audience.

You swallow, voice smaller despite yourself. “I don’t want this.”

Aemond’s gaze holds yours. “I know.”

The simple certainty of it steals your breath.

You glare, trying to recover. “If you know, then why agree?”

Aemond’s jaw tightens. He looks away for the briefest second, like the truth is a blade he has to choose to pick up.

“Because I was raised to obey,” he says quietly. “And because I… wanted something I was not supposed to want.”

Your pulse stumbles. “What?”

Aemond looks back at you. The rain makes his hair darker, makes him look less like a statue and more like a man.

“A life that is not chaos,” he says. “A wife who does not fear me. Someone who fights me honestly instead of whispering behind my back.”

You scoff, but it comes out weaker than you meant. “So you chose Daemon’s daughter?”

Aemond’s mouth curves, faint. “Yes.”

“Because you wanted peace?” you challenge.

Aemond’s gaze doesn’t waver. “Because I wanted truth.”

You hate that your heart does something stupid.

You hate even more that it feels like relief.

You take a shaky breath. “I swore I’d make your life a living hell.”

Aemond nods. “You have tried.”

“And?” you press, needing him to say it—needing him to admit you’ve won.

Aemond steps just a little closer. “And I find it… preferable to silence.”

Your brows knit. “Preferable?”

“Yes,” he says, voice low. “Because when you are loud, I know where you are. I know you are alive. I know you haven’t been crushed into politeness.”

Your chest aches, sharp and unexpected.

You look away quickly. “You’re speaking like you—like you care.”

Aemond’s voice softens. “I do.”

The word is so simple it’s almost unbearable.

You whisper, angry because your eyes burn, “Don’t.”

Aemond’s gaze flicks to your face. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t make it harder,” you say, voice shaking. “If you start being… kind, I’ll have to stop hating you.”

Aemond’s expression shifts, something warm and dangerous in it.

“Is that so terrible?” he asks.

You swallow. “It’s inconvenient.”

Aemond’s almost-smile returns. “You’ve made inconvenience your art.”

You let out a laugh—short, unwilling.

And then you realize it’s the first time you’ve laughed near him without meaning it as a weapon.

The rain continues.

Aemond holds out his hand—open, steady, not grabbing.

Not demanding.

Offering.

“Come inside,” he says gently. “You’re cold.”

You stare at his hand like it’s a trap.

Then you look at his face.

He’s waiting.

Not forcing.

You place your hand in his.

His fingers close around yours—warm, careful.

And the world doesn’t end.

⸻

The next day, you test him.

Of course you do.

You sit beside him at breakfast, too close, just to see if he’ll flinch. “You’re smiling.”

Aemond doesn’t look up from his cup. “No, I’m not.”

“You are,” you insist.

He finally glances at you. “Perhaps I am simply… less miserable.”

You lean in, voice sweet. “Careful, Prince. People will think you like me.”

Aemond’s gaze drags over your face, slow and unapologetic.

“Let them,” he says.

You choke slightly on your own air. “Bold.”

Aemond takes a sip of tea. “You’ve had a poor influence on me.”

You blink. “Me?”

“Yes,” he says, utterly serious. “You are… loud.”

You grin despite yourself. “Thank you.”

“That was not a compliment,” he replies.

You grin wider. “It sounded like one.”

Aemond’s mouth twitches. “Insufferable.”

“Agreed,” you say brightly, and steal a bite of his bread just to watch his eye narrow.

He doesn’t stop you.

He just slides the plate closer.

And that—somehow—feels more intimate than any grand declaration.

Later, in a corridor lined with painted dragons, Aemond catches you by the wrist—not hard. Just enough to stop you from marching away when you spot your father.

You bristle instantly. “Let go.”

Aemond does.

Immediately.

Then he says, quietly, “I am not your jailer.”

You freeze.

Aemond’s voice lowers. “And I won’t be your enemy unless you truly want me to be.”

You look at him—really look.

At the discipline that hides loneliness. At the sharpness that’s been mistaken for cruelty. At the way he gives you space even when he wants closeness.

Your throat tightens.

You mutter, very begrudgingly, “I don’t.”

Aemond’s gaze softens—just a fraction. “Good.”

You lift your chin. “But I reserve the right to be difficult.”

Aemond’s almost-smile returns. “I would be disappointed if you weren’t.”

Your heart does something stupid again.

You roll your eyes to hide it. “If you tell anyone I’m warming up to you, I’ll deny it.”

Aemond leans closer, voice low like a secret meant only for you. “Then deny it.”

You narrow your eyes. “And you?”

Aemond’s gaze flicks to your mouth, then back to your eyes.

“I won’t,” he says.

You swallow.

“Because,” he adds, quieter still, “I like you exactly as you are. Hell and all.”

Your breath catches.

You hate it.

You love it.

You stare up at him, cheeks warm, and whisper like it’s a threat: “I’m still going to make your life difficult.”

Aemond’s thumb brushes your knuckles—brief, careful—like he’s memorizing the shape of your hand.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Stay.”

And for the first time since the betrothal, you don’t feel trapped.

You feel… chosen.

Even by yourself.

A god among men, that’s how Aemond feels when he closes his eye and lets Vhagar float in the air, flapping her wings once in a while to get to King’s Landing faster. He remembers the nights he prayed to the gods to give him strength, to change his destiny, and to give him a happy life, but today, with his she-dragon soaring through the clouds, he took his faith in his own hands and became a God himself.

A delicious ache in his muscles seeps through his bones, but it is nothing compared to the rush of euphoria he feels as he imagines himself on the throne with his uncle’s head beneath his foot and his queen by his side.

His queen, you, oh how he has done all of this for you. He has turned into a monster, soaked his hand in the blood of his kin while he thought of you, and how he deserves to have a queen befitting him and his reign.

He knows what he must tell the council and his mother, something that surely aligns with Cole’s words, but what he has to say to you has been worded out for so long that he cannot believe his plan has finally reached so far to this point to utter them to you.

He sighs as he feels his pants tighten — at the thought of you and the weight of the Conqueror's crown — and to his luck, the city comes into his view, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth while he guides Vhagar atop Visenya’s hill. He catches the sight of two Dragonkeepers and a horse ready for him, watching how they scurry away from the old she-dragon and wait for her to land.

Vhagar’s body shakes the ground as her feet keep her body secured, and Aemond rubs her scales softly before he climbs down the ropes of his saddle, jumping on the grass before he shushes the dragon again, mumbling a soft ‘Lykiri’ against her snouts.

He doesn’t spare a glance at the Dragonkeepers, he moves past them to the guard who hands him the reins of the horse, and Aemond swings his leg over the saddle before guiding the horse down the hill, bolting through the streets of the city.

The wind blows through his hair as he rides the horse to the Red Keep’s gates, lords and ladies move out of his way quickly, making room for their prince so he can lead his horse to the yard. The guards are fast on their feet to reach for the reins, stopping the animal so Aemond can step down.

He jumps down, patting the neck of the mare before he strides forward inside the castle, the court is already fussy with anticipation of what has befallen their king, but Aemond has one person in his mind that he wishes to seek out.

“Aemond!” The sound of his mother stops him on the stairs, and he looks up to see her running towards him with shock and disbelief on her face, “what’s happened?”

“We took the castle,” he says calmly, almost dismissively, “our king graced us with his presence on the battlefield. We won.”

He tries to move past Alicent with a shrug, but she grabs his arm tightly, forcing him to look her in the eyes before she asks what has been bothering her ever since Sunfyre took the sky earlier that day. But with the look Aemond gives her, she closes her mouth silently, nodding before she departs towards the main entrance of the castle, waiting for the hand to come back to the city.

Aemond scoffs and takes long steps toward the royal chambers on the upper floors, passing the servants who shield themselves from his gaze as he goes past them. 

He knows the path leading to the queen’s chambers like the back of his hand; through the stairs and Maegor’s tunnels — He has walked each way for many nights just to stay behind your doors and listen to your sweet voice talking to your daughter or handmaidens.

Aemond remembers the day you were wed to his brother, covered in a beautiful white and golden gown that brought out your curves to his eye. He was infatuated from the moment he laid his eye on you, and after such a long time, that infatuation has turned into something more primal and possessive, something that he thinks his brother does not deserve, that is befitting of Aemond and not the drunken fool who’s your husband.

Each step he takes adds more to the post-battle euphoria he’s experiencing — now that he’s the heir and the most powerful man, he deems himself fit to not just rule over the kingdom of ash and bone that is about to endure more battles, but to have his queen by his side. What better woman than the already beautiful creature that lies in an attached chamber to the king’s?

A ghost of a smirk forms on his face with each second that he walks within the hallways that lead to your chambers, his chin held high and his fingers itching with excitement in his leather gloves as he locks them behind his back.

Aemond licks his bottom lip, his blood rushing down to his core at the thought of the sight of you heavy with his child and the Conqueror’s crown atop your head. His queen, even the sound of it in his head seems right.

When he reaches your door, he pushes it without knocking, finding you already pacing with a wet handkerchief clutched in your hand.

Sweet sweet lady, the queen of his dreams, he basks in the way you carry yourself with worry for your husband. What a good wife he wishes to say, but no, a good wife to his idiot brother is not much better than a slur.

But to him? Oh, how much of a phenomenal bride-to-be you’d make for him, someone who is kind and deserving of his reign.

“My queen,” he says, standing straight when your head snaps in his direction, concern weaved into your features already. He takes in a deep breath as his eye runs over your form — a red long-sleeved gown with black dragons embroidered on it, your hair wild and free from your usual braids.

“Aemond!” You rest your hand against your heart as you take a few steps towards him, “What has befallen us? Aegon, he—“

“Shh,” he gently shushes you, his gloved hands coming to rest on your elbows, holding your body close to his, “we have won the battle. The castle has fallen and the false queen can no longer have a ground army.”

“That is great!” You utter, “But— what of our king? My husband? Aemond, is he alright?”

He smiles gently, a smile that does in fact reach his eye. There is a malicious look he has that it seems you fail to notice, because even his mother hesitated to let him go easily, but you? No, your soft and loving nature could never go past his mask.

“He is…”

“What? Please, Aemond is he—“ 

“No, no,” he replies quickly, one of his hands coming up to rest on your cheek, “he fought well, and he is alive,” he caresses your cheek as his eye meets yours, thinking how beautiful you look all worried about your husband, soon you’d be looking worried about him and not his brother.

“But…”

“But what? Is he hurt?” You grip his forearm tightly, looking up at him with tears stinging your eyes, “Tell me, please, Aemond, what’s happened to my husband?”

“He’s alive but on the brink of death. The traitor Rhaenys… your grace, such stories are not meant to be heard by a gentle soul like you—“

“I wish to know! What have they done to my husband?!” You demand him to tell you, and Aemond sighs deeply, but the buzz of excitement makes him even more determined.

Sweet lamb falling right into his trap.

“He took the skies quite suddenly, I had little time to meet him in the air. Meleys and her bitch of a rider had their claws in our king, and however fearsome he is, he could do naught.”

With each word that falls from his lips, more tears drop from your lashes, and he feels how numb you’re slowly getting in his arms.

“Sunfyre and Aegon… they survived Dragonfire, but—“

“Gods be good!” You gasp, a sob wrecking your body as he tries to shush you, a gloved finger reaching to wipe away your tears gently.

“I found him; burnt, broken but breathing,” he kisses your forehead, smirking against your skin, “he told me — had me promising him — to make haste and seek you out, to take care of your every wish.”

“Thank the gods!” You ask him, craning your neck to look into his eye, “What else did he say?”

He can’t answer you, not when you look at him with such a yearning, eyes full of tears and longing for condolences. He smooths his finger over your eyebrows, creasing your frown before he leans down and presses another kiss to your cheek.

“I could not say, he was weary, but…” his other hand comes to cup your face, “he told me to answer to your every whim, and that you should stay by my side until he has healed and help me rule.”

“But shouldn’t I take care of him?” You ask, eyes narrowing as he gently backs you up towards your bed, “Aemond, what are—“

“My queen, do you trust me?” He asks as he trails a path from your cheek to the column of your throat with his nose, “I will take care of you, all of your needs. That is what our king wanted, how cruel would we be if we do not obey his commands?”

“We would break his heart,” you whisper, inhaling sharply when he hovers his lips against yours, “we should do as he asks.”

“Hmm, yes, we should,” he closes the gap between the two of you, his lips moving along yours slowly for he feels how you quiver and meet his lips hesitantly.

He kisses you gently at first, hands moving down towards your waist to pull on the strings of your gown, long gloved fingers working on it until the red fabric loses its grip around your waist. Aemond pushes the gown off your shoulders, caressing your skin with the back of his hand before he lets your dress pool around your ankles.

His lips move against yours passionately, his tongue exploring your mouth for the first time, and he lets himself get lost in your taste — sweet with a tinge of lime, hinting that you’ve had lemon cake earlier.

He pushes you onto the bed after he helps you out of your shift, leaving you bare to his hungry gaze. He pulls his gloves off by his teeth, dropping each on the floor next to your discarded clothes, soon to be followed by his belt and dagger.

He can hear the rumbles of his men walking back to the city, but now all his attention is on you, and how he has to take what he has promised himself. 

Aemond doesn’t take his clothes off, he would if he were a lesser man, but now, he’s determined, ready to take the promised prize and faith the Gods have granted him — but no god is intelligent enough to set you as his prize. It’s always been him and his schemes.

He pushes his leather pants down enough to free his aching cock, swiping his finger across your wet slit, eliciting a moan out of both of you as he keeps rubbing your pearl firmly, basking in your whines of pleasure.

His free hand strokes himself to full hardness, thinking of your upcoming wedding night and how he’d take you in front of the council on the bedding from behind, chaining you to him like the religion that has chained his mother to the Seven.

You fist the bedsheets, back arching as soon as he covers your body with his and guides his cock to your soaked entrance. He watches how your lips part in a silent plea when he breaches your cunt, groaning as soon as your walls envelop his length.

“Oh, Aemond—“You reach for him desperately when he sheathes himself inside you completely, not letting you adjust to his size for more than a mere second before setting up his pace, bullying his cock deep inside you with each smooth stroke.

It’s empowering to see you all nude and luscious on your bed taking his cock like you were shaped just for him to do so — maybe you were made for him, molded into this perfect lady to be desired and cherished by him.

“Aren’t you the most beautiful queen the realm has ever seen?” He asks, his eye is hazy with lust as he fucks you harder, finding deep pleasure in how he’s fully clothed and you are bare as the day you were born. He takes pride in having you putty in his hands.

He cages you under him, his lips slotting against yours once more as he licks his way into your mouth while he slams his shaft inside your tight cunt with abandon.

“Gods, oh– I’m— ah!”

“You only have one god, my darling, and that is me,” he groans against your lips, his leather coat brushing against your heated skin while the tip of his cock nudges against your sweet spot that has you seeing stars, “Worship me at your altar, just as your husband wanted.”

You come with a cry of his name, sending him over the edge with your sweet moans of euphoria. He bruises himself to a halt, emptying his sack with ropes of his cum inside you, making sure to make the next king of the Seven Kingdoms with his queen.

The way your face scrunches in pleasure has him almost coming again, knowing it was him who gave you such a blinding peak that has you shaking in his arms.

The sounds of footsteps rushing past your door to the King’s chambers have the two of you scurrying and parting from each other. You are clumsy with how you put on your dress with Aemond’s warm seed dribbling down your thighs, but your husband’s home, your king.

Aemond tucks himself back into his pants, following you out of your chambers into his brother’s only to find the maesters and his mother already there, tending to his burns and wounds.

“Aegon, my love—“ he doesn’t listen to what you say as you try to make room for yourself among the men, wanting to reach for your husband.

“Someone has to rule in his stead,” Aemond exclaims as he leans on the headboard of the bed, looking down at his handiwork before he catches your eyes as you smile with teary eyes at him, nodding to Alicent in encouragement.