#arcielee

It's late, too late for you to be anywhere but your own bed. Although the lights outside have faded to black, there is a fire between your thighs, and you seek the one who has sparked it.

It is the elder brother known for depravity. He takes what he wants and doesn't care for the whims of his targets. The young brother isn't like that, though. When he had first taken you roughly by the throat and pinned you to the wall, he had waited for you to say yes before continuing. Soon, he had you not just consenting but begging.

So that's why you slip into the prince's chamber under the guise of a full plate and flagon of wine. It's a sweet pink wine, less strong than the Arbour red his brother seeks oblivion with. Prince Aemond is sat in front of the great fireplace, and he turns his head to watch you slip in. His eye is fixed on you as you set the food down on the table and pour a cup of wine. With your gaze on the floor, you walk over to him and present it to him.

"I did not summon you." His voice is quiet. He looks at the cup, and then back at your face. He doesn't take it.

"No, my prince, you didn't." His voice is like silk over your skin, slipping across it and holding you fast.

"Then why did you come?"

"To serve."

His lips quirk up at that. "Try again."

Your eyes flick up to meet his. His silver hair almost looks gold in the light of the flames. "To take."

"Hmm."

With more boldness than you actually feel, you raise the cup brought for him to your own lips, and take a long sip.

"Is it just my wine you wish to take?" he asks.

You lick your lips. "What else are you willing to give?"

"Well, that's the thing about taking, isn't it? It can't be taken if it's freely given."

You try to hide your grin. Prince Aemond thinks he is far cleverer than he actually is. The folly of those born to high stations is misplaced confidence, you think. They always believe themselves to be the wisest and most intelligent people in any room they occupy. But they don't know anything, not really. "Oh, I don't know about that. I'd say you thoroughly took what was freely given."

Prince Aemond reaches out a hand and touches your skirt. "It matters not whether it was freely given or otherwise. As you said, you come here to serve."

"I am a servant, not a slave," you reply as you take a step back.

He watches you intently. "You think there is a difference?"

"You think there is not?"

"I still have my free will, my prince."

"Is that so?"

You nod.

"So if you wished to leave, you would, even if I commanded you to stay?" He stands up and takes a step towards you.

You have to tilt your chin up to look at him. "Why would you command me to stay?"

"For the same reason you came in the first place."

"What if I've changed my mind?"

He gently grasps your chin and brings his face closer to yours. You hate how being this close to him makes your eyes close. "Then we return to the matter of taking what is not freely given."

"I don't think you'd do that to me," you breathe. "You are not your brother."

"Hmm. Do you wish I was?"

"Do you wish that?"

His touch is rougher. Suddenly, he spins you in his arms and the cup of wine goes flying from your hands and clatters on the floor. Some spills into the fire, and it spits angrily. The prince's arms wrap around you possessively to pull your back against his chest. "You forget yourself, wench."

"I'm no wench," you remind him smugly. "You don't pay me for my cunt."

When he hisses against your ear, you press back against him. "Perhaps I should. Perhaps then you would remember your place."

"And what is my place, my prince?" You cover his hands with your own, and grasp his fingers through yours. It's satisfying how quickly he welcomes the touch.

"To not ask questions."

You laugh breathlessly. Against your backside, you can feel something hard press between you. He's as eager as a virgin. He was like that last time, too. A few exchanged words, one heated embrace, and he was aching. Perhaps he's neglected, touch starved. Ladies of the court are too afraid to approach him, and servants can't even look upon his face. It is lonely, perhaps, to be feared like this. Fear has always made you wet.

"You think I'm funny?" he asks between wet kisses to your neck. One hand moves to press between your legs over your linen uniform. The other tears off the cap you wear, and your hair falls free.

"I think you're needier than any man I've ever had before."

He bites the seam of your neck and shoulder. "You have other men?"

His attentions make your eyes close. "Of course. My favourite is one of the stable hands. He brings me flowers."

"I shall cut off his hands so he can do it no longer."

"Why?" you ask breathlessly. He is grinding hard against you now, rubbing his cock to your backside in steady thrusts that make you clench desperately around nothing. "Are you going to bring me flowers instead?"

"No." With one hand still applying pressure between your legs, the other roughly grabs your jaw and turns you to catch his deep kiss. It's messy, possessive, deep. He can taste the sweet wine on your tongue. You taste the fire on his. He groans between sloppy kisses. "But that doesn't mean someone else can."

Kisses have always been your weakness. You can't come without them. Prince Aemond found that out last time. Now, they're his weapon. Suddenly his hands are gone from you and he clasps them behind his back, and he seems to relish how quickly you turn around to properly face him and grab him. This time, it's your arms that hold him close - one is thrown around his neck to drag him down to you, and the other is around his narrow waist. He's more slender than you, and sharper, too. Last time, he swore how much he liked that you were soft and warm for him.

His breathing is raggedy against your intense kisses. His voice is no louder than a whisper. "Take off your fucking uniform."

Without missing a beat, you reply, "take it off for me."

That makes his head jerk back, and you see him bite his lip. He looks conflicted as he stares down at you with his one good eye. How much you want to see him without his eye patch. But that is the line he has drawn - that is something he will not share with you. Still, after a moment, he obeys you, and pulls off the red overdress, and then the pale shift beneath.

"No undergarments?" he murmurs as you stand bare before him, only your stockings and shoes still on. You wear the stockings that you paid a gold dragon for - there are silk ribbons at the top to keep them clinging to your thighs, and they're blue. Everyone knows a sapphire has replaced Prince Aemond's eye.

"I'd hoped to see my stable man," you lie.

It makes his lip twitch, and he shoves you roughly to the table where the food is long forgotten. "I'll cut off his cock, too."

"You want to be the only one who fucks me, my prince?"

"What did I tell you about questions?" As he gives you another burning kiss, he fumbles with his breeches. You hop onto the table and spread your legs wide for him, and as he sinks into you, you play with yourself.

"Oh, fuck!" you whine. He fits into you like he was made for you.

The mighty Prince Aemond of House Targaryen, lord of the skies, is reduced to a panting mess between your thighs. "You want this?"

"Yes!" The reply is ripped from you before you even have time to think. He holds your hips as he fucks you on the table. In the quiet chamber, the sound of wet skin slapping is obscene, especially mingled with his deep grunts and your high sighs. "Kiss me! Please!"

The prince doesn't. Instead, he wraps one hand around your throat again - how much he loves to do that, you think - and makes you lie back on the table. It's hard and uncomfortable, and you have to arch your spine to be comfortable. The change in angle is good, though. It means he can be faster, harder, deeper. With you where he wants you, he runs his hand to your chest and palms your breast hard. Then, he does kiss you, but not where you want him. His lips find your neck again, and then your shoulder. When he bites your collarbone, you wrap your legs around his hips.

What a sight you must be. How much you'd like to watch this, you think - you completely bare, the prince fully clothed. Even his hair is still worn half-up. Enough is loose to spill onto your chest when he suckles on your breast, though. It'll bruise, no doubt. Prince Aemond will never bring you flowers, but he'll give you blooms under your skin.

He pounds into you relentlessly. When he stands upright, he tries to push away your hand and drive the pleasure himself.

"You don't do it right," you whine, slapping his hand.

"Show me."

"No. Just- shit! Just keep fucking- oh, Gods, just keep fucking me!"

"Show me."

He's so demanding, so determined to learn. So as he pounds his cock into your cunt, you let his hand cover yours over your clit as you rub the flat of your fingers hard and fast. It's not gentle or teasing, not careful - it's hard, pushing yourself between your digits and the bones beneath. A testament to how high he's pushing you.

"I've got it," he grunts.

You fling your arms over your head and let him take over. "Harder," you moan. He obeys. But he's afraid of hurting you. "Harder!"

He glances up at your face with uncertainty in his eye.

"Fucking harder, my prince!" When his fingers are hard enough to bruise, you cry out in approval. "Yes! Yes, just like that! Oh, gods- don't- don't stop!"

The tightness of impeding completion scurries up and down your thighs until they're tight and heavy with it, and your stomach aches. It's coming quickly, but no matter how good he is, how attentive, there's something more you need.

Your body's response to his harsh ministrations pushes him over the edge first. He barely pulls out in time to come across your hip. He pants and groans, his seed as white as his hair. But he's good to you, and even as his orgasm makes his eye roll back and stomach tense and thighs shake, he rubs your cunt fiercely. There's incredible self control in the way he doesn't falter in the rhythm you set together.

"Kiss me!" you beg. The sight and sound of his completion is almost enough to push you over the edge, but you need that pressure, you need that taste, you need-

His mouth takes yours roughly again. It's all lips and tongue and teeth, as hard here as his hand between your legs. It chokes you, steals your breath, blinds you. When you come, you scream for the gods. He rubs you harshly through it, kissing you as you writhe and squirm, as your legs tense and clutch him closer.

"Fuck!" you cry. Tears leak from your eyes. "Stop, stop!"

Prince Aemond stills his hand but keeps it pressed against you. You're glad for the pressure. "I can feel your heart racing here."

You moan softly, and laugh. "Yes, my prince. There's a heartbeat between your thighs, too."

You stretch on the tabletop, and watch as he tucks himself back into his breeches. There's the glisten of seed on his cock still, and you wish he'd let you suck him clean. Instead, you catch his spend on your hip, and trace small patterns with it. He glances at you and sees you lick your finger clean.

"Don't do that."

"Mm. Why not?"

"It is filth."

"It is dragonseed. Is that not sacred?"

He snorts. But still, when you pull him down to kiss warmly, he doesn't protest. "Mmph. It's bitter."

You smile against his lips. "Then eat more fruit. Be sweeter for me."

Prince Aemond is more tender with you this time. Last time, he had seemed ashamed for what you had shared together, and he had sent you quickly from his chambers. This time, though, he enjoys kissing you. He touches the bruises his lips left in moments of passion, and he leaves you only to find a damp cloth to wipe off his spend.

"You would make a fine servant," you giggle as he cleans you. You're still lying back on the table. Maybe when he dines here with his mother and sister tomorrow, he'll think of fucking you again. "So dutiful."

"And you would make a fine lady," he murmurs. "So brazen."

"Do you like your ladies brazen?"

He answers quickly and quietly. "No. But I like you."

Of all the obscene moments you've shared with him, this is the one that makes you blush. "Well then, it is good I was born low, and you were born high. If this is the only way I can have you, so be it."

"You think you have me?" he asks, his brow arched.

‘After the Prince Aemond had murdered his nephew, the Prince Lucerys Velaryon, with his dragon Vhagar, the usurped Queen Rhaenyra went mad with grief over hearing the news of the death of her son. That night, and for many after, all that could be heard from her chambers by her handmaidens and guards alike, were cries of sadness and begs for the gods to be bring her son back to her into the safely of her arms.

Her husband however, the King Regent Daemon Targaryen, after hearing the words of his sons death, did not cry to mourn his niece-wife. Instead, he vowed a new retribution was to take place to honour Lucerys death.

As whilst the Prince Aemond had successfully enacted his vow for an eye for an eye, he had also unknowingly paved the way towards Daemons vow. His vow, for a son for a son.

Aemond Targaryens only son had not even passed his first name day. The babe was a quiet one, like his father had been, and had been named Maelos. Though whilst his father set his future in stone, the boy peacefully laid in his mother’s arms as she herself sat by the fire, both blissfully unaware of what the one-eyed prince had set in stone.‘

‘After Blood and Cheese had come for the young Maelos, the boys mother held her son in her arms and refused to let anyone but herself touch the body. “He’s my son!” She would yell, over and over when anyone got close enough.

The only person she allowed to touch the corpse in her arms was the prince Aemond, who by the end of the next moons turn, had somehow managed to persuade his lady-wife to release her grip and let their son be burned by the princes own dragon Vhagar for his funeral.

The prince and his wife never had more children after their sons murder. Even after being encouraged both by the Hand and the other maesters alike.

Even after the prince Aemond had been crowned as Prince Regent, and the efforts were tripled to convince his wife to give him a male heir, no child was ever birthed by the woman.

When asked one morn by an unknown handmaiden, supposedly she had whispered back to her, “If I was to bring forth a child now, it would be a swifter and easier death for them to be eaten for our dinner, then for me to let them be brought forth into this world…” as she looked into the fireplace she used to sit by holding her son as she sang to him.

It seems the princess was right in a way, as her husband died not long after she supposedly spoke those words. Overcome by the grief however, she allowed herself to fall from her tower and be impaled by the sharp spikes below.

The princess and Aemonds only remaining child, the princess Visenya, was a girl shy of her seventh name day when she lost her mother, and by the end of the day, she was all that was left of their shared blood. She grew to be as fierce as her father had been, never allowing any man diminish her fire.

The princess though was pardoned by her cousins, and soon after travelled to the north, where she married a lower lord who felt no issue in fanning her flames. She was supposedly called to be her name sake reborn, as not only did she birth only a single son, but she got all the north to fear her just as all had feared the original Visenya.

Here is a snippet for Sweetest Devotion - note it's still rough as in no complete sentences lol

For Unknown/Nth, I can give you this - again, its spewed vomit and might not make sense, i.e. it could change, but the idea would remain the same 😂

"Good. Alright, the easiest way to incapacitate your opponent is by taking out one leg. Do you remember how to do this?"

"No." Aegon frowns slightly. "How do you?"

Aemond rolls up the sleeves of his loose shirt, his leather jerkin long since discarded. Aegon's room is warm in the autumn heat, and trying to teach him even the basics of wrestling that he has neglected for years is strenuous. "I pay attention when required."

Aegon makes a face in mockery, and Aemond bites the inside of his cheek to stop from berating him. "Fine. What now?"

"Look at how I am standing."

Aegon rakes his eyes appreciatively over his younger brother's form. He's lithe, tall, narrow, quite a man to look at now he's grown. He smirks slightly. "I am looking."

Aemond swallows. "Most opponents will have one leg in front of the other, whether it be conscious or otherwise. That is the leg you will aim for. Keep your balance low, and come closer."

Still crouching slightly, and feeling ridiculous for it, Aegon obeys.

"Now, press your chest against my thigh, and keep your head on the outside of my hip, lest I grasp it. At the same time, lock your arms around the back of my knee."

The elder does as he's told, the movements careful for once. Last time he'd been in Flea Bottom, Aegon had got in a scrap over a barmaid, and before Cargyle had stepped in, he had been knocked to the ground by a commoner. Humiliating, given how much training he has, but he is trained to fight fair. The scum of the streets do not know those rules.

He notices how Aemond tries to stay still for him, even though he seems uncomfortable. Is that...? No, Aegon must be seeing things. Things that make him grin again.

"Now brace your knee on the ground as you pull my own knee closer, and use your shoulder to push my hips."

The action is taken slowly by the elder, and he presses his shoulder experimentally against Aemond's hips to get the angle right. After a long moment of repeating each component, Aemond steps back. "Good. Now try it all in one go."

Aegon takes in a breath and nods, trying to remember it. He lunges quickly towards Aemond, keeping low, and does what he's been told. To his delight, Aemond ends up flat on his back, with his long leg around his brother's hip. He grunts quietly and nods, bright hair splayed around his head like a crown.

"As easy as that?" Aegon asks.

"Can be," comes the reply. "Not all of your opponents will be as pliant as I."

That sounds like a challenge, and Aegon smirks. He tries to keep the upper hand by leaning over him and grasping him by the throat, but Aemond is too quick. Before Aegon can even understand what's happening, their positions are flipped, and he's on his back with his little brother atop him.

Gods, it feels good. There's something so good about being taken control of like this, but still feeling entirely safe. It makes his cock hard. He looks up at Aemond and chuckles. "You like me on my back?"

Aemond lets go of him with a huff. "Don't be obscene."

Immediately, Aegon sits up and tries to grab him, and again, he's beaten easily. But this time, he locks his legs around his little brother's slender hips and keeps him close. "Ah, I thought I noticed that," he drawls. "Is this why you did not care for that whore I paid for, all those years ago? Should I have bought you a boy?"

Aemond's lip twitches in a snarl. "It's nothing."

"Are you a pillow-biter, little brother?" It's only a tease, though, and feeling Aemond's hard cock press against his own excites him. Wrestling him slowly like this has his blood running hot.

"Let me go."

"No. I think I'm going to enjoy this." He rolls his hips up a few times and bites his lip in pleasure. He grasps Aemond's face in his hands and watches him as he does it. The younger seems to like it, against all odds. "Ah, doesn't that feel good?"

In his loose breeches, his cock aches. He's thought of Aemond when he's touched himself before, and there's no shame in it. The other is a fine man. Handsome, noble, fearsome. Everything a Targaryen should be - and everything he is not. He wraps his legs tighter around him and grinds up harder.

"Gods," he swears. "Do you think about fucking me?"

"No." But Aemond's cheeks are red, and he's no longer trying to get free. He swallows thickly, and then, he begins to move, too. Hesitantly, he props himself up, and his elegant hands go to Aegon's waist.

"I think about fucking you," Aegon admits, grinning. "How could anyone love the likes of us, but each other, anyway?"

Aemond bites his lip, and he begins to set the pace. His breeches are loose, too, and it allows them both to feel everything. Aemond is as practically untouched as a virgin, Aegon is sure, and whilst he certainly isn't, having him between his thighs is making him almost delirious.

"Only a Targaryen can love a Targaryen," Aegon continues, cackling. "Do you love me, brother?"

Aemond grunts in response. His one good eye is fixed on the lumps in their trousers, watching how they rub together. His speed quickens and Aegon moans in appreciation.

"Oh, yes, just like that," he encourages. "I didn't know you had it in you! Go on, don't disappoint me."

Barely audible, Aemond mutters, "I won't."

Neither brother lasts long grinding together. Aegon's hands bury into Aemond's hair as he gets close, and he pulls it roughly as he spills, his name on his lips. Aemond follows quickly, nothing more than a stifled moan sounding in his throat. Aegon looks between them in satisfaction to see the little wet patch on Aemond's breeches.

He thinks about licking him clean. Another time, perhaps. His heart is racing from his orgasm, and he feels as light as a feather on the stone floor of his chamber. Thighs go loose and he lets him go. Aemond kneels in front of him for a moment, before standing up.

He runs a hand through his hair, and walks over to the window and back, before helping Aegon to his feet. "Well. Shall we continue?"