#ewanmitchell

What Aemond and I share is not easily named. We have long lived as though bound, though no vows were ever spoken. We have loved as though wed, though no sept has witnessed it. Do not think I was misled into such a path. I knew well what I risked, and what it might yet cost me, should the truth be known.

“Fuck– That’s it, love–” He groaned lowly, leaning his head back, squeezing my arse. I immediately leaned down, taking advantage of his exposed neck to kiss it, bite it. It wasn't a big problem, he covered it with his high collar coat. He immediately wrapped his arms around me, keeping my breasts and stomach pressed tightly against him, as he started pushing he hips up, fucking me from beneath me. I immediately kissed him, trying to make him swallow all the loud noises and sounds I would have loved to let the Seven Kingdoms hear.

“I’m gonna make you mine, one day–” He breathed loudly. “Marry you in the sept, and then I’ll let everyone enter at the bedding so that everyone will see and know that you’re mine.”

For years, ours was a quiet secret—stolen hours beneath the cover of night, parted at dawn before any eye could see. It was dangerous, yes, but it was ours, and in those moments, I believed I understood him better than any soul alive.

Now I see I was mistaken.

I first sensed the change in him when Vaemond Velaryon came to court, intent on exposing Rhaenyra and her sons. Aemond was… different. Calm, yet expectant. There was something in him that waited eagerly for what might unfold. I told myself it was nothing more than his long-held desire for justice—for vengeance, even—and thought little more of it.

But I remember the look in his eye when Vaemond was slain. You will have heard how it happened. Vaemond spoke treason, and Daemon answered with steel. It should have angered Aemond, for Vaemond’s words might have served his cause. And yet… he smiled.

I did not understand it then. I do not understand it now.

“Aemond–” I tried to calm him.

“No! No, this… this it’s only his fault, and yet, he gets to live in peace, hidden at Dragonstone with his whore-mother while I am here–” He groaned as he pressed his palm on his temple, then in a gesture of frustration, he tossed the eyepatch away.

“Please, brother, calm down…” I walked closer to him, taking his face in my hands, but he did not meet my eyes.

“He took my eye, and he ran away. Now I’m the one who suffers this damned headache.” He rolled his eye, but he groaned immediately after.

“Dear, please, lay down.” I walked closer, trying to push him to walk back, and after a whining groan, he ,in fact, did it. I accompanied him on his bed, and looked at him as he laid comfortably on the bed.

“I should be training.” He growled, pissed.

“You should be resting, my love.” I retorted, grabbing a cloth wetted with cold water, placing it on his forehead. He let out a sigh of relief.

“I will kill them one day.” He looked up at the ceiling. “I will find a way, but they will pay somehow.”

“Rest, Aemond.” I kissed his forehead, but he grabbed me by the back of my head, pulling my face down so my lips would be close to his.

“I love you. I’ll make you my queen.” He then kissed me roughly, but full of passion and affection

That night, after supper—the last we shared before Father’s passing—Aemond spoke openly what others only dared whisper. He named the Strong boys for what he believed them to be. When Jace struck him, Aemond did not recoil in anger or pain. He smiled again.

It frightened me.

I followed him to his chambers and did not leave until morning, when word came that the King was dead and Aegon was to succeed him. From that moment, all has moved too swiftly toward war.

There is more you have not been told.

When Aemond returned after Lucerys Velaryon’s death, he was not as he had been before. He came to me in the night, seeking comfort—but there was something in him I had never known. A darkness, sharp and unyielding. I will not burden you with the details. It is enough to say that I no longer recognized the man I thought I knew so well.

I suddenly felt cold, right after a sound of ripping. I woke up immediately, sitting up on the bed, only to be roughly pushed back. Someone had ripped open my nightgown in half, leaving me bare. I whined, panic and tears filling my eyes, and I felt a hand on my mouth.

“Shut up.” I suddenly heard him. My eyes shot to where his one eye should have been, my body relaxing immediately.

“Aemond– What–”

“I said shut up.” He growled. I gasped as he grabbed my hips and turned me around on my bed, pushing my face down on the bed.

“Aemond, wait– I’m not ready to– Ah!” I bit down the sheets to muffle as best as I could the sounds of pain as he slipped in one hard thrust inside me, and started thrusting immediately, not letting me have the time to adjust to his presence. I tried to reach him behind me, trying to make him understand that it was painful, but he grabbed my arms and held them on my back. 

I heard him laugh as he kept pushing and pushing, groaning for his pleasure.

“Rejoy, my sweet sister, The bastard is dead.” He chuckled. He leaned down, pressing my arms on their place on my back with his chest as he placed his hands beside my face.

“Luke paid his debt, now I wish to feast in your cunt.” He growled in my ear. I turned my head to the side, opening my mouth to beg him to wait a moment, but he quickly slipped his index and middle finger in it, shushing me.

“Don’t you want to make me happy, my beloved? I thought you loved me.” He slipped his fingers out of my mouth, straightening back up, gripping my hips to push my arse back to meet his strong thrusts. I simply let out a little whine, but after that I kept my mouth shut, and my body in the same place he left it. 

All I ever desired was to make him happy.

And yet… he is not always so.

There are moments—quiet, fleeting—when he softens, as though the storm within him breaks. He has wept in my presence, Daeron. Laid his head upon my lap as though he were still the boy we once knew. In those moments, he asks forgiveness, though he does not say for what. I do not know whether he seeks absolution from me, from the gods, or from himself.

It is those moments that bind me still.

And yet, I am torn.

He has chosen a Baratheon bride. You will hear of it soon enough, if you have not already. I wish I could claim indifference, but I cannot. The thought of her wounds me more deeply than I care to admit. She has done me no wrong, and still I find I cannot bear the thought of her taking the place he once swore would be mine.

He tells me she is nothing. That I remain his true love. That his promises to me yet stand.

But promises feel fragile in times such as these.

“She— She… I don’t know what you want from me, Aemond, I’m devastated…” I sniffled as I turned around and paced in my chamber, Aemond was still standing by the door, closed.

“Please, my love, she is no one.” He insisted once again.

“She will be your wife! Her offspring will legitimately be yours, and they will be recognised as your firsts children, and if ever there will be a chance to inherit something from you, it’ll go to them, no matter if we end up marrying in the end or not. You can’t pretend that I won’t be hurt, or mad by all of this.” I tried to maintain a calm voice, but it was really difficult.

“You’re still my love.” He walked to me, placing his hand on my cheek, and caressing me with his thumb.

“Do you understand that I feel betrayed? I might be your love, but you’ll be having a wife soon.” I shook my head. “And you will bed her. She will have your child.”

Aemond gritted his teeth, looking to the side for a moment, just like he did when he couldn’t fix a problem. Then, all of the sudden he gripped me by the back of my thighs and lifted me up.

“Then I’ll have to be sure you’ll be carrying my real first born.”

He growled and threw me on the bed.

He speaks now not only of vengeance, but of war with a fervor that unsettles me. It is no longer duty alone that drives him. There is something more—something that feeds upon the conflict itself. I fear what it may make of him. I fear what it may make of all of us.

And I fear that the days we once knew—the quiet laughter, the stolen glances, the foolish joy of it all—are gone beyond recall.

So I write to you, dear brother, with a selfish plea: remain as you are. Turn your eyes, where you can, from the cruelties that now surround us. Hold fast to the goodness in you.

For when we meet again—and I pray that we shall—I would have at least one thing in this world remain unchanged.

Your loving sister