#ewanverse

you move among them like the gentlest breeze after a storm, unnoticed at times yet woven into their orbit, a quiet pulse in the restless heart of a dynasty built on fire and blood. but it's aemond who watches you the most, his single violet eye tracking your every step since you were old enough to toddle after him on little feet. he's been your constant shadow, your shield, ever since that day long ago when he claimed vhagar on driftmark and returned with blistering fire in his veins, vengeance forming in his blackening heart, and his left eye swollen and bloodied, cut out due to the pug-faced bastard, lucerys velaryon.

you don't quite remember a time without his fierce protection, his unwavering devotion, the way he'd shove aside anyone who looked at you too long, his voice a low, furious hiss—she's mine to guard. nights like this, when the castle begins to quiet down and the moon spills thin, silvery beams through your chamber windows, you lie awake in your cool, silken sheets, heart fluttering like a caged bird.

the door creaks open without a sound; only you would notice, of course, attuned to him as the tide is to the moon. aemond slips inside, his tall frame cloaked in black, the faint click of his boots softened by the rushes. he's twenty now—all lean muscle, coiled intensity, long silver hair unbound like a warrior's mane.

you pretend to sleep, peeking through your silver lashes, savoring the quiet thrill of this game he enjoys playing with you, the one where he believes you innocent to his nightly visits. he approaches the bed with predatory grace, the air thickening with his scent—smoke from the dragon pits, leather from his riding gear, and something darker, uniquely him.

you feel the mattress dip as he sits on the edge, his large, calloused hand—scarred from reins and swordsmanship—reaches out to brush a delicate curl of your silvery-white tresses from your face. his touch is feather-light at first, tracing the gentle curve of your plump cheek, down to your elegant neck where your pulse flutters under his warm, rough fingertips.

"little sister," he coos, voice like a dark, velvety purr, laced with that teasing edge that always makes your cheeks burn with shame, your belly clenching with nerves, and your virgin cunt ache with uncontrollable desire. "always so sweet for me, so untouched, even in your dreams. tell me, sweet girl… do you dream of me yet?"

you stir then, as he intends, blinking up at him with your wide, naïve eyes—the soft-hearted girl he adores, who believes in the goodness of the world despite the poisonous vipers nesting in it. "lēkia? w-wha… what are you doing here? 'tis late..." your voice is a small whisper, breathy and uncertain, but there's no fear. no, you'd never fear your beloved brother.

he's always been your favorite sibling; after all, he's your loyal protector, the one who would chase off the young lordlings who pulled your braids and teased you mercilessly for your sensitive nature, and the one who always placed himself between you and father's cold disapproval. he chuckles, low and tender, leaning closer until his breath brushes your lips.

"can't your big brother check on his precious kin? or do you think i come for other reasons, hm? my naïve little dove, fluttering in her cage, all alone." his words sting just enough to make you squirm, but his eye burns with something deeper—obsession, raw and unyielding, the love that's always simmered in him since you came out from mother's womb, a babe he claimed in his heart long before he ever understood the meaning.

he's savored you growing up, your girlish body softening into soft, womanly curves under those modest gowns that mother always insisted upon you to wear, your laughter ringing like the sound of church bells in the gardens, always luring him to stand by your side, to stand guard and protect. no suitor would ever touch you; no, he's made quite certain of that with his devilish glares and whispered threats of his deadly wrath.

before you can protest, his mouth claims yours—not gentle, but starving, his tongue sweeping in to taste the addicting sweetness he often craves. you gasp against him, small hands pressing against his chest, feeling the hard planes of defined muscles beneath his tunic. he's possessive in his kisses, nipping your lower lip until it swells to his preference, drawing a small, meek whimper from you that he swallows down most greedily.

"so responsive," he teases, a low purr rumbling in his chest, pulling back just enough to watch your flushed face. "what would the court say if they knew their pure little princess melts for her brother's touch, hm? or are you far too dimwitted to see just how much you tempt me, hāedar?" he hums, raising a pale eyebrow.

the slight mockery curls his lips into a small, amused smirk, but his hand slides down your silky nightshift, cupping your plump breast through the delicate fabric, the pad of his thumb circling the hardening nipple until you arch into him, keening beautifully. you shake your head, sweet and stubborn as ever, soft curls tangling on the pillow, your mind a whirl of confusion and liquid heat pooling low in your belly.

"ae-aem… aemy, w-we shouldn't... mother would—" but your words dissolve into a soft, breathy moan as he pushes the shift up higher, exposing your heated skin to the cool night air. his large palm flattens against your stomach, tracing lower, fingers dipping between your plush thighs to find the slick, glossy folds of your cunt. he's touched you like this before, in the dead of night, teaching your body secrets your innocent heart doesn't yet fully grasp.

but he never takes that final step—no, he's never buried his cock inside you. at least, not yet; you already know your brother has always preferred savoring the chase, the way you bloom beneath his greedy hands like a precious bloom rooted in forbidden soil. "shh, sweetling," he soothes, though his tone drips with amusement at your naïvety. "i'd burn the fucking world to ashes before i would ever let another man have you, let alone touch you."

"no, you're mine, little sister, just as you've always been, ever since you left our mother's womb, crying and wailing into the night." his long, spidery fingers part your slippery folds, stroking the sensitive pearl of your needy clit with deliberate slowness, making your hips buck up involuntarily against his hand. you're wet for him already—embarrassingly so—your body betraying how much you've come to need these hushed, stolen moments with him, even if your soft, pious heart often whispers about how sinful your meetings with your older brother truly are.

he watches you intently, that sapphire gemstone glinting like an ominous warning in the moonlight, his obsession a living flame. he's loved you eternally, from the cradle, where he'd sneak in to just to watch over you while you slept soundly, to now, when he fights the violent urge to claim you fully, to pin you down and fuck you raw until you scream his name as his wife, his queen, unable to stop imagining your tiny cunt gaping, your belly full of his seed, your maidenhead torn apart, bloodied and spent, and bred like a common whore from the streets of silk.

you clutch at his broad shoulders, manicured nails digging into the fabric of his tunic, a soft gasp escaping from your pouty lips as he slips one long, nimble finger inside you, then two, curling them to stroke that sweet spot punishingly, making euphoric stars burst behind your fluttering eyelids. "ae-aemy... please, i-i can't—" you whine, babbling pure nonsense, your voice high-pitched and needy, not even sure what you're pleading for.

the stretch of his skilled fingers inside your virgin cunt burns sweetly with pain mixed with pleasure, your silken walls clenching around him as he pumps his fingers in and out, nice and slow and deep, the pad of his thumb still teasing your clit with quick, mean strokes. he leans down, capturing your nipple in his mouth, sucking hard enough to leave an obvious mark—his mark, hidden beneath your gown for the morrow.

"look at you; it's almost pathetic how eager you are for your brother's fingers… if not a tad endearing," he laughs, mocking, his voice gruff with restraint. his cock strains against his leathers, thick and hard and aching with the desperate need to stuff you full to the brim, but he ignores it, for now, focused entirely on your pleasure, on drawing out those sweet, breathy little cries that are music to his possessive soul.

"what a dumb, silly little girl you are, sister. thinking you could ever escape me," he chuckles, his voice dry and vicious. "i've thought about it, of course. i'd chain you to my side, keep you with me forever, and ride vhagar with you bound to me as we fly across the narrow sea, if i must." the words are half-jest, half-promise, a subtle threat, his free hand tangling in your soft, slightly matted curls to tilt your head back, exposing the slender column of your lovely throat for his teeth to graze, a clear warning of danger to come.

"i'd never leave you dry or wanting; i'd always keep you full of me, stuffed full of my seed—always safe, always loved, always mine," he continues with a cruel laugh, voice low and viciously gentle. "hmm... you know what else i think, sweet sister? i think you'd actually like that, wouldn't you?" he hums. "mmh, yes, i think you'd beg me to fill your belly with my sons," he taunts, smirking mischievously as his sapphire eye gleams with nefarious intent. "...and plenty of daughters, too. girls who're just as pretty as their mother."

the pressure builds, coiling tight in your belly as he quickens his pace, fingers thrusting deeper, slick sounds filling the chamber. you're naïve to the ways of men, but your body knows him, responds to his every touch like it was made for him. "come for me, little one," he commands, his eye locked on yours, intense and unblinking. "show me how much you love your lēkia." the orgasm that rips through your body crashes over you then, waves of endless ecstasy pulsing throughout your shaking limbs, your cunt spasming around his fingers as you cry out, muffled against his shoulder.

fat tears prick your eyes from the intensity, your soft heart overwhelmed by the forbidden bliss. he holds you through it, murmuring endearments laced with that teasing bite—my perfect, foolish girl—until your tremors start to fade. gently, he withdraws his hand from between your thighs, bringing his glistening fingers up to your lips. "taste yourself," he orders, and you do, shyly, your little pink tongue darting out as he watches with dark satisfaction.

then he kisses you again, softer this time, tasting the evidence of your sweet submission. and as dawn threatens the horizon, he rises, adjusting your shift with surprising tenderness. "sleep now, ñuha jorrāeliarzy," he coos, brushing a kiss to your forehead. "dream of me, as i dream of you—eternally." he slips from your chambers like a ghost, leaving you curled in the sheets, body humming with aftershocks, heart full of his obsessive love. of course, you know he'll return tomorrow night, and the next, chasing you in this endless dance he's destined to perform with you, his darling little sister. he's yours just as much as you're his, bound by blood and something fiercer, and in the quiet, you smile, safe in the knowledge that he'll never let you go.

© 𝑎𝑒𝑚𝑛𝑑. est, 2025.

they often called him a man-whore, an entity that transfers from one body to the next, consuming affection and leaving behind heartbroken husks. he was a poet of the obscene, scribbling erotic filth on cocktail napkins before he forgot your name. but tonight, his singular eye—pale lilac and predatory—locked onto you.

he weaved through the crowd effortlessly, ignoring the hands that reached out to grab him, the tits that were thrusted into his face. he was a dragon that had scented blood. he stopped at your booth, towering over you, smelling of cigarette smoke and the musk of sex. "you're too young for the shadows, kid," he rasped, his voice like gravel wrapped in silk.

"i'm waiting for my brother," you lied, your soft-spoken voice trembling. aemond smirked, a crooked thing that showed too many teeth. he pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, tapping one out. he didn't offer you one; he just lit it, the flare of the lighter illuminating the sharp planes of his hardened face, highlighting the scar that was beneath his eyepatch. "sit with me," he commanded, sliding into the booth right next to you.

he didn't ask, he told.

you should have been terrified. you were, in a sense, but there was a pull toward him, a gravity that made it impossible to look away. he was the most alive thing you had ever seen. for four hours, you sat there while he smoked, while he drank amber liquor from a glass without ice, while he scribbled in a battered leather notebook. he didn't touch you, not at first. he just watched you, his gaze heavy-lidded and feverish, stripping away your defenses layer by layer, minute by minute.

he started to talk, and not small talk—no, he talked about death and desire, about the stupidity of the aristocracy, about the way the city lights looked like bruised skin at dawn. he read you lines from his notebook—erotic poetry that made your ears burn, words about fluids and teeth and sin. like a reflection in a mirror, he wrote, i see you clearer when you're terrified.

you were terrified, but you were also deeply fascinated by him. nobody had ever looked at you like you were the only interesting thing in the world. and so it came as no surprise to you that, only a week later, you were in his apartment. it was a mistake; you knew it was a mistake. he had picked you up in his sleek black car while you were walking home from school. you shouldn't have gotten in, but you did.

his place was a disaster zone of art and pure fucking chaos. canvases leaned against the walls, painted in violent slashes of red and black. there were ashtrays overflowing on nearly every surface, and books were stacked in precarious towers. aemond sat on a velvet chaise, watching you walk around the living room. he was shirtless again, his tattoos shifting as he breathed, "come here," he murmured, his voice a soft, hypnotic purr.

"i should g-go home… i-i have homework," you stammered meekly, nervously picking at the hem of your blouse. "fuck homework," he snapped, though not unkindly. "come here." and so—you obeyed. you stood between his spread knees, fidgeting slightly. he reached out, his hands rough and large, gripping your waist. he pulled you closer until your shins brushed against the cushion of the chaise. he looked up at you, and for the first time, you saw something other than hunger in his eye—you saw a terrifying sort of possession.

"do you know why i write, sweetheart?" he asked, his thumb tracing the line of your hip bone through your skirt. "um… because you're… talented?" you squeaked, soft and unsure. he laughed, a dry, cynical sound. "because i'm fucking hollow inside. i'm always trying to find a feeling that sticks, but they never do. the women, the liquor, the drugs… it's all just fucking static, baby. white noise."

he leaned forward, pressing his face against your stomach. he inhaled deeply, like he was trying to breathe you in and keep your scent inside of him forever. "but you," he whispered against your school uniform. "you're not white noise… no," he drawls, pausing for a moment before continuing softly. "you're an ear-piercing scream that drowns everything else out until only silence remains."

"aemond…" you sighed, your hands resting on his broad shoulders, feeling the heat of his skin. "i want to possess you," he whispered suddenly, the words dangerously soft and forbidden. he looked up at you, his gaze intense. but you knew the truth, you knew what he really meant was, i want to possess you… but baby, i think you're the one possessing me. the words hung in the air, unspoken but understood. he had asked you to stay, and so you did.

the weeks with aemond turned into months. you became a fixture in his life, a secret he kept in the shadows. you met him in the back of dingy bars, in the alleyway behind the art gallery, in his apartment at 3 am when the insomnia got too bad. he was obsessed, devoted only to you.

he began writing about you constantly now. the way your heart beats is the only rhythm i care about, he wrote. your skin is a map i want to memorize blind, and, i want to crawl inside you and live in the silence.

it was completely fucked up; you knew it was fucked up. he was twenty-nine, a man grown. you were sixteen, practically still a baby. he was a man who had sex with strangers in filthy bathroom stalls just to feel something. fortunately, he wasn't sleeping with anyone else anymore. he spent most of his time holed up in his apartment, reading you poetry while he chain-smoked, looking at you like you were some divine deity he wanted to desecrate and worship at the same time.

one night, you were sitting on the floor of his studio, watching him paint. he had a cigarette dangling between his pale lips, ash threatening to fall onto the canvas. the song playing in the background—something haunting and synth-heavy—seemed to vibrate in your teeth. he stopped, turning to look at you, his remaining eye bloodshot, and his hands were stained with acrylics. "take off your sweater," he murmured casually, almost lazily.

"aem—" you started to protest, feeing shy. "please, sweetheart. i just… i need to see the canvas. i need to paint you, baby. not like the others… just you and your innocence." it was the vulnerability in his voice that undid you. this terrifying, inked monster of a man looked at you like a drowning man looking at a lifeline. sighing quietly, you pulled your soft, fuzzy pink sweater over your head. you were wearing a simple cotton bra—nothing special, nothing remarkable or sexy—but aemond thought you looked deliciously precious, angelic.

aemond immediately dropped to his knees in front of you. he didn't touch your breasts; instead, he pressed his face to your chest, right over your racing heart. he was shaking, holding onto his restraint with desperation laced with despair. slowly, carefully, he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you tight against him, burying his face in your flushed skin. "can you hear it?" he whispered, his voice cracking painfully. "the static… it's all gone. when i touch you… it's quiet, baby. it's finally quiet."

you wrapped your arms around his neck, burying your fingers in his long, unkempt silver hair. you felt the wetness of his tears—you didn't know aemond targaryen could cry—soaking into your bra. "i'm here, aem," you cooed, trying to soothe his damaged soul. he pulled away slightly, looking up at you, his face anguished and achingly beautiful. "your mother would kill me," he choked out. "your brother, the cops… they would all kill me."

"i know," you whispered, feeling your chest tightening at his honest distress. "but i don't care, i don't care about any of it, baby." he gripped your shoulders, his fingers digging in. "i want to be the fucking air in your lungs… i want to be the blood in your veins," he confessed, his voice full of crazed passion. "i want to ruin you for anyone else; i want to be the haunting that follows you until the day you die."

if you let me in, i will never let you go. the words from another poem he wrote about you, the sentiment of the night. he was offering you a deal with the devil—and the devil was in love with you. he was offering you eternal devotion wrapped in a package of felony charges and moral bankruptcy. he was offering to possess you, body and soul.

you looked at him, at the tattoos that covered his chest—fire breathing dragons, skulls, naked women—and you didn't see a predator. you saw a man who was finally feeling something real and was terrified it would slip away. with a soft, shaky exhale, you leaned down and kissed him. it wasn't a chaste peck, you could taste the nicotine and the whiskey and the salt of his tears. you kissed him with all the confusion and intensity of your sixteen years, letting him consume you.

aemond groaned, a low, deep sound of pure surrender. he pulled you down onto the floor with him, covering your body with his. he didn't try to take your clothes off. he just held you, his face buried in your neck, his breathing evening out, the obsession finally quieting down into a warm, steady hum. you lay there on the hardwood floor, surrounded by the smell of paint and smoke.

you knew you were ruined, completely possessed by him, and as his arms tightened around you, claiming you as his own, you realized you didn't want to be saved. you just wanted to be the ghost that haunted aemond targaryen forever.

however, the quiet didn't last very long. the quiet was just the eye of the storm, the breath before the plunge. aemond pulled away from your lips, but he didn't go far. his forehead rested against yours, his breathing ragged and shallow. the scent of him—sage, stale smoke, and the metallic tang of heroin withdrawal—was suffocating. he looked at you with that singular, pale lilac eye of his, and the vulnerability that was there before gone, burned away by a feverish intensity that made your skin prickle with fear and desire.

"you taste like candy," he whispered hotly, his voice scraping against your ear. "pure and processed… it's fucking disgusting." he didn't say it as an insult; he said it like he was starving. "stay still for me, baby," he growled, annoyed by your constant squirming. he reached into the pocket of his discarded jeans and pulled out a switchblade. the snick of the blade opening sounded loud in the silent room. you flinched, your breath hitching in your throat. he laughed, a low, mean sound, enjoying your fear.

"shhh," he soothed, cooing softly, bringing the flat of the cold steel against your cheek. "i'm not going to cut you, not yet… i just need to get this off you, sweetheart." he slid the blade under the strap of your bra, and with a sharp flick of his wrist, the fabric snapped. the cotton fell away, exposing you to the cold air and his burning gaze. you gasped, crossing your arms over your chest, instinctively trying to hide.

he grabbed your wrists, his grip bruising, and yanked them apart. "don't hide from me," he barked. "i painted you, so i own this canvas. now, be a good girl and open up for daddy." he didn't wait for you to comply; he pushed your legs apart with his knees, settling heavily between your thighs. the denim of his dark jeans was rough against your skin. you were trapped beneath the weight of him, a fly caught in a spider's web made of ink and bad decisions.

he tipped his head back, exposing the long line of his throat, then opened his mouth and let a long string of saliva fall from his lips. it landed hot and wet on your chest, right between your heaving breasts. you recoiled, a cry of shock and disgust escaping your throat, but he just watched it slide down your skin, mesmerized. "look at that," he breathed, his pupil completely blown with obsessive desire. "marking my territory, like a dog pissing against a tree."

he leaned down and pressed his face into the mess he'd made, rubbing his freshly growing stubble against the sensitive skin of your sternum. it hurt—a friction burn in the making—but the pain was sharp and grounding. he was claiming you, stamping his filth onto your innocence. "aemond, s-stop," you mewled, unable to reconcile the tenderness from moments ago with this sudden, degrading aggression.

"stop?" he chuckled, the sound vibrating through your chest. "you think i know how to stop? i'm a fucking junkie, baby—and you're the only drug that's ever worked." he sat up suddenly, stripping off his jacket and throwing it across the room. his tattoos writhed in the low light—snakes eating their tails, skulls grinning in the dark. he looked down at you, his expression unreadable, except for the hunger.

"touch me," he demanded. "touch the parts that hurt." he took your small, trembling hand and guided it to the grooves of his abs, then lower, to the waistband of his jeans. you could feel the heat radiating from him, the tension coiled in his muscles like a viper ready to strike. you hesitated; this was the point of no return, the line drawn in the sand, and he was dragging you over it—bleeding, without mercy.

"don't think," he coaxed, reading your hesitation. "just let me in." he forced your hand under the denim, wrapping your fingers around his hardness. he was hot, heavy, and leaking. you squeezed him experimentally, and he hissed, his head falling forward, his forehead hitting your bare shoulder. "fuuuck yes," he groaned. "that's it… you feel that, baby? that's what you do to me. that's what you've done to me since the moment i saw you sitting in that booth, all vulnerable and pretty, looking like a fucking porcelain doll—lost and alone, just begging to be taken."

he began to move your hand, forcing you to stroke his length. his rhythm was desperate, punishing. he was fucking your fist, using you to get off, his hips snapping forward with abandon. "i want to ruin you," he panted into your neck, his teeth scraping the soft, unblemished skin. "i want to be the first man to break you open; i want to be the only thing left when the dust settles." he grabbed your face with his free hand, forcing you to look at him. his eye was wild, blown wide with lust and something terrifying like devotion.

"kiss me," he demanded. "kiss me like you mean it, like you want to be consumed." you leaned up and pressed your lips to his. it wasn't a kiss; it was a collision. he devoured your mouth, his tongue invading, tasting of smoke and desperation. you felt dirty, used, and undeniably alive. you were sixteen, lying on the floor of a crack-den-chic apartment, making out with a twenty-nine year old criminal who wrote poetry about your demise.

and you loved it.

he broke the kiss, gasping for air. "turn over," he growled. "aemond, i-i don't—" you whined. "turn over," he insisted, his voice leaving no room for argument. with shaking hands, you rolled onto your stomach. you felt exposed, vulnerable, your face pressed against the hardwood floor. you could smell the paint thinner, the dust, the distinct musk of him. you heard the sound of his belt buckle clanking, the rasp of a zipper. then, his hands were on your hips, yanking you up onto your knees. your skirt was flipped up, exposing the simple cotton of your underwear.

"look at this," he hummed, almost to himself. "so innocent… it's practically begging to be torn apart." he hooked his long, nimble fingers into the waistband and pulled. the fabric tore with a loud, sharp riiip, leaving you bare and vulnerable to his heated gaze. "i want to see what's mine," he panted. then, his mouth was on you. you squealed, your fingers clawing at the floorboards as your back arched like a cat. he didn't ease into it; he devoured you like he was starving, his tongue flat and broad, dragging through your folds in rough, wet strokes over your most sensitive parts. he was messy with it, loud, and unashamed.

the sounds were lewd—slurping, sucking, grunting. it felt like too much; the rough stubble on his chin rubbing against your thighs, the hot invasion of his tongue, the sheer depravity of the position. you tried to crawl away, the stimulation overwhelming, but he grabbed your thighs in a vice grip, holding you in place, claiming you as his own. "don't you dare run from this," he warned, his voice muffled against your hot, dripping flesh. "take it, take all of it."

he pushed his face deeper, his nose bumping against your entrance. he was breathing you in, groaning like a man possessed. you felt the knot in your stomach tightening, a coil of heat that was terrifying in its intensity. "aemond," you moaned, the sound broken and weak. "it's t-too much..." you whimpered, shivering. "no, it's not," he argued, pulling away for a second to catch his breath, his chin glistening with your wetness. "it's never enough, baby. i could fucking drown in your pussy and still want more."

eagerly, he dove back in, adding two long, nimble fingers alongside his tongue, stretching you wide open. you cried out, your back arching beautifully. the burn was a sharp sting, but beneath it was a dark, blooming pleasure that made your little toes curl. "i'm gonna fill you up," he mumbled breathily, his fingers pumping in and out, scissoring you open. "i'm gonna fill you up so full of me that you'll never be able to wash it out. you'll be walking around school, sitting in class, feeling me dripping out of you, reminding you who you belong to."

the image he painted was vile, terribly illicit. it was the ultimate corruption of your youth. and as you felt the pressure building, the white-hot heat rushing to the surface, you knew he was right. you were already ruined. he curled his fingers, finding a spot that made you see stars. you shattered, your body convulsing, a high-pitched, girlish scream tearing from your throat. you came so fucking hard, your walls clamping down on his greedy fingers, gushing into his mouth, sobbing and wailing like a newborn babe.

aemond growled, lapping up your sweet release like it was nectar from the gods. he didn't stop until you were a sobbing, boneless mess on the floor, completely at his mercy. he kissed the back of your quivering thigh, a gentle, possessive gesture. "good girl," he cooed, his voice low and raspy, soothing to your ears. he crawled up your body, covering you with his own. he didn't enter you—not yet—but he pressed his hard length against your asscheeks, letting you feel how close he was to the edge. "now," he breathed in your ear, his voice a dark promise. "we begin the real haunting."

you shivered, the cold air conditioning raising gooseflesh on your skin. you lay there pinned beneath him, smelling of sex and sweat and him. you were a sixteen year old girl, just ravaged by a man nearly twice your age on the floor of his studio apartment. and as he nuzzled into your hair, inhaling your sweet, addictive vanilla scent like it was the only thing keeping him alive, you realized the most terrifying part of it all. you didn't want to leave; you wanted to be haunted, you wanted to be possessed, you wanted to be aemond targaryen's forever.

time seemed to slow down, leaving you in a blissful daze. the room spun, a slow, lazy vortex of regret and craving. you were floating, untethered, staring up at the water-stained ceiling of his bedroom. aemond had carried you there. he hadn't just ate you out and left you on the floor; he had gathered you up, your limbs limp and useless, and cradled you against his chest like you were something precious, like an injured baby lamb that only he could fix. now he was smoking; the cherry of the cigarette flared in the dark, illuminating the sharp angles of his face. he was sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless, and his tattoos—a history of violence and bad decisions—were on full display.

you watched the smoke curl up from his lips, a grey ghost disappearing into the dark. "don't look at me like that," he murmured, his voice rough. "like what?" you asked. "like i'm some hero," he scoffed, tapping ash onto the floor with a careless flick of his wrist. "i'm a villain, baby. i'm the monster in the story they tell to keep little girls like you inside at night." he turned to look at you then, and the contempt was gone, replaced by that devastating, terrifying intensity. he reached out, his hand hovering over your cheek, trembling slightly. "you're trembling," he whispered.

"i'm cold." you mumbled, your voice small and quiet. aemond reached over to crush his cigarette out in the overflowing ashtray. he moved then, sliding under the covers with you, pulling you into his warmth. he was like a furnace, burning with a feverish intensity that scared you as much as it thrilled you. you rested your head on his chest, listening to his heart beating—thump-thump, thump-thump—a steady, living drum. it was the most intimate sound you had ever heard. "you're so young," he said suddenly, his fingers tangling in your hair. "you still have baby fat; your skin is so soft it hurts to touch."

he sounded pained. he sounded like a man realizing he was holding a chick that had fallen from the nest, and he was the wolf waiting to eat it. "i'm not a child," you protested, your voice weak. "you are," he insisted, his grip on you tightening. "you're sixteen, sweetheart. you should be worrying about algebra and boys who don't know what a fucking clit is. instead, you're here with me. i've ruined you."

"i'm not ruined," you lied, pouting. he didn't respond; he just continued to hold you, his breathing ragged. you could feel the tension in his muscles, the way he was holding himself back. "why do you even want me?" you asked, the question escaping before you could stop it. aemond let out a shaky breath that sounded like a sob. he rolled onto his side, forcing you to look at him. in the dark, his eye was a pool of liquid silver. "because you're the only thing that's real," he whispered. "i move through life like it's a dream. i fuck, i drink, i write, and none of it matters. it's all static. but you? when i look at you, the static stops, and the noise fades away into nothing."

he traced the line of your jaw with his thumb, his touch reverent. "i look at you and i feel... sane. for the first time in my life, i feel sane. and that scares the shit out of me." he leaned in and kissed you, soft and slow. it was a kiss that tasted of nicotine and desperation; he poured his soul into it, trying to merge with you, trying to crawl inside your skin and live there. "you're my salvation," he whispered against your lips. "and my damnation." he rolled on top of you then, settling between your legs. he wasn't rushing this time. he wasn't the animal from the living room. he was a man in love, or the closest approximation of it that a creature like him could manage.

"you're mine," he declared, his gaze locking onto yours. "say it."

"i'm yours," you mewled, feeling a heat pooling low in your belly once again.

"again."

"i'm yours, aemond… all yours, only yours."

he groaned, burying his face in your neck. his hips rolled against yours, the friction sending sparks of pleasure through your oversensitized body. he was hard again, a demand against your belly. "i want to be inside you," he begged, his lips scraping against your ear. "i want to fill you up until you can't think of anything else. i want to be the blood in your veins. i need to possess you, body and soul. do you understand? i can't just love you, i have to consume you." the words were terrifying, but they settled into your chest like a heavy stone. you understood. you felt it too, the pull, the gravity. you wanted to be consumed; you wanted to give him everything, even if it hurt. "yes," you whined. "p-please..."

he kissed you again, harder this time, his tongue sweeping into your mouth, claiming you. one of his hands slid down between your bodies, finding you wet and ready for him. "that's my girl," he praised with a soft hum of greediness, his fingers teasing your raw, drooling entrance. "always so ready for me… so eager to be ruined." he smirked, lining himself up, the blunt head of his cock nudging against your fluttering opening. he hesitated for a split second, his eye searching yours, looking for any sign of doubt, but there was none. you were his, completely and utterly.

"look at me," he commanded. "don't turn away, i want to see your eyes when i take you." he began to push in, the stretch overwhelming, sharp enough to steal your breath. he was just so big, and you were so small, and there was pain, a sharp, stinging burn as your wet, bloodied walls tried to accommodate him. "there we go, baby… biiig stretch." but as he sank deeper, burying himself to the hilt, the pain transmuted into something else—a feeling of fullness, of being complete. you were finally whole, but only because he was inside you. aemond let out a short, shaky breath, his forehead resting against yours. "f-fuck," he choked out. "you feel like heaven, baby… you feel like… like coming home."

he began to move then, slow and deep. he wasn't just fucking you; he was worshipping at the altar of your body. he watched your face with a single-minded intensity, cataloging every gasp, every flutter of your lashes. "you're so beautiful," he praised, his voice thick with emotion. "my beautiful, tragic girl—my magdalene." he angled his hips, hitting a spot deep inside of you that made you see stars. you cried out, your nails digging into the ink of his broad shoulders. "shh… i've got you," he soothed, his pace increasing slightly. "i've got you, i've got you… daddy's got you."

"i love you," he said suddenly, the words raw and unguarded. "i think i loved you since the first moment i saw you, before i even spoke to you. i saw you sitting there in that booth, all pretty and lonely, and i thought, 'that one, that's the one i'm going to die for'." the confession hung in the air, heavy and binding. you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him in deeper, receiving his love in the only language he spoke—violence and devotion. "i-i love you, too," you gasped, the rhythm of his hips driving the words out of you.

he let out a sound that was half-sob, half-growl. he captured your lips in a messy, searing kiss, his tongue mimicking the rhythm of his cock. he was close, you could feel it. his movements became erratic, his breathing ragged. "come with me," he pleaded, his brow furrowed in concentration. "let me feel it, baby." you reached between your bodies, your inexperienced fingers finding your clit. you rubbed yourself in time with his frantic thrusts, the friction building the knot in your stomach tighter and tighter. with a high-pitched wail of "daddy," you tumbled over the edge. your walls clenched down on him, rippling around his thick length, greedy and desperate to keep him inside.

aemond choked out a curse, his body going rigid. he buried himself deep, flooding your womb with his seed. you could feel it, painting your insides, marking you from the inside out. he collapsed on top of you, his weight crushing you into the mattress. you lay there, your limbs tangled together, sweat cooling on your heated skin, his seed leaking out of you obscenely. he didn't pull out, he stayed inside you, keeping you plugged up faithfully. he buried his face in your neck, his breathing slowly evening out. "if you ever leave me," he whispered, his voice muffled against your damp skin, "i'll find you. i don't care where you go, i don't care if it takes ten years. i will find you."

the possessiveness in his tone should have scared you—it did scare you; but as you lay there in the dark, listening to the beat of his heart, you realized there was nowhere else you wanted to go. you were his; he had carved his name into your soul with his cock and his poetry, without mercy. and as sleep began to claim you, the last thing you felt was his lips pressing gently against your temple, a brand of ownership that no one else could ever touch or take away.

⏾

a week later, you find the black leather notebook tucked between the mattress and the wall, its corners dog-eared and stained with rings from glasses of cheap whiskey. the pages are thick, vellum, and the ink is jagged—scrawled in a haste that suggests if he didn't get the words out fast enough, they would eat him alive. it smells like him; cloves, old paper, and the faint, coppery tang that always lingers on his hands. this is his bible, this is where he dissected you, line by jagged line, before he ever touched you.

ɪ. ᴀʟᴛᴀʀ ʙᴏʏ. she tastes like bubblegum sin, a rotten peach on the verge of collapse. sixteen years of sunday school and she's on her knees for me. not for god. for the ghost. i want to peel back the skin of her ribcage and curl up inside the warm, wet drum of her heart. she asks me if i love her. i tell her i want to eat her alive. same thing, really.

ɪɪ. ꜱᴛᴀᴛɪᴄ. the city is a dead channel, white noise in my veins. i put my dick in them to feel something, i put needles in my arm to forget, but it's all just fuzz. just grey snow. until her. she is the technicolour scream in a silent film. her heartbeat is the new rhythm. i want to mainline her fear, shoot up the trembling of her hands. she's the only fix that works. she's the only thing that makes the quiet stop.

ɪɪɪ. ᴜɴᴅʀᴇꜱꜱᴇᴅ. her underwear is cotton. white. it's a fucking joke. a veil for a sanctity i tore to shreds three weeks ago in the back of an alleyway behind the cinema. when i peel it down, i don't see a girl. i see a raw, pink universe. i see a place to bury my sins, a warm hole to hide the monster. i'm not a lover. i'm an infection. and she is the host, willing, soft, waiting to be corrupted.

ɪᴠ. ʜᴀᴜɴᴛɪɴɢ. they call it statutory. i call it destiny. let them lock me up. let them put the needle in my arm for stealing a piece of heaven. it won't matter. i've already dissolved. i'm in the water she drinks, i'm in the air she breathes in math class, i'm the ache between her legs when she crosses them tight. you don't go to jail for haunting a house. you just rattle the chains and wait for the lights to go out.

ᴠ. ᴄᴀɴᴅʏ. (ᴠᴏᴍɪᴛ) her mouth is full of sugar and lies. she kisses me like she thinks i'm a prince. i am the wolf. i am the big bad wolf and i chewed the grandmother's bones before i even climbed the ladder. i spit in her mouth and call it love. i mark her neck with purple galaxies and call it art. everything i touch turns to ash, but she just smiles and asks for more. she loves the rot. she loves the way the maggots wriggle. my girl. my sweet, rotten girl.

ᴠɪ. ᴘᴏꜱꜱᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴ. she lets me inside. the heat is blinding. it's not sex. it's absorption. i'm trying to fuse our skeletons together. i'm trying to weld my atoms to hers. if i push deep enough, maybe i'll touch her soul. maybe i'll find out why she's so empty, why she loves a man who is nothing but scars and cigarettes. i fill her up. i want it to leak out of her ears. i want her to taste me in the back of her throat forever. subtract to add. skin to skin. sin to sin.

ᴠɪɪ. ᴇᴘɪʟᴏɢᴜᴇ. they will find us eventually. they will pull her out of the rubble scared and shaking and stained. they will wash the filth from her skin and tell her she is clean. but she won't be. she'll look at the moon and think of my hands. she'll look at a knife and think of my mouth. i broke her so well she doesn't know how to be whole without the piece of herself i swallowed.

the book ends on a blank page, save for one small, frantic note written in red ballpoint pen, the ink bleeding through to the other side: if she leaves, i burn. if she stays, we burn. either way, the fire is beautiful.

𝑓𝑖𝑛 ⸜̑⸝͂

݁  ᴀᴇᴍɴᴅ﹒ 𝖾𝗌𝗍﹐ 2⸜̑⸝͂26﹒

“So… what’s your name again?” You ask curiously, walking behind the man that holds your hand, guiding you through his home, and to his bedroom. You don’t complain, though, since you were out just for that; to get home with a handsome man. 

There was this band that you never heard of playing near your house, and it took little for your brain to convince you to go. If something good came from it, you would get fucked. If something bad came from it, well… you hoped for the first one. 

That’s how you ended up here, following a dude, which looks from head to toe like a metal head. His hair goes to his shoulders, coal black, which you assume he dyed it, and some graphic shirt with the words ‘Knotfest’ and all, wearing some metal stuff that you didn’t really know much about.

And you looked like a rock groupie, with a leather top that practically squeezed your tits and a dark jeans miniskirt with some boots. Yet, this mysterious man was still taller than you, and that was quite exciting, and a bit arousing.

“Eh, Martin” he says nonchalantly, as he grabs your hand, his bracelets really end up the detail of his fit, and you feel really horny now to lay with this dude. “Yours?”

You tell Martin your name, following him as he opens his bedroom door. To be fair, it is tidier than you imagined.

“Sorry the mess” he murmurs, moving the drone and an electric guitar out of his bed. You hum, looking around curiously, to the badly positioned posters, some rock-metal bands that you didn’t know about.

“Is that a snake?” You ask, watching the little head of the reptile in the middle of the dim light coming from outside.

“Uh- no, it’s a lizard” 

A guy with a lizard as a pet. Okay.

“What is its name?” 

“Lizard. I don’t like naming them-” 

Great. 

You look at him with a fake smile. The dick better be good you think, taking out your jacket and leaving it on a chair next to the desk.

“Be careful, spider likes to crawl near there”

You took your jacket off there, and you really hoped that he had a dog called spider because otherwise it would be strange as hell.

“Riiiiight” you say, leaving your jacket in a hanger of his opened closet. Whatever. “So… Apart from having a lizard and a spider… do you maybe also have… a cockroach?”

He lets out a huff, his lips turning upwards as he takes his shirt off. “No” Martin says. “I do have another thing, though, it’s very big”

You try to smile at his corny, cringy words. It’s for the dick. You repeat to yourself: The dick better be good. He better not finish in two minutes. He better knows how to eat pussy.

“Ha. Funny” you say as you start to take off those boots.

“How did ya meet the band?”

“Ehmm… A friend dated the brother of an ex of the bassist. I think” you say watching as he frowns his eyebrows slightly trying to make any sense as he lights up a cigarette. 

“ah, nice” he says as he lays on bed as he smokes the cigarette, taking off his shirt as he remains only in those Adidas jeans of his. “Heard the songs before?”

“Once or twice” you say looking at the CD albums stacked on top of each other messily, and you move to grab a solitude piece of paper, as you can practically feel Martin’s eyes on your ass. “I liked the vocalist, quite handsome, don’t you think?” you unwrap softly the paper, away from Martin’s eyes.

It was an address. It piqued your curiosity.

“Aye, come here” his voice is soft as he extends his hand to turn off the cigarette on the glass ashtray, which has the shape of a dragon.

You turn around and walk toward his bed, and watch how he seems eager to have you. It’s hot to have a man drooling for you like Martin is now. And his erection is the living proof of it; it was obvious against his trousers that he was rock hard. You wondered if he was leaking as well. 

You straddle his lap, a smirk forming on your lips as his hands move immediately to your thighs, cold hands moving slowly up to find their way to your ass. 

“Sit on my face” Martin murmurs, words slightly stuck between his pants

“Hm? What was that?” You ask petulantly, pretending not to have heard. 

“Come on, beautiful, sit on my face” he says, pushing your hips closer to his chest, trying to push your miniskirt up.

“Gotta take my panties off” you say softly to him, watching his lips as he licks them, savouring the ghosting taste of you.

“No, like this” he murmurs, eager to taste you. “I’ll eat you from behind even.” Martin proposes, more desperate than the last time “Please”

You might forgive cheesy comments for his eagerness. You sigh with a wide smirk, turning around as Martin places his big hands around your thighs, dragging your centre closer to his face. 

Eager was the wrong word for it; he was desperate.

His hand moved your panties to the side, and his face almost nuzzled your cunt, before starting to press his tongue on your centre. You could hear his groan of pure delight, his hands caressing the skin of your thighs and ass as he delighted himself. 

“Fuck” you said, but it was as if all the air from your lungs when out in that moan. 

Martin’s hands were keeping you still, not allowing you to move your hips to grind his face as you wanted. You could hear his moans, the way he slurped and nuzzled his face on your cunt. 

He was a pro, eating pussy as if he did it every day (maybe he did, god knows), and he didn’t seem to care for his lack of air in the matter. He was on it, devoted to eating your dripping cunt as if it was his last meal on earth.

Your hands are pressed on his stomach, and he has to forcefully let you go to breathe, and you sigh as you feel his breaths. 

“Where did you learn to do that?” You breathe softly, as you can hear how he pants, catching his breath. 

“A good pussy can make a man go feral, love” he says, moving your panties out of the way as his index and middle finger move to rub against your slit. 

He was cheesy, and it was a bit weird. Yet it couldn’t bother you less, you had been with worse men, and Martin was good in other areas…, well, at least in sex and eating out a pussy. And it was more than average, so you were up to it.

Before he decides to keep on eating you, still caressing your clit as he catches his breath, you lean a bit on his torso, to try to pull down the leather pants, opening the zipper. 

It takes you a bit, yet after accomplishing your mission, your hand grabs his dick to guide it into your warm, eager mouth. 

He was well doted, and hard as a rock. He was leaking, and his tip was a bit pink compared with the rest of his cock. 

God damn you if it didn’t make your mouth drool. Between him eating you out, and his leaking cock, you think you will go insane. He could have cheeky, cringe comments but you could live with it. You couldn’t live without him eating you out or his cock. 

You are as enthusiastic with his cock as he is. Though, you start slower. You take the head on your mouth, sucking on it as you feel him groan against your pussy. It was fucking hot, and it had you moaning on his cock. You didn’t remember the last time your legs were trembling like this, and how much you wanted to feel a dick in your throat. It was a need, a primal need.

Martin was kind and nice, had his things, but god, you need to fuck him. You might even need to have his babies by now. You wouldn’t complain if he came all inside you, filling you with his cum, and making you pregnant. Fuck, it even turned you more on. What was this man doing to you?

You took more of his dick in your mouth, trying to take all of it, not minding if you choke on it. He was hot. More than hot, in truth.

Martin was relentless with his tongue, lapping at your cunt again and again, moaning loudly against it as he could feel how deep you were taking his cock in your mouth. Your hand moved to cup his balls, as your tongue tried to swirl around his tip. It drove him insane. 

It was not long before you started to cum, moaning loudly, his dick slipping from your mouth as your thighs pressed against his face, riding his face and nose as he was making you cum. His tongue was as greedy as him, and he worked with his nose along your slit. And it made you cum hard, rolling your eyes back. “Fuck, Martin, just like that…” You say, hips grinding against his mouth in a desperate need to stretch the feeling a bit more. 

And once you finish, your mouth goes back to his cock, to keep on sucking him off. “Fuck, you feel incredible” he rasped, as you moved forward, closer to his cock and have full access, as Martin’s hips pumped upwards to fuck your mouth. 

You lay on his chest, his face back on the pillow, moaning loudly as you seem to try to drain him completely, deepthroating him as if it was nothing at all.

“Fuck, you are going to make me cum” He says, teeth gripped as his hand moves to grab a fist of your hair, to move your head down to allow him fuck your mouth deep as he wanted. His own head titles back in pure bliss and pleasure, moaning loudly as he uses your mouth as a desperate animal in need to cum. Not that you complain, it costs a bit more to breathe, and you were almost choking, but hearing Martin be so local, groaning, moaning and grunting was worth it. 

His cum soon fills your mouth, and he keeps you still, the signal clear for you to swallow all of it, as his throbbing cock unleashed his hot cum. 

“Swallow it… fuck, swallow it all, take what I give you…” he mutters in pure bliss.

As the last drops of cum are licked off his cock, he leans back and you move to his side. 

“That was great” You mutter, looking at the ceiling. How could he be so great at it?

“Yeah. Cig break and round two?”

“Hell yeah”

You are with your friend when you search the location in the paper that you found in Martin’s room. You were supposed to go to the club, you were wearing your miniskirt and a top, really to party, but that man had eaten your pussy and fucked you like no one before, so you felt entitled to find what that was for.

“It’s cold” Your friend, Tamara, says. She was chewing gum as she followed you begrudgingly. 

“It’s a fucking parking lot?” You ask looking around the empty street, the night made it lonely yet not totally isolated. 

“Your darling buries the bodies here” Your friend says, obviously judging it all. “Can we go?”

“Look, there is a car” you point out, as the car seems to be jumping around due to the movements inside. “Gods, you think they are having sex?”

“Ew, you think he has a brothel in his car?” Tamara asks you, looking at the car as you both get closer. “Eww and you fucked without a condom… You could get an IST, and die”

“It is called an STD, and… I think he is not fucking anyone” you frown slightly, getting closer.

“Careful! What if his pimp is here…?”

“He is fighting someone!” You say looking inside the car, as you find Martin pressing the head of the other guy against the window. 

Surely, Martin was a weird dude. He was corny as hell, and he had pets called like the species they were. Sure. He almost burned his hair as he smoked after sex, yes; and he also ate pussy like a champ and was hung as a horse. 

“I am going there” You tell your friends. “The dick is worth it”

“Yikes” 

As you walk closer, you feel your friend either staying behind or walking away, not that you care. 

Martin had blood trailing down his forehead, and was lying in the passenger’s seat as his thighs choked the other guy he was with, holding his head still with his hands. Okay, whatever, a guy can have hobbies.

When he sees you, he starts rolling down the window of the car, as you lean closer to his height.

“Hey, darling- how did ya–”

“A girl has her secrets” you say, smiling as you see him. God, he was sexy as hell. “I want my pussy eaten” 

Martin smirks, and he leans back to sigh at your request, as if the idea delights him. He still applies pressure to the other dude, who seems to pass out. Martin leans forward closer to your lips and whispers “Will ya’ wait ten minutes as I finish with this round?”

“Three” You bargain.

“Seven.”

“Three”

“Five and I’ll make you cum twice.” His final offer, and the time you had in mind. Offering lower than one wants always seems work to get your official deal, even with an extra.

“Deal” you accept with a smirk. 

And what if he was fighting inside a car? You fancied Martin, and sure as hell he fancied you. Even if he has weird hobbies. 

The carriage ride feels longer than the voyage that first took you to Highgarden, but this time there is no veil, no lavender perfume, no bridal nerves tucked into your gloves. You wear your riding leathers beneath a heavy velvet cloak, the color too rich for a woman with no husband and no name. Your hands are bare. Your hair unadorned. Your mouth still set in that same quiet line, the one you learned to hold when the Reach looked at you like a storm they couldn’t contain.

The Red Keep has not changed since you left it. It rises above the city like a red god, towering and unyielding, its shadow spreading from the spiked towers to the streets below. The stones still glisten like blood when the sun hits them, casting an amber glow before dusk. The air still smells of oil and fire, a familiar tang of smoke and iron and promises burnt to ash. The guards still stiffen when you pass, their eyes bright with curiosity, unsure whether they should bow or look away and pretend they’ve not seen you. You catch your reflection in a shield as you walk through the gate, beneath the portcullis where you last saw the glint of sunlight on Aemond’s hair. You look like someone they thought was gone. A hush spreads in your wake, rippling through the corridors, a sweet echo of scandal that follows you like a shadow. Maids pause with linens half-folded. Courtiers shift and whisper as you pass, their conversations frozen. Your mother’s ladies offer faint, artificial smiles, the tilt of their heads betraying their impatience to be the first to tell her. You can hear the murmur before it reaches your ears. She’s back. She’s failed. She’s still childless. She was too proud, they say. Too cold. They say it in whispers, in glances, in silence that is more damning than words. They say the same things in King’s Landing that they said in Highgarden. Like a song passed from one musician to the next, they keep playing the same refrain. You recognize it all.

They know the match was political, a symbol more than a promise, a show of good faith as useless as a gilded parchment. That your wedding was a masterpiece of civility and nothing more. That Ser Lyonel Tyrell—gentle, golden, delicate—never once reached for you in the dark. That the garden never bloomed. That the Tyrells petitioned for annulment with grace and urgency, their letters riddled with concern for your soul. No heir. No bedding. No shame, only regret, tendered with the precision of an accountant’s ledger or a merchant’s bill of sale. And underneath it all, the unspoken truth: you were never meant to be someone’s wife. You were meant to be their burden. Their lesson. Their problem to solve.

When you left King’s Landing, you were Alicent’s daughter. Now you are something less and something more. The one who failed. The one who came back. The one who belongs nowhere except where others don’t want her.

You enter the throne room alone. No handmaid, no brother at your side, no welcoming line of lords eager to claim your favor. You walk with your spine straight, your chin lifted, each step purposeful. You expect to be ignored. Perhaps tolerated. Perhaps pitied.

You are not prepared for Aemond. Not for the way he commands the room like a lord, like a dragon, like something both regal and dangerous. The years have sculpted him into a stranger, one who stands just below the dais and a little apart from the others, his body angled toward the Iron Throne as if it belongs to him. His eye catches yours the moment you appear. You feel it—a burning and intrusive stare, hot and direct and deeply unfamiliar, as if he’s picking you apart, inspecting each piece polished or flawed. He is taller, much taller, than you remember. His shoulders broader, his stance lethal and still. The sapphire gleams cold and pitiless where his eye once was, a bright gem that seems to see everything, to miss nothing. His jaw is sharp now. His mouth cruel and knowing.

He wears the black of the court like armor, as if the velvet and silk could shield him from insurgents and assassins, and the longsword at his hip is heavy, solid, not for show. He watches you like a man appraising a threat, ready to draw blood, and when his lips curl, it is not in welcome.

You pause at the edge of the hall, and the years pause with you. Your gloves remain on. Your expression does not falter. But something inside you stills, freezes, like a river in winter.

Aemond doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t acknowledge you before others can see. He lets the others gather near, shields himself with their presence. Lord Beesbury greets you with a thin, perfunctory smile, obscured by his drooping white mustache. Ser Harrold offers a nod, polite and stiff as his back. The queen smiles and, with effort, makes it convincing. No one mentions the annulment. Not yet. Not in front of Aemond, who watches it all with quiet, simmering amusement.

Then, slowly, with intention and certainty, Aemond steps forward.

He does not bow. He does not smile. “Lady Maidenflower,” he says, just soft enough that only you hear it, enough that it stings.

You turn your head just slightly, exactly enough to make him feel the weight of your reply. “Still clever, I see.”

His eye sweeps over you like a blade. He is not hiding the weight of it, the roughness of the cut. “You returned untouched, then. I’d wondered.”

“Lyonel Tyrell was a poet,” you reply, because you have sharpened your own edges. “Not a fool.”

“Poets rarely have the stomach for conquest.”

You meet his gaze without blinking, without flinching, though your heart still remembers how to race. “And you’ve always had too much of it.”

“I was twelve when you left.”

You tilt your head, and the movement is easy, graceful, scornful. “You still are, most days.”

That earns you a smirk, slow and deliberate, a lord’s smirk. A dragon’s. “Not anymore.”

He takes a single step closer. You don’t move. You let him come.

The pause between you stretches, heavy and hot and alive with unspoken challenges and renegotiated terms. His eye dips to your mouth, and it is not quickly, not politely, not as a brother should. When it rises again, it lingers.

You turn before he can speak again, before he can make you doubt or remember. You offer him no parting glance, no farewell. But you feel it as you walk away—his stare on your back, weighty and hungry. Not a boy’s gaze. Not a brother’s.

Let him look. Let them all.

You did not come back for their sympathy or to stand around, shrinking, while they trample your pride. The thought of wilted and drooping pity is almost amusing, withered and limp like Highgarden’s banner when the wind dies, and you refuse to let it gather at your feet like a folder of discarded marriage contracts. You returned because the summons meant something. Because they wanted you here. Because the annulment meant nothing. Because they are beginning to remember who you are and what you are worth. The realm has no place for a woman like you—a woman with no husband and no duty and no shame to parade—except when it needs one. You are still a dragon’s daughter, flames running molten where other women leave room for fear, and it seems they’re starting to recall the heat of their own blood. They thought a marriage would change you. That the Reach would wear you smooth and pliable. That seven years of silence would make you weak, complacent, eager to return with their leash around your neck. They were fools. You have not softened. You have stripped away everything unnecessary. You have become what you always should have been: scaled, certain, and dangerous. Aemond would be a fool, too, if he still believes he knows the girl who left. If he thinks the same breathless, reckless fool of a girl stands before him, he is welcome to try and find her, to search and search and find nothing at all. He will not.

It’s a few days before you see him again. Long enough that the ache dulls, the whispers shift, the court forgets to look twice. You don’t. You feel him in every corridor. His stare in the back of your skull. The words he didn’t say sitting heavier than the ones he did. You don’t seek him out. Not really. But when the sound of clashing steel drifts through the windows one morning, sharp and furious, your feet carry you there before you can stop them.

The yard is already thick with the sound of clashing steel and barked commands by the time you arrive, drawn not by curiosity but by the unmistakable pitch of Aemond’s voice, rising above the rest. You round the corner and find him standing over a boy barely older than twelve, sword in hand, patience worn thin. The boy is sweating and panting, bleeding lightly from the lip. Aemond says something low enough you can’t catch, but the tone carries and your stomach knots.

"Enough."

Aemond doesn't turn right away. The boy does, blinking at you like he's been thrown a lifeline, desperate and unsure. You step down into the yard without pausing, hands still gloved, shoulders squared, a defiance in each step. You know Aemond sees you, but he remains fixed over the boy, as if your presence is a small interruption. As if you are the one who should wait. As if waiting for the exact moment when his controlled apathy strikes deepest. He finally shifts, looking over his shoulder with slow, deliberate disinterest.

"You are not his commander," you say, your voice sharp and unyielding.

"I am his prince."

You take another step. "And you're still picking fights with boys too small to fight back."

That gets his attention. His eye catches yours and holds. The cut is deep, unrelenting, meant to wound. A quiet breath passes through the onlookers. No one moves. The boy backs away quickly, too smart to stay where the lightning is about to strike. Aemond sheathes his sword, but only halfway. His smirk is faint but not amused, a taunt that is both familiar and new.

"Would you like to teach him, then?"

You tilt your head. "I'd rather teach you."

His smile sharpens. "Then show me."

The court knows you well enough not to question it when you shrug off your cloak and take the spare sword from the rack. Your tunic is laced tight, boots steady, sleeves rolled. You are ready before they realize it, before you realize it yourself. You know the forms, the weight of the steel, the cadence of Aemond's skill. But you don't know the way the court watches now, not with surprise but with certainty, as if expecting exactly this. As if you haven't been gone seven years. Aemond stretches his neck as you step to the center. He doesn't offer the usual salutation. You don't bow.

When you strike, it's without warning. It feels right. Quick. Merciless. He parries fast, steel hissing, and the first clash draws a ripple from the men watching. You dance around him, light on your feet, quicker than he expects. It is a dance you thought you'd forgotten. The rhythm is familiar but off. He's faster now. Stronger. You are sharper. Angry. His blade grazes your shoulder. Yours slices along his side. He doesn't flinch. You don't, either. The heat builds quickly, sweat blooming beneath your collar. He presses harder, with more force, more insistence, more precision than the boy you thought you remembered. You give ground only to take it again. You used to beat him with speed, with patience, with quick, calculated precision. Now he meets you at every turn, matching blow for blow, circling like a predator who knows exactly where to bite.

How much he’s changed. How much he hasn’t.

How much you have.

When he finally gets you on your back, it's not clean. You stumble on loose gravel. He takes advantage, a fierce flicker of triumph in his eye. Your sword hits the dirt. Everything that’s happened since you left King’s Landing—the whispers, the annulment, the letters filled with false concern, the look on his face when you returned—everything that should have made this easy pinches sharp inside your lungs, more painful than his grip. His boot lands between your legs, arm braced against your throat. Not choking. Just holding.

Too close. An echo you can’t outrun.

You expect him to move. He doesn't.

His breathing is rough. So is yours. You can feel the sweat on his wrist, the heat of his body over yours. You look up. His hair is wild. His eye is burning.

"Still think I'm just a boy?"

You don't answer. His grip tightens just slightly. His fingers brush your jaw. He leans in, slow and sure, gaze locked to your mouth like it means something.

You shove him. Hard. He stumbles back, laughter spilling from his chest, not loud but knowing, as if you just gave him the answer he wanted. You roll to your feet before anyone can help you. Your chest is heaving, cheeks flushed, skin hot. You don't look at anyone else as you retrieve your sword and your pride.

"Lesson over?" he calls.

The pause stretches between you. You don’t let it hold. You shrug on your cloak with deliberate ease, the same ease you’ve cultivated since you returned. The hush follows you back into the keep. You feel his eyes like fingers pressing into your skin, a touch that lingers and burns and doesn’t fade when you reach the corridor.

It’s still there at supper. Fresh, insistent. No one else notices the bread you don’t eat, the soup that cools in your bowl, the wine you drink without tasting. You’re the only one who hears the hollow ring of his boot against your sword, echoing through the hall with every half-heard whisper. It doesn’t soften when your mother asks if you’re well, when the maids bring the third course, when the candles burn low. When your mother tells you it was wise to come home, you nod, polite and unconvincing. You take your leave, and the walls feel closer, the halls longer, the air colder.

You don’t think of him. You don’t think of the weight of his body, the feel of his fingers on your jaw. You’re only thinking of the cold when you tighten your laces, only thinking of the chill when you pace the length of your room. The scratch of the quill in the chamber next to yours is louder than you’d like, and the letters on your desk are too frantic and familiar to answer. You are not restless. You are thoughtful.

You think so hard you don’t realize you’ve left your chambers until you find yourself walking without thinking, past the solar, up the stairs, down the hall to the wing where he sleeps. You don't plan it. You don't knock.

You push the door open without a plan, breath quick and shallow from the unguarded walk. He’s there, not surprised, not even questioning your intrusion. Shirtless, lounging in a chair by the hearth, legs spread, as comfortable and confident as if he owned the place. He might as well. The heat of the fire licks the dampness from his hair. A goblet of wine sits comfortably in his hand; his sword rests close by, in easy reach. He looks up at you with an expression that feels both new and old, the same practiced disregard you once swore would never cut you again. Like he expected this. Like he’s been waiting. 

"Come to finish what we started?" 

Your throat tightens. Something in your chest does, too. The echo of it ricochets in your bones, and you shut the door with more force than you mean to. The sound is too loud, too final, but not enough to break the smile on his face. 

"You embarrassed me in the yard," you say. There's a catch in your voice you hope he doesn't hear. You step closer. He hums, not quite a laugh. Almost. 

"You embarrassed yourself." 

You bite back a retort. He watches you try, waiting for the hollow bite of it, waiting for something deeper. 

"You put your hand on me." The words taste more bitter than you expect, and he hears it. You know he does. He shrugs, the carelessness deliberate, and finishes the rest of the wine in a single, slow swallow. 

"You didn't tell me to stop."

Anger and something else lances through you, sharp and unmistakable. A flower blooming violent beneath your skin. "You're not a child anymore," you say. "Fine. But you are still beneath me." There's satisfaction in that. A small thrill. He sets the goblet down with a thin click, the faint trace of red staining the rim. His smile returns, slow and sharp, more a weapon than a jest. 

"Not where it counts."

You don't think, just move, a breathless reckless fool, too sure and too hurt to stop yourself. Your palm cracks across his face and his head turns with the force of it. The wine sloshes in his goblet when you strike him, but he does not drop it. He sets it down on the table carefully, eyes glittering with something you don’t recognize. He looks back at you with a hunger you've never seen before. A hunger that burns like dragon’s blood, searing and inscrutable. Not in him. Not from anyone. 

"Again," he says.

Your breath catches. There's no air in this room, this keep, this entire place. You stare at him. His smile flickers wider when you don't answer. You don’t have to. He knows. He knows. You step closer, and he rises from the chair as you do, caught on the same pull. The distance vanishes faster than you mean it to. Faster than you can stop. Fury frays and threads you together. The space between you disappears quick and final and damning.

"You think you've won something?"

He shrugs, every inch of his body unwound and lithe. "You came here."

"To remind you of your place."

"Remind me, then."

He moves too quickly. Or maybe you move too slow. His hands catch your waist and your spine hits the door hard enough to steal your breath. The night explodes in stars behind your eyes. He doesn't press. Doesn't hurt. Just holds you there with his body, chest against yours, breath hot on your cheek, the heat of him impossible to escape. You grab his wrist, digging in, nails biting soft skin. He holds the wince behind his teeth, gaze fixed on you like he'd die before looking away. 

"Let go of me."

The words are hard. 

"Lyonel never touched you, did he?"

Your hand tightens on his wrist, so hard it shakes. You slap him again, harder this time, and the crack of it splits in the air between you, a current setting stone to fracture. 

He laughs.

"Again," he says. 

You don't. But gods, you want to. You want to and you hate it and you hate him and you turn and leave before you remember how to breathe.

You leave him there with the taste of your own fury still on your tongue. Your hand aches. So does your chest. You don’t look back. You don’t sleep. Not really. You lie awake and stare at the ceiling, the canopy of your bed a cage you can’t escape, can’t untangle. His voice plays over and over in your mind. Lyonel never touched you, did he. The worst part is how softly he said it. Like a secret. Like a truth. Like he knew exactly where to cut, exactly where to let the worst of it bleed.

The candles burn low in your chambers. The chill nips at your windowpanes. You don’t feel it. You feel the ghost of Aemond’s fingers on your hips, his breath on your cheek, the tremor beneath his skin. Everything you thought you buried comes rushing back, rushing through you, rushing until it cleaves the air from your lungs. Why did you return? Why did you think you could stay away? You are not restless. You are not impatient. You are thoughtful, but that thought is wrapped around him like a noose. Like a bruise. Like a bright, sharp hope.

You came to win. You’ve already lost.

By morning, the bruises are already forming beneath the surface of your skin. The memory of Aemond's touch blooms purple and dark, echoes of his fingertips wrought in flesh. You wish the sensation of him would fade as fast. It doesn't. The court is louder now. You feel it in every corridor, every room, every shift in posture when you enter. It clings to you, an invisible murmur that grows teeth. No one says your name, but they don’t need to. You returned without a husband. Without a child. Without a claim worth anything except shame. You were sent to the Reach to secure the realm and came back with nothing but silence. So now they whisper.

She must have refused him.

She must have failed.

She must have been too difficult to want.

The echoes are just as loud as the words. Each clever jab works its way beneath your skin, seeds of doubt taking root and sprouting vines you can't cut through. Even your mother looks at you differently. Her voice is soft, but her eyes are measuring. The warmth she once kept for you has cooled into caution, as if your return might stain her skirts if you stand too close. Her questions come dressed as concern, but you know the shape of judgment. And the ladies at court, the ones who used to play cyvasse and braid your hair, now look through you like you’re made of smoke. They weave tales you can’t quite hear, tales that bleed from one mouth to another, tales whose edges are sharp and cutting.

They don’t ask, but their silence does. What did she do wrong? Was he kind? Did she cry? Did he ever touch her at all? Or did she come back just as she left, proud and unspoiled and completely alone?

You do not answer them. You do not give them the truth they seek, the truth that tugs too close to the center of you. You walk through the halls like nothing has changed, like you are still the same creature you were before. You are not. Aemond says nothing to you in court. He does not look your way unless others are watching, and even then, it is brief. Quick enough to pass as something else. But you can feel it. He lets the rumors curl around you like smoke, never once bothering to stop them. He could silence it. One word from him and the court would fall quiet. But he doesn't. He listens. He watches. He waits.

You find him in the yard again, a few days after the incident in his chambers. He's alone this time. No one dares train with him lately, not since the last sparring match left a knight concussed. He moves with that same quiet precision, that same lethal grace. The sun catches the sweat at his temple, his shirt already discarded and thrown to the side. Your skin prickles at the sight, at the memory of him even more unguarded, even more certain. You should leave. You don't.

You don’t know what you mean to say when you see him there, when you watch him move and remember the way he looked at you, the way he still looks at you. You don’t know what you mean to do when you feel the full weight of his indifference, of the stories he lets the court tell. But you are moving before you can talk yourself out of it. Before the bruises fade, before this second return becomes as hollow as the first. You are moving and it feels like a mistake, but you’ve already made that mistake before, already seen what comes of it. There's no going back. This time, you mean to win.

He sees you before you speak. Of course he does. He always does.

“You following me now?” he says without looking up.

“I could say the same.”

His blade drops slightly. “You never used to lurk.”

“You never used to be worth watching.”

He turns at that, slow and smooth. “Didn’t stop you before.”

You ignore the heat crawling up your neck. “I gave the orders. You followed them.”

“You think that’s still true?”

“You think it’s not?”

“You dragged me through the mud. Screamed at me in front of knights twice my size.”

“And you listened.”

He steps in close. “Try it now. See if I still do.”

Your breath catches. His voice drops, soft and deliberate.

“They say no man ever wanted you. That Tyrell barely looked at you. That you came back untouched because no one could stand the thought.”

You don’t answer. You don’t move.

He tilts his head, close enough to touch. “Is that why you hate me looking?”

“Because you’re not supposed to.”

He smiles, slow and awful. “I can’t stop.”

He steps closer, closing the gap with a slow, sure determination. You don’t move. You don’t even flinch. His face is inches from yours now, and everything about him pulls you in and splits you apart. You can smell the leather of his gloves, the salt on his skin, the faint scent of iron and heat. His hand lifts slowly. You feel the brush of his fingers at your jaw, soft, testing, like he’s taking measure of the space between breath and need and wanting. You could slap him again. You could turn and walk away. You don’t. Your breath is shallow. He watches your mouth. 

You step back. You leave. You don’t speak. You don’t run. You walk away with your back straight and your heart hammering in your ribs like it’s trying to claw out. 

That night, you dream of him. Of course you do. You dream of his mouth, the cut of his lips, the press of his body hot and unrelenting against yours. You dream of his hands, the rough drag of his fingers on your cheek, your skin, your throat. The way his voice dropped low, soft and deliberate. The way his voice dragged low when he said your name. You wake tangled in your sheets, flushed and furious and aching, and you cannot tell whether you want to kill him or keep him. 

It starts with silence. It starts with rooms you pretend not to linger in, corridors you just happen to walk through, doors you pass more slowly than you should. It starts with you lying to yourself—small, careful lies you don’t quite believe. You don’t mean to look for him. That’s what you tell yourself. You don’t mean to, not at first. Not at first, but you find him anyway. 

He’s in the yard. He’s in the hall. He’s at the table, two seats down, eating grapes one by one like they mean something. Every time you look up, he’s already watching. 

You tell yourself it’s nothing. That you are only keeping an eye on him. That someone has to. That it might as well be you. But the lie doesn’t last. Not when the heat flares again behind your ribs every time he speaks. Not when you walk past the training yard and stop to watch. Not when your name comes from his mouth and you have to swallow hard before answering.

You avoid him. Until you don’t.

You find him at the edge of the godswood, on a day when the sun beats down like a curse and the wind is too warm, your thoughts too loud and insistent. He’s leaning against the old heart tree like it belongs to him, as if it's only there to hold him, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword. His head is tilted up to the canopy, eyes closed, jaw sharp. He hears you long before you mean to speak. Even from a distance, you feel the weight of his awareness. As you move closer, he turns slowly, the light catching on the scar beneath his eye, the gleam of the sapphire where it settles. He watches you like he’s been waiting.

"You’ve been restless," he says. "I can tell."

"You don’t know anything about me."

He pushes off the tree and takes a step forward. "I know you come looking for me and pretend you don’t."

You set your jaw. "You think too highly of yourself."

"No," he says, a crooked grin on his lips, closer now. "I think exactly enough."

You take a step back. He follows.

"What do you want?" he asks, voice low.

You hate the question. You hate that he asks it like he knows you don’t have the answer.

"Nothing from you."

He circles you now, slow and deliberate. "You used to look at me like I was a boy. Now you look at me like I might bite."

"Maybe I think you should be put down."

He laughs, a soft huff that barely leaves his throat.

"Do you know what it did to me?" he says. "You left. Married some wilted flower. Let him look at you like a prize he’d never unwrap."

You flinch. He sees it.

"He didn’t even try, did he?"

You snap before you can stop yourself. "No. He didn’t. He was afraid. They all are."

The words hang between you like smoke, pulled from the center of you, unplanned and brutal. You breathe them in and try not to choke. Aemond steps closer. His voice goes quiet.

"I’m not."

You shake your head. You want to run. You don’t. He lifts his hand, not touching you yet, just hovering near your cheek.

"Say the word," he says, "and I’ll make you forget every man who ever disappointed you."

You slap him. His head snaps to the side, but he doesn’t recoil. He lets out a sound that freezes you in place. A moan. A real one. Low and ragged like it was dragged from his chest. When he turns back to you, there’s a flush high on his cheekbone. His lips are parted. His eye burns.

"I knew you liked it rough," he murmurs. "I remember how you used to throw me down."

You stare at him, breath caught halfway between a curse and a gasp. He leans in closer, slow, measured. You don’t move.

"You used to knock the wind out of me. You’d say I was too soft. That I’d never survive the yard unless I learned to take a hit."

"You never did learn."

"That’s not true," he says. "I learned to like it."

You shake your head again, but your fists stay at your sides. Your feet don’t move.

"You think this is a game."

"No," he says. "I think this is exactly what we’ve both been waiting for."

Your pulse roars in your ears. The godswood is quiet, but everything feels too loud. Too close. His breath brushes your cheek.

"Tell me to stop."

You leave him standing in the godswood, breath shallow, palms hot, the trees watching like they know what you almost said. You don’t speak. You don’t run. But you can’t quite breathe either. You walk back through the Keep like you’re sleepwalking, like you might burn through the floor if you stay still.

Night sinks in around you. The walls feel tighter. The fire in your chamber roars too hot. You pace. You pour wine you don’t drink. You open the window and shut it again. You think about sleeping. You think about forgetting. You think about how he looked at you when he said I’m not.

You tell yourself not to go. And then you do.

The hall outside his door is empty. The candlelight flickers low. The door isn’t fully shut. As if he left it waiting.

You don’t knock. You don’t speak. You step inside, and he’s already there. Shirtless, again. Hair damp. Leaning against the table like he hadn’t moved since the godswood. His eye finds yours and doesn’t flinch. You close the door behind you. You don’t lock it. He watches you cross the room without saying a word. He doesn’t ask why you’re here. He knows.

“I didn’t come for this,” you say.

He nods, slow. “Then say no.”

You don’t. He pushes off the table and walks toward you like he already knows how this ends. Like he’s dreamed it a hundred times and every version ends the same. He doesn’t reach for you. Not yet. He waits.

You’re the one who moves. Your hand fists in the collar of his shirt and drags him closer. Your mouth hovers near his, your breath unsteady, your body already too warm. You don’t kiss him. Not yet.

“I hate you,” you whisper.

“I know.”

And then you break. You kiss him like you’re furious. Like he’s the only thing that’s ever made you feel anything and you’d rather drown in it than say it out loud. His hands are everywhere. Yours are worse. There’s nothing careful about it. Nothing sweet. You don’t want sweet. You want to be ruined.

You want to ruin him back. The table knocks over. His back hits the wall. Your boots scatter across the floor. You don’t stop. You don’t think. You don’t ask. When he lifts you up and carries you to the bed, you let him. When he lays you down and looks at you like you’re the first real thing he’s ever wanted, you don’t speak.

He peels back your clothes with a precision that makes you ache, each layer a secret he's uncovering. Your shift falls away, and he stares at you like you're sacred. Like you're something he shouldn't touch but will anyway. His hands are rough, calloused from years of swordplay, but they move across your skin with a reverence that makes your breath catch. You don't want reverence. You want him to hurt. You want to hurt him back.

You flip him beneath you, straddling his hips, hands pinning his wrists above his head. His eye widens, pupils blown, a smile curling at the edge of his mouth. You lean down, hair falling around your face like a curtain, and bite his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. The taste of copper fills your mouth. He moans, hips bucking up against yours.

"Is this what you wanted?" you ask, voice barely above a whisper. "To ruin me?"

His fingers dig into your hips, bruising and possessive. "I wanted to be the one who touched you first."

You laugh, bitter and sharp. "Not everything is yours to claim."

"No," he says, flipping you beneath him with a strength that makes your breath catch. His weight settles between your thighs, delicious and heavy. "But you are."

You should fight. You should push him away. But your body arches into his touch, craving the heat of him, the burn of his skin against yours. His mouth finds your throat, teeth scraping over your pulse, and you gasp, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling hard enough to hurt. He hisses against your skin, the sound vibrating through your bones.

"Tell me to stop," he says again, but this time it's different. It's not a challenge. It's a plea. You can hear the need beneath it, raw and desperate. It would be so easy to tell him no. To walk away. To leave him as broken as you've been. Instead, you pull him closer.

"Don't stop," you whisper against his mouth. "Don't you dare stop."

He trails kisses of fire down your body, spreading your thighs open and bringing his face close to your core. His breath is hot, his mouth everything you expected and nothing like you imagined. You choke on a sound that might be a sob, that might be his name, that might be something you’ve never said to anyone. There is a feeling of novelty between your legs. You don’t know what to do with it, what to call it. You don’t know how to stop it. His tongue traces a path that makes you gasp, your body shuddering beneath him, and every scrape of his teeth sends a shock to places you forgot you had. He pins your hips with his hands. Holds you there until you think you might scream, might call him something you’ll regret. You writhe, helpless and hungry, his mouth pushing you toward something you can't recognize but can't resist. It's new and wild and terrifying. It's more than you were ready for. You feel it building beyond your control, burning through you, breaking you down, and he's relentless. You’ve never been this close to shattering. You’ve never wanted to.

When it crests, it's like wildfire—unstoppable, consuming, spreading through your limbs until you're arching off the bed, his name torn from your throat. He holds you through it, mouth still working, drinking in every tremor until you push him away, too sensitive to bear it.

He moves up your body like he's been waiting his entire life for this moment. He's like a predator, but one who is starving, respectful, already intoxicated by your essence. His mouth is slick, his eyes are wild, and his hair is tousled from your touch. When he kisses you, you taste yourself on his lips, and it sends a wave of heat through you. It makes you want to hide. It makes you want to be consumed.

He pulls back just enough to truly see you, and something raw and broken flickers across his face. You watch it shatter within him. You feel it cracking beneath your ribs.

His hands tremble as they explore your body. They're not hurried now, not greedy. Just desperately seeking. He wants to discover what makes you gasp, what makes you tremble, what makes you wrap your legs around his waist and dig your nails into his shoulders, calling his name like a curse.

Both of you are frantic, lost in something that has been building since the moment you returned. Since before that. Since before you left. Since forever.

When he finally sinks into you, the sound that tears from your throat is something between a sob and a moan. It hurts. Of course it hurts. But it's the kind of pain that feels like salvation, like something breaking open inside you that's been locked too long. He watches your face as he moves, drinking in every reaction, every gasp, every flicker of pleasure that crosses your features. His pace is relentless, punishing, exactly what you need and nothing like you imagined.

"Look at me," he growls, and you do. You meet his gaze and don't look away, even when it feels too intimate, too raw. His eye burns into yours, the sapphire gleaming in the firelight like a second witness to your surrender. "Say my name."

You bite your lip, refusing at first. His hand slides between your bodies, finding the place where you're most sensitive, and your resolve crumbles.

"Aemond," you gasp, the syllables breaking on your tongue like a prayer. "Aemond," you breathe again, and again, like a confession you can't keep hidden anymore.

His rhythm stutters at the sound of it, his name on your lips like a spell he never thought you’d cast. It tears through him, wild and fierce and reckless, like it can’t be contained. His pulse surges with the rush of possession, with a pride that borders on madness. The moment is electric, charged, impossibly taut. He crushes his mouth to yours, swallowing every moan, every gasp, as if your voice alone could undo him, as if all your protests only fuel him further. The pace is dizzying, the edge razor-sharp, and you’re close, so close to something you've never let yourself feel before. Not like this. Not this blinding. Your body arches into him, desperate and unguarded, and you cry out, nails scoring down his back, leaving trails that scream of violence, of passion, of the pain you both need and the pleasure you can’t tell apart. He hisses at the sting, but the sound is nothing like surrender.

"You're mine," he growls, branding you with his words, his teeth grazing your throat, the promise lethal and soft and everything you’ve ever wanted to deny. "Say it."

You choke out the word, shaking your head as you do, still defiant even as your body says otherwise. Even as it betrays you, traitorous and unrelenting, your resistance splintering like ash before a torch. "No." It's barely a whisper, a last stand against the fire, but even you don’t believe it. You clench around him, pulling him deeper, binding him to you with every shuddering breath. He tightens his grip in your hair, and the pull arches your back, exposing your neck, your pulse, the truth you're trying to hide.

"Lie to me again," he says, his voice fractured with desire, the edges rough, unsteady. "And see what happens."

His eye is locked on yours, shining full of hunger and something else. Something that makes you want to give in just to see what it would do to him. You meet his gaze with a challenge, despite the tremor in your voice, despite the pleasure that is slowly unraveling you. "I am not yours."

His lips curl into a smile that is nothing but teeth and intent. He slows his movements with devastating precision, pulling out so slowly it feels like a loss, thrusting back in to make you pay for every lie, for every second you didn’t admit you were his. The impact shatters your defenses, touching something deep inside that makes you want to come apart. Makes you want to break just so he can put you back together.

"Liar," he breathes, but the word is tangled with awe, with worship, with disbelief that he ever let you go. His hands are brands on your skin, holding you in place as he moves, marking you with fingers as determined as his heart, as his claim, as his promise.

You’re losing. You’re lost. Your resolve crumbles, rushing out of you so quickly you feel dizzy with it. The pleasure winds tight, impossibly tight, spreading through your body faster than you can stop it, faster than you can pretend you don’t want it. You’re on the brink, teetering at the edge, and you can’t pull back. Can’t stop it. Can’t stop any of it.

"Say it," he demands, pushing you to the point of no return, his rhythm pushed to the breaking point as his control slips. As he starts to fall apart with you. "Tell me who you belong to."

You want to fight him. You want him to bleed the way you did. You want to be empty of him. You want him to lose the same way you did. You want to give him nothing. You want to watch him break. You want him to hurt the way you did. You want to give him everything. You want him to know it. You want to ruin him as he's ruined you. And suddenly, you are. The word leaves your throat like it’s tearing you apart, like it’s putting you back together. The admission is pain and salvation. The confession is agony and release. "You." The silence shatters. Your resolve shatters. Something wild and desperate between you shatters. You come undone with it, unable to hold anything back. Your voice, your control, the last of your resistance. "You," you whisper, the sound already gone. "You, Aemond."

It breaks something in both of you. He kisses you then, deep and consuming, and you fall apart beneath him, waves of pleasure wracking through you, your release a storm breaking against the shore. He follows you over the edge, his own release a fierce, primal claim, his body tensing above you, inside you, around you. The sound he makes is raw, unguarded, nothing like the prince who holds his emotions in check. His forehead presses against yours as he shudders, as he spills himself inside you, marking you in the most primitive way. You think he might have forgotten how to breathe, how to hold back, how to be a dragon and not a man. You think you might have forgotten the same.

It leaves you both unmoored, wild and vulnerable, unable to hold anything back. Every moment is a fracture, a split-second proof of his soul laid bare. Every tremor a piece of you given in ways you never thought you could. Never thought you would. The heat of him, the weight of him, it should feel like too much. It should feel like surrender. You should feel conquered, defeated. But for the first time, it feels like exactly what you’ve been wanting. Exactly what you’ve been waiting for.

It takes an eternity for the storm to pass, for the world to settle around you, but you hold fast through it, to him, to each other. You feel it long after the shakes subside, after your bodies run out of breath and fury and will. The truth of it so potent you can’t suppress it. Can’t deny it. Not even to save yourself. For a moment, neither of you move. His breath mingles with yours, ragged and spent. His weight is heavy, but you don't push him away. You can't. Your fingers trace the scars on his back, mapping the history of a boy who became a man you didn't recognize. Who became a man you couldn't resist.

When he finally rolls to the side, you feel the chill of the room rush back, reminding you of where you are. Who you are. What you've done. You lie there, staring at the ceiling, your body humming with remnants of pleasure and something heavier. You should leave. You should get up, gather your clothes, and slip away before the castle wakes. Before reality returns. Before the weight of this settles fully on your shoulders. Instead, you stay.

His fingers trace lazy patterns on your skin, following the curve of your hip, the dip of your waist, like he's memorizing the map of you. Neither of you speak. The silence isn't uncomfortable, but it's heavy with things unsaid. With questions neither of you are ready to answer.

"They’ll know," you whisper, voice ragged from crying out his name.

He doesn’t flinch. Just looks at you—calm, unreadable—as if the words mean nothing at all.

"And?"

You swallow. "You don’t understand what they’ll say."

"I do." His voice is flat, unbothered. "They’ll say what they always do. It changes nothing."

You push his hand away, sitting up fast. "I’m not yours to claim."

His eye flicks to you, sharp and steady. "I never said you were."

That catches you off guard—but before you can speak, he adds, quieter this time:

"You chose this. Just like I did."

With the moon properly floating in the breezy dim of the night sky, a group of loud girls with their flashy jewelry had found the show. They all talked on top of each other, crouching down to get onto his eye level. He seemed to preen under their attention, breezily propping his chin onto his hand, as though he wasn’t pinning the guy’s ankle with the other.

But soon, they had lost interest too, and once more, the fighters had an audience of one. 

By the sixth one, he had passed out. Choked by the seatbelt. The other guy was much bigger in him, looking more athletic in his tight shirt and shorts, but your stranger put up a good fight. You watched as his opponent left him lying there, and you waited. It must have been ten minutes, or an hour, but you waited. Soon, you spotted the shaking of his unkept black tresses, signalling his return to consciousness. It was all too normal for him it seemed, with the way he casually put his shoes back on, then his jacket, and he was out of the car. 

Any semblance of a reaction from you came in a small jolt at the slam of the car door. The bloodied showman made his way towards your still-standing figure, shaking his head to mess his sweaty mane. He was limping a bit; probably from the little maneuver he did into the back seat with the third guy. 

He didn’t say anything to you. You don’t say anything back. Merely two pairs of eyes staring at each other— quizzical, drained. 

He tilted his head off to the side, somewhere in a vague direction to the cluster of houses with gray clapboards off in the distance.

You shrugged, then nodded. What the hell, sure.

There was an odd stinging in your heels with every step you took behind him, but you stayed quiet. Your eyes stayed glued to the back of his head, your mind thinking of the possibility of you beating him in a fight if you snuck up on him then. You’d hold up for a while, a kick in the nuts would definitely have you get a couple of hits in, you figured, but he’s got the moves. You’ve seen all of it.

His house was a dull gray, like the ones on either side of it. The stained walls told you it was once bright and new, perhaps when the smiling woman in the picture frames still lived there. His mum, maybe. There wasn’t a single soul around now, except for you and him. He led you to his room without so much a word, which was littered with all kinds of paints, posters, and clothes. 

Something underneath a pair of plaid pajamas started to squirm and make its way to the tip of your boot, tongue darting out to lick the cracked leather. “Ew,” you grimaced, squinting your eyes to look at the crawler. You had no idea what it was, not with how dark it was in his room. “What the fuck is that?”

“That’s my funny little guy,” he muttered, scooping the slimy thing into his hand and depositing it into a glass aquarium with a coo. You stayed standing on the threshold, in your fake fur coat and your slip dress. 

Your stranger immediately undid the buckles of his belt, dropping the light-washed jeans onto the floor. He seemed all too comfortable walking around in his boxers in front of a woman he’d just met. You realized he hadn’t told you his name yet; you muttered yours to him in the silence. 

“Martin,” he grumbled, plopping onto the mattress. His face was still bloodied from all that waltzing he did in the car, and you figured you should probably offer to help him clean those up. You stayed quiet.

The vintage coat you’d paid thirty pounds for along with letting the owner get a feel up your skirt soon found its place among the mess on the ground. You unzipped your knee-high platforms, wriggling your toes free of their constraint before settling right next to him. He’d somehow procured a cigarette, swiftly lighting it to life and taking a puff. Your cold fingers brushed against his when he passed it to you, inhaling the stinging smoke into your lungs. 

“What were you doing back there?” you spoke up after a hazy, nicotine-filled silence, turning to look at him. His shoulder was nicely warm against yours, and he had a smell to him. Not a nose-scrunching odor, but a funny mix of sweat and the smell of a wooden cupboard. 

“Car-Jitsu,” he drawled out, stretching his long limbs past the span of the twin-sized mattress. Your tongue itched to voice your questions, there was much more you wanted to ask, but Martin didn’t seem to talk much. How did it work? Was there cash involved? Was there some sort of Facebook group they were all a part of? ‘Available from 1-6 pm tomorrow. Silver 2006 Lexus. 5 minutes each turn.’ 

You were taken out of your thoughts by a shining in your face and a buzzing. A remote-controlled helicopter hovered over your face, blazing its bright light into your eyes. Martin, toying with the controller in his hands, chuckled beside you, which made you smile. He directed it to circle over your head, lowering his voice in a mocking police tone that made you giggle. It descended down, and down, landing on the plane of your clothed stomach. The last of the propeller’s spinning tickled your belly, sending a buzz straight down to your legs. You had propped them onto the bed, and the hem of your already short skirt fell into a crumple on your hips, exposing your black thong. The man pressed to your side reached for his toy, flicking it off before returning his warm palm to your abdomen. He seemed to test the feel of the cheap satin beneath his hand with his every caress, sliding up and down your belly. You simply lay there, sighing when you felt his nose press against your cheek, breathing in the scent of your flesh. 

His hand slithered underneath your dress, squeezing the supple skin of your waist before cupping your cunt. He was growing hard against your thigh, you could feel him start to twitch. Mindlessly, your hand crossed over to touch him over his boxers, making him grunt. A shudder sprinted down your spine when his tongue darted out to lick on the shell of your ear, blunt teeth nibbling on your lobe. His mouth traveled south, mouthing over your stiff nipples before nudging your dress just underneath your tits to reveal your stomach. He nuzzled his wounded face over the soft span of flesh, painting you red with dried flecks and wet smears of blood. It made the hairs on your arms raise in attention, your cunt tingling when his fingers trespassed the waistband of your panties to feel the hairs on your mound.

“What you got under here?” he mumbled against your skin, breathy.

Giving into your urges, your hand settled over the back of his head, fingers running through the jet-black strands of hair. It was slightly slick with grease, as you expected, though surprisingly soft. The soft waves made him look so pretty, though they fell over his face way too much that it covered his icy blues. 

Your hips lifted ever so slightly when his fingertips run a ghostly trail over your slit. “Wanna see?” you offered. Your thong soon joined the pile on the floor, and the air against your exposed cunt held a slight chill, though his breath warmed you up nicely. You watched as two fingers split your folds open, exposing your moistening pussy to his eye, and you wondered if he could see anything with the only light in the room being edges of the neighbor’s yard light from his window. He was studying you like a scientist in a lab, and it wouldn’t surprise you if he reached for the magnifying glass on the nightstand behind him. “Never seen a pussy before, have you, Martin?” you teased. 

“Not as pretty as this one,” he answered, his voice far away as he prodded you in a trance. His tongue darted out to lick over your clit, making your hips jerk in surprise. Martin hummed, pleased with your reaction. He went back for another lick, dipping into your slit this time, then another, and soon, he had you clenching the dark sheets into fists as he licked and sucked all over you. There was no technique to it, nor a finesse, he was merely a starved man feasting on the sweet bounty you offered him. You kept your hand on his head, clamping him down as you grinded on his face. 

Your mind wandered back to him in that car, how he smiled even while in a headlock and his feet dangled over the open window. He seemed to enjoy tumbling around, you figured that much. You wanted to see him smile again, you decided. With intent, you pushed on his shoulder, then the other, pulling him away from in between your thighs. He straightened to look at you in confusion, though the wicked smile on your face as you shoved his chest made his slim cheeks dimple in understanding. With your fourth shove, he caught your wrists, pinning them by your ears with his strong grip. You turned your head to bite his slim forearm, making him yelp. You tussled and grappled, with him grabbing your ankle and you pulling on his hair, until eventually you managed to switch your positions. With him on his back, you settled on his lap, slick folds nestled perfectly against his clothed cock. “I win,” you grinned, Martin mirroring your smile. You grabbed the hem of his gray tee, pulling it over his head before using it to wipe the blood from his nose. His left eye was a little swollen, appearing smaller than the other. Your black dress followed, baring yourself to him. 

Your nipples stood erect in the chilly room. The faint amount of fluorescent light streaming into the gap in his curtains painted a harsh line across the shadows of your blood-streaked body. Nimble fingers reached into the waistband of his black boxers, pulling out his stiff length. You sunk into him with a sigh, rolling your hips with a practiced ease. 

Martin was tantalized. You wondered how long it had been since he fucked a woman, though the way he watched you spear yourself on his cock over and over in awe made you figure it had been a while. It made your chest swell with pride. Taking his wounded hands, you settled them over your tits, urging him to squeeze them. “Like that?” you breathed out, earning a nod from him. 

His cock was making you feel so good, evident from the blissed-out moans freely falling from your lips. Your hips moved with a mind of its own, rubbing your clit against his pubic bone. You steadied yourself with a hand on his sculpted chest, the dark spray of hair a pleasant tickle under your palm. With your view facing directly at the window, you caught the shadow of movement outside. Someone was watching you. You couldn’t see your audience’s face, with the bright porch lights behind him giving you a backlit view of their face. 

Preening under the watchful eye of a stranger, your hands raised to run over your hair, throwing your head back as you rode Martin harder. Your face contorted to display your pleasure, which pleased the man below you as well. His rough palm grabbed your cheek, pulling you straight into his lips.

He tasted coppery with blood, yet slightly sweet from the blue razz lolly that painted his tongue a vivid color. His mouth dominated you like an opponent, consuming you with the hot, wet muscle reaching deep into your warm cavern. Muscled arms encircled your body, caging you against his chest as his hips soon began to rise to meet yours. Trapped, you couldn’t lift your head to see if your audience was still there, though the thought of the unknown figure vanished from your mind with Martin’s erratic thrusts. You could only bury your face into his neck as he took control. 

You didn’t find anything within you to complain about the turn of events. The hairs on the back of your neck raised when you feel his hand lowering to cup your ass, a wandering finger finding your puckered hole. It made you gasp when you felt him circle your rim. With the overflowing slick pouring from your cunt gathered on his fingertip, he dipped into an experimental penetration into your ass. 

“Mmh!” you squealed, biting down on the junction of his shoulder. Martin’s chest rumbled in a breathless chuckle. With your arms still caged in his grip, you could only squirm in his hold as he continued to fuck you with his cock and tease you with his finger. He whispered your name in a pleasured, raspy drawl. It spurned a tingle deep within your core, spurning you further into the abyss. You lifted your head to press your forehead against his. Lips close but not touching, breaths mingling and mixing. His tongue licked your bottom lip, before slithering its way into your mouth. 

Your release crept up your spine like the spider Martin had crawling in an old jar. It brought about a tingle in the back of your head, and soon your cunt gushed all over his cock. You swore you had blacked out the moment he made you squirt, lost in a haze with dotted vision as he continued to pound into you. You could hear him curse in your ear, followed by praises and a slap on your ass for spraying all over his legs. With a harsh thrust that jolted you in the black-haired man’s hold, then another, you feel his cock twitch in your walls as he came into your womb. You were too far gone to muster up the energy to tell him you weren’t on birth control, nor did you have the money for a morning-after pill, limply plopping back onto the mattress when he rolled you off. The bed’s springs bounced when Martin got up, the absence of his warmth making way for a chill to settle over your naked body. You kept your eyes closed, basking in the pleasant buzz of the blissful aftermath and the exhaustion finally catching up to you.