writing sideblog

“I love my brothers, really I do, but all of them, truly, are fools.”

Helaena’s hand in yours, flickering spice of bourbon still warm on your lips, the truth of it all - tangled and tedious, dredged up from the bottom of your heart - unraveled between you.

You’d told her all of it: the slow, sure beginning, the uncertain truth of your feelings; the night of the disastrous family dinner, afterwards in his room; of the kiss and the regret and the love - you think, a word you evade and edge around, a word that bears through you to your bitter bones - that’s blossomed, bloomed, burnt out between you.

“Hel -“ You grip her tightly, reach tentatively for your neck - for the necklace that you haven’t taken off since the night that Aemond had put it on you, fingers trembling, his breath at the back of your neck. “He gave me this, for Christmas.”

You’ve been careful to wear collared sweaters, high necks, have been hunted and haunted by the thought of him knowing that you’re wearing his gift. How often have you caught his eye - fleetingly, on you - lingering at your throat?

Easily, you drag down the neck of your sweater. And Helaena’s eyes - a dim, wintry echo of her brother’s - flit from stone to stone, the shock of sapphire against your skin. You’d wondered what it meant when he’d given it to you, why it had felt as though he’d carved the heart from his chest and handed it to you, a thought that hasn’t left you in the days that have drawn past since, a thought that drags and dwells at the forefront of your mind, now, as you watch the flickering of emotion on Helaena’s face. The insistence of her hazy gaze, the lip she’s gathered between her teeth, the memory that flutters just behind her eyes, out of your reach.

At last, she sighs.

The moment pulses around you, as heady as a fever, spiking hot through all your veins.

“He’s such a fucking idiot,” she says.

Aemond has never quite understood love.

Has always known love for the absence of it - like the shock of a missing tooth, that aching, hollow space. His mother, his father, a love that had never been love, only duty. Aegon, a love like a compulsion, always an afterthought. Alys, a love that had been lust, that had been burnt and blackened beyond recognition.

Only Aenys - a love that struck through as golden and true as afternoon light, that cast out the darkness, that warmed him wherever it touched.

He fears that he might love you.

Love like the summer, an endless heat; love that he’s staved off and stowed away and that will come, inevitably, will change and turn with the seasons, will mark him like a sunburn and chase the cold away.

“You’re being foolish, Aemond,” Helaena had said, the night before, perched at the end of his bed. “You care for her - anyone can see it, I know that you can, too.”

Aemond has never longed for love, never meant to.

He’d resigned himself long ago to a future that included only Aenys, only him. A future that was as crisp and cold as the winter - frost bitten heart, chilled nerve endings - but that was certain, that held no hurt that he could not foresee.

He’s always been slightly fearful of love, uncertain of what to do with it.

“You’re going to lose her if you don’t tell her, Aemond. She can’t wait forever.” Helaena’s hand in his, that cloying dread in his heart. She’d been right, she was, and all the fear that he’s spent years swallowing, stealing away, sweeping to the dimmed corners of his mind, lodges like the truth in his throat.

He watches you from the kitchen - stovetop simmering, dinner nearly done. And you - barefoot in the living room, Aenys in your arms, the hem of your dress floating about your knees, music crooning through the speakers; a dance that is stumbling and slow, your forehead bent against Aenys’, murmurs and laughter, caught in odd fractals of late afternoon light.

Aemond has never understood love.

But he understands this - the slow, soft warmth in his chest; what he feels when he hears his mother’s voice over the phone, when he glances at his phone to see an odd, slightly concerning text from Aegon, whenever he so much as glances at Aenys.

He’d been a fool, he knows.

And perhaps he always will be.

But this - you, across from him at the dinner table, listening intently to his son; the quick gasp of your laughter, the careful turn of your head when Aenys’ feeds Vhagar from his plate, your fingertips at the necklace he’d given you, caught there with a stolen breath - he cannot run from this, doesn’t want to, wants to sit beside you at the table as winter fades to spring fades to summer, as the seasons turn and that warmth within his chest begins to bloom and -

“I think it’s time for bed for you,” you say, reaching for Aenys’ hands. “You have had such an exciting week.”

He watches you trail down the hall with his son in tow, can hear the sound of a bath being drawn and your quiet exclamation at whatever bedtime story Aenys had chosen for the night.

He thinks of what Helaena had said, when she’d first mentioned you, the fluttering of her voice, dreamy haze in her eyes.

I think you both could use someone like her, she’d said. And Aemond had felt the world shift, just a little, had understood what she meant in the marrow of his bones.

The sun has long since set by the time you leave Aenys’ room, the soft sounds of his breaths drifting quietly through the dark of the room. From the hallway you can hear music still seeping through the speakers, dimmed, now, as Aenys sleeps, the sound of it as distant and dizzying as a lullaby.

The lights in the front room have been lowered, everything drowsed and yawning off into the fathoms of sleep. And Aemond - standing still at the sink, a dirty dish in his hand, something strange and ineffable flitting across his face.

“Could I speak with you?” He asks from across the room, quietly.

Fierce thrash of fear in your heart. That perhaps he’d heard your conversation with Helaena, hadn’t approved of you speaking to his sister about him, that he could not move on past that night and wants to let you go -

“Come here,” he steps out from behind the kitchen counter, beckons you close. “I owe you a dance - after the one I interrupted earlier.”

His hand on your shoulder, calling you and Aenys to dinner.

He offers you his hand, now.

Says nothing when you take it. Only drags you close, fingertips at your back, turning you slowly in time to the swells and the lulls of the music. Drifting. Dreaming. His hand in yours.

“You wanted to speak to me?” You ask, quietly, the question lost over his shoulder to the unhurried drag of a violin.

“Mhm.” You see the near imperceptible clutch of his jaw, feel the quick grip of his hand. He stills for just a moment. “I wished to apologize for my behavior. I’ve been…difficult, I know, to say the least.”

You hid a smile against the curve of his neck.

“My sister says I’ve been a fool, in regards to you, and I fear that she may be right.”

The moment stopped, stilled, suspended in time.

“I’ve been a fool, in attempting to flee from my feelings for you. In truth, I’ve cared for you since the day you came to meet Aenys, when you made him laugh.”

His hand in yours, his fingers at the small of your back. The edges of his mouth turning up into a fleeting, furtive smile.

“You’ve no idea how hard I’ve tried to dissuade myself of these feelings, to set them aside for the sake of you, of Aenys. But in spite of myself, that care has only grown with time. And I find myself -“ He hesitates, just a breath, the hand at your back grasping, your heart in your throat. “Quite taken with you.”

Something blooming; every feeling that you’ve stowed away, swallowed, swept into the annals of your mind blossoming warm and slow in your chest. Aemond - who is holding you close, tentatively grasping at your cheek, tendrils of hope unfurling in his light eyes.

“Of course, if you don’t feel the same -“

“Aemond,” you shake your head, wonder how he could ever begin to think that his feelings - for you; you, you, you - could ever be unrequited.

“Nothing would need to change. I would understand - things would simply continue on as they’ve been -“

“Aemond,” you say, louder, this time, the word fluttering and falling between you.

He stills.

Eye flickers from yours to your lips.

The kiss - when it comes - is a slow, uncertain thing, as soft and steady as a sunrise, as a forgotten dream. Light spilling through the darkened corners of your heart.

You part your lips, tilt your head, and Aemond drags you ever-closer, roughened skin of his thumb at your jaw, a hand tangled aimlessly in your hair. The kiss is a distant echo of that night out beneath the stars, a match struck, a shivering flame, throughout it all an undercurrent of burning.

“Fuck, I -“ Aemond pulls away. The edges of his mouth swollen, cheeks stained a faint pink. “If we do this -“ breathless, words a gasp. “I don’t want to hurt Aenys.”

His eye closed. Distant, guttering flame.

You think of the fear that has lurked and loomed within you ever since that kiss, of Aemond’s words that night, of how you hadn’t ever considered, in any way that was bone-marrow, blood deep, leaving them. It had been an odd turn of fate, meeting his sister, wandering here, to him - but from the moment you’d met him, Aenys, whatever uncertainty had gathered and grown in your heart had ceased.

“Aemond.”

It’s the only word you’re capable of, the only thing that struggles forth from your lips. You reach for him carefully, fingertips at the knife-edge of his jaw, bid him to look up at you.

“If I was planning on leaving,” you whisper. “I would’ve done it a long time ago.”

He gazes at you for a moment, long and deep.

And when he kisses you again it’s the answer to a question he hasn’t yet asked, is the crush of his mouth against yours, the tangle of your teeth.

Stumbling down the hall, your hand in his.

His movements as soft and steady as a dream. Sleepwalking, caught in that hazy world between waking and sleep, where dreams still linger and cling to your skin.

He pauses at his bedroom door, draws his hand away and glances back at you.

“Are you certain?” He asks, just the once.

Slowly, you nod.

Could tell him in a hundred whispered ways that this feels right, that there’s certainty strung through your bones, that it’s fate and it’s a choice and you won’t, will only reach up to kiss him, because he knows, he knows, he knows -

He’s moonstruck, in the dark of his bedroom, light catching in sudden strokes against his silver hair, his pale cheeks.

Drunken, faithless, dazed, you fall back, through a dream, onto his bedsheets. How often had you thought of this, in the dark and desire of your room, of his hands drifting beneath your skirt, divesting you of all your clothes, leaving you bare and sick with want before him?

He’s as careful and quiet as he’d been in all your imagined longings - mouth dragging from your chin, to your throat, and lower - hands straying from your waist, to your breasts, to your knees.

The burning of his touch, second degree scorch against your skin, as his hands and his mouth finally congregate, at last, where you want them, as he looks up at you between your legs and rasps, voice thick and low, “Is this alright?”

Trembling, you nod. And he doesn’t waste a moment before dragging his mouth along you - pleasure syrup slow and syrup sweet. He draws his tongue through your folds, along your clit, gazes up at you ever so often to see flickers of your reactions to him, till you’re soft in his hands and every movement - every flutter of his tongue, every crook of his fingers inside of you - unwinds you, unravels you, forces you closer to that ravenous flame.

His name catches in a breath in your throat. He hums at the sound of it and it’s that, that echoing shudder, stutter of breath, that sets you aflame.

His name a litany as you come, head thrown back and vision overblown - white at the edges, falling stars.

“Shhh,” Aemond’s hand at your mouth, the wicked edge of his smile. “We don’t want to wake him now, do we?”

You can feel the callouses against his palm, the roughened whorls of the fingertips that had just been twisted inside of you. You look up at Aemond from beneath tear-damp lashes, everything shining, drowned in moonlight.

“Can you be a good girl and be quiet for me, hm?” His knee between your legs, his mouth at your ear, his hand still over your mouth. He draws away slightly, fingers falling back to your clit.

Stifled gasp, your lower lip between your teeth.

He watches the movement, wets his lips.

“Good girl,” he says. Draws his fingers in dizzying circles, begins to deluge you in pleasure again. “Can you come again for me?”

You do, clutch at his wrist and bite at his palm and drown in the frayed nerve, split synapses of pleasure. Aemond’s eye is half-lidded, dark. He stares at you for a moment, his hands drawn away from where they’d been and settled against your hips.

“Do you want me to fuck you?”

Breath catches in your throat. You nod, reach for him, for his belt, for his hands. He undresses in a fumble of hands; knocked knuckles and grasping fists, stopping ever so often to kiss you again - and you taste yourself still, an aftershock on his lips.

“Aemond.”

He’s as pretty as you’d thought he might be. Long and lean; all sharp edges and jutting planes; his cock flushed and pink at the tip.

“Can I -? I want -“

You hesitate. Uncertain if it’s a brush too far. You tap your finger against your eye.

He stills. Seems mired in indecision, caught unawares.

“You don’t have to -“

“No. You should - you should see.”

You’ve never heard that note of fear in his voice, before, have never seen the naked trepidation that now flickers in his eyes.

Slowly, he reaches for his eyepatch.

The first thing you see is the shock of blue - your fingers at your throat, at the necklace he’d given you - in realization. There’s a sapphire there, where once an eye had been - severed through with a knife, you know, leaving behind that jagged expanse of a paled scar. The blue in his ruined eye, the blue at your neck.

His eye moves rapidly across your face. “I’m sorry,” he says, quietly, all the darkness and lust fled from his voice. “You certainly don’t have to-“

“The necklace.”

It’s all you can say. All you can think. Your pulse fluttering whatever stray swathe of skin the stones touch.

“The necklace,” Aemond nods. “When I was young, my mother used to tell me that sapphires were good luck, that they would protect the wearer from unknown harms. It seemed fitting, after -“ Wry, twist of a smile.

“If you dislike it -“

“Aemond -“

His eye flutters to you. All the words you might’ve said die in your mouth as you look at him; at the vague vestige of panic still presiding over his features, at the gathered expression of fear, uncertainty.

You lean forward, weight on one elbow, reach out to touch his cheek. He catches your hand; holds himself against it for a moment, eye closed and breathing steady, the slipping of a nightmare through his veins.

He kisses the threading of veins at your wrist, the clutch of your elbow, grasps your face between his hands and kisses you again; you imagine the softened glow of the sapphire in the moonlight, imagine the wave of blue cast over you.

“I do -“ you say, heartbeat rushing, “want you to fuck me.”

Aemond’s eye darkens.

Aemond fucks you slowly, sweetly, your legs drawn up around his waist and his hand between your legs. Seeping pleasure, growing about your heart. He murmurs your name into the curve of your shoulder, the divot of your throat.

“You’ve no idea, how often I thought of this.”

The steady circle of his thumb against your clit.

He’d fucked you the same way he’d drawn you to rapture earlier; his eye ever on you, till he knew to grasp at your waist, angle his hips, knew that spot inside of you that made you sing.

He knocks his brow against yours. Breaths ragged, ripped from him as he moves. You’d thought that his fingers were divine but they weren’t, no, not in comparison to this - the drag of his cock, his body pressed against you, at the outer edges of your vision you see stars.

“Can you come for me again? Hm?”

He’s close, you know, can feel in the stammer and the stall of his pace.

“Fuck. Be a good girl and come for me again.”

And you do, you reach out and grasp at the sky, come away with constellations in your hands and light unspooling in your chest and he gasps your name, just once, does not move after - his head against your shoulder and his heartbeat in your mouth.

“Stay the night. Please.”

He reaches up. Threads his fingers through with yours. His eye lingers on the sapphires at your throat.

You nod. Think of the summer and the heat and the warmth in your chest, think of Aemond, all your recollections and memories converging on this: your entwined fingers, his mouth at your chin.

“As long as you want,” you whisper.

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Aenys always drifted off into a fathomless, dozing slumber before you’d finished your reading of whatever book he’d insisted upon that bedtime, and tonight was no exception.

His soft breaths, the hushed closing of the book, fluttering of pages; lamp switched off and room swept into darkness, the warm, burnt-yellow glow of the hallway; a brush of a kiss on his forehead, a murmured goodnight. Your evenings always go like this: your closing the door, swaying down the hallway, tired and calling out to the taxicab, cheek pressed against the cool, dewy window and gazing up at the star strewn sky. You leave quickly, quietly, see Aemond for the mere moment that it takes to walk downstairs, an uncertain silence always lingering between you, words stifled, unspoken.

It doesn’t quite happen like that, tonight.

Aemond still stands, waiting for you in the hallway. There’s still the fleeting touch of his hand at the small of your back as he opens the front door, you feel it even through the wool of your coat.

He pauses, as he turns to lock the door - unwilling to leave his son vulnerable for even the minute that it takes to walk to the lobby and back - his hand still and his jaw tight.

“My mother,” he says, suddenly, “is having an engagement party, the week after next.”

Uncertain, you nod.

He’d never spoken to you about his mother. You knew her only from the impersonal stare of hallway photos, from lengthy phone conversations with Aemond that you only barely heard one-side of.

Finally, Aemond draws away from the door, slips the key into his front pocket.

“It’s along the coast. I’d planned to take Aenys with me, to make a sort of weekend trip of it, and I’d wondered whether or not you’d like to come.”

A brief, blooming silence.

Aemond had never directed so many words towards you, had never seemed so unsteady, words stumbling and unsure.

“You’d be compensated for the extra time, of course,” he continues, quickly. “And any and all incurred expenses would be covered. You needn’t say yes, if it’s an imposition at all. I’m well aware that if falls over your weekend, and that nowhere in our contract does it mention any sort of travel, but -“

He does not meet your eye. Instead, seems intent to stare blankly at the black and white checkered tile, interspersed every now and again with a golden knot of a monogram.

“I’d be happy to,” you say, and though the words are soft he hears them all the same, his head snapping sharply up.

He gazes at you with a look that you cannot discern, fail to untangle with trembling, uncertain fingers, feel through to your bones.

“Good,” he says, and nods, just the once.

You know little of the Targaryens as a whole.

You’d known the name, of course, long before you’d known Helaena, knew the spun-silver hair and the vague purple eyes and understood that the word was synonymous with wealth, with money and history and a legacy that ran blood-deep.

Helaena had spoken little of her family, and Aemond even less; leaving you with an odd, fragmented grasp of the family at large.

What you know of them seems incongruous when held beside your dealings with Aemond and Hel, with the clumsy, cheerful photos that had cluttered Helaena’s halls, with the suggestion of a smile that pressed at Aemond’s mouth when he spoke of his mother, with the FaceTime calls (disjointed, blurry, volume always too loud and motion lagging) between Aenys and his grandmother.

“I’ve told Aemond to be on his best behavior,” Helaena had told you over the phone the night before, speaker held firm between your cheek and shoulder as you zipped closed your suitcase.

“Best behavior -“ you’d repeated, and you hadn’t quite understood what it meant.

Because Aemond was sure, steady, endlessly composed and effortlessly unperturbed, a jagged rock that you could stumble into, cut yourself against but in the face of it all would never budge. You’d seen no flares of temper, no fits of bad mood, had presumed that such things were out of reach for him, in all his measured coolness.

You are, however, beginning to understand what she might’ve meant.

The Aemond seated across the car from you now is hardly the man you’d come to know: his jaw strung and his hands white-knuckled, his foot restless in its rhythmic tapping, gaze narrowed on the carpeted floor.

Every now and again Aenys would call his name - “Daddy!”, an outstretched hand proffering a plastic dinosaur or one of his pretzel snacks - and he would glance up, assume the warm, easy smile you were so used to, till Aenys’ attention had faded away to something else and again he would gather his fists, tap his foot, stare resolutely at the floor.

“Do you know who else is going?” You ask, carefully, quietly, once the constant shuddering of the car has lulled Aenys into a sound and sure nap, leaving the car devoid of all sound.

Aemond nods, the edges of his mouth turning into a frown so subtle it might’ve been mistaken for a trick of light. “It’s just a family thing, really. It’ll be my mother and Cole, Aegon, Helaena and the kids, of course.” A terse beat of silence. “My half-sister, and her children, as well.”

“Oh.” You’re hesitant to venture any farther, to dredge up memories that you’re sure already haunt him, linger in the scar-tissue strewn across his skin.

Helaena had only ever once spoken of the loss of Aemond’s eye, though the incident that had incurred it had been roundly speculated upon in lengthy twitter threads, in the faded magazine print of gossip columns.

“An accident,” she’d said, voice soft and fingers trembling. “They couldn’t save the eye.”

And though all sources and streams of speculation were unsure of the exact order of events, of the finer, messier details, all of them agreed upon this: that it was one of the children of Aemond’s half-sister who had been at fault.

A terrible, bloody thing.

A doomed mischance, a badly delt hand, horrid turn of fate.

Your gaze lingers on Aemond’s eye - the one perpetually covered by the black swathe of an eyepatch, which he was reluctant to let even his son see.

His good eye flickers up and - breath caught, heart thrumming - he catches you looking.

Once again he frowns, and there is no catch of light, no fleeting flicker to chase it away. He frowns and you feel the movement of it - inescapable, indelible - in the center of your heart.

It’s well over an hour before the car finally slows, turns down an endless stretch of gravel road. Trees loom to either side, and beyond them stretches a wind-swept swathe of yellowed grass; you can see the ocean, just behind the house, a hymn of crashing waves and salt-licked breeze.

“Are we here?” You ask, fingertips pressed to the cool window, glancing over at Aemond.

He nods, moving forward slightly - the movement sending his knees softly brushing against yours. “My mother’s house,” he says, words clouded against the glass. They’re tinged with a sort of guarded sweetness that usually only affects his tone when speaking about Aenys - the duck of a chin, a careful smile.

“And you grew up here?”

He shakes his head. “No. This was my mother’s home before she married my father and moved out to the city. We only came here over the summer, when school was out and we could stay for weeks.”

He spoke little of his childhood, and you gathered that his particular memories of it must be strikingly bittersweet, a prelude and a premonition of what was to come.

“Should we wake him?” You nod over at Aenys, still soundly asleep, his sippy cup clutched tightly in one sticky hand.

Aemond nods. He moves to stand, as the car lurches to a stop, reaching at once for the car seat and the cup.

“We’re here,” he murmurs, fingers swift and sure and he unbuckles the seat-belt and Aenys begins to stir. “Grandmother’s house. Would you like to greet her?”

Aenys nods, the gesture drowsed and still sleep-addled.

“Good,” Aemond says, lifting the boy from the car seat with ease.

“You’ve got him?” You ask, a heedful hand at Aenys’ back, though you know he does.

Aemond nods; his son's head over his shoulder, held fast with just one arm, and reaches for the door.

You’re rushed through with the chill, borne in from the sea, air crisp and brackish and rife with wind, the thick scent of rain. Above you a cloud-strewn sky.

The house is imposingly large, quietly grand: all clapboard siding and stark peaks of gables, a house crowded about on all sides by yellowed, swaying trees. A woman stands on the front porch - a woman you’ve seen every now and again through the blurred glare of a camera-lens. Though she looks nothing alike the rest of her ilk - rusted red hair, fathomless brown eyes, a face that was rounder, and sweeter than her children’s - you’d know her anywhere.

And behind her: Helaena, the twins, a willowy woman with Maegor at her hip.

Jaehaerys and Jaehaera cry out your name as they fall upon you, their voices high and sure and singing within you as you reach down to tousle their hair, to grasp their hands. Seeing them again feels like an odd swell of summer; the warmth of their touch, the brightness of their smiles, all of it, all of it rushing back to you in a shock of cloying delight.

“My sweet boys.” At the edge of your vision you see Alicent take Aenys from Aemond’s arms, grasping tightly at the back of his head, a kiss to his cheek.

“And I’ve heard so much about you.”

You’re startled to find her gaze settled down on you, a flock of crows on the lawn that might frighten up and away into the sky at any provocation.

You stand, meet her half-armed embrace.

“You’ve no idea how fond my children are of you,” she says, her hand lingering at your arm, a touch that tethers as much as it comforts you. You do not see Aemond in her features, but the ghost of him is there in the plainness of her eyes, the ghost of an expression that lurks about her mouth.

The few times he’d spoken of his family, it had been of his mother.

“I’m rather fond of them, as well.”

It’s a half-truth. A near lie.

You do not miss the way her eye strays to Aemond.

Aemond is good at anger.

Has held it and hidden it in his heart since he was a boy. In all the years that have passed since the night he’d lost his eye - a stormy sky above him, hand pressed to his cheek and sand thick in his mouth, the sea murmuring at the edges of it all - he’s never strayed far from it.

Though it’s quieted in the years since he’d welcomed his son, has burnt down to a smattering of embers in the hearth, still it’s there, always ready to be fanned into furious flame.

He feels it, now, steadily burning outwards, into his veins, just behind his teeth.

He can’t recall the last time he’d been forced face-to-face with Rhaenyra and her sons, can’t recall anything but mutinous, malicious whispers that had clung to the barest mention of her name in the years after she’d taken her father’s company.

“Are you all right?” Aemond nearly starts at the sound of your voice, the flutter of your touch at his wrist.

He nods, the movement too jerky, too sharp.

How badly he’d like to stay in the quiet alcove of the upstairs with you, take you and Aenys to his old bedroom and dig through old toys, photographs, dredge up memories of anything other than this -

“Fine. Are you ready? For dinner? Mother says it’s ready.”

You nod slowly, absently, fingers stroking through Aenys’ hair as he clutches at your knee.

“I don’t know anyone besides you and Helaena,” you murmur, a faint pink stealing across your cheeks.

“You also know the children,” he reminds you, a poor attempt at a joke.

You level him with a look that's far less pleased than he’s used to - mouth flattened, brows drawn together.

“You’ll be quite alright. You’re seated far away from Aegon, which is the only thing you should worry yourself about.”

“And the others?”

He sighs. Without meaning to, he’s kept his hand firmly at your elbow as you’ve progressed down the hall; quickly, he draws it away.

“There’s Cole - he’ll be attached to my mother at the hip all night, has barely left her side since the engagement. Rhaenyra looks like Helaena, you’ll know her in an instant. My nephews -“

But you’ve already begun to descend the stairs, the informal dining room - the one which his mother far preferred to use when family was about - coming into view, and with it the shock-white blonde heads of his sister, his brother, Rhaenyra, and her sons -

“Oh,” you say, almost too quietly for him to hear.

He takes a sick sort of fascination in that - how readily apparent it is that his nephews are markedly different, members of the family in name, yes, but not in the ways that counted. No one would ever see them and assume their name, their blood. It was readily apparent at the outset that they didn’t belong, and yet -

“There you are,” his mother says, her eyes flickering between Aemond, Aenys, and you, catching on the interstice between your arms, nearly brushing, a bare-width of space.

“Have you met everyone yet?” She asks, moving forward and twining her arm through yours, leading you cautiously and carefully over to where Rhaenyra stands, talking quietly with Cole.

It feel odd to have you not by his side, for you to be away from Aenys and himself in a crowded room. The thought startles him, prickles like ice in his veins and frost-bite at his lungs.

“Best behavior tonight, brother.”

He glances over at Helaena, hands full with Maegor and a faint blue stain across the hem of her shirt. “Aegon has already tried to pick a fight with Jace.”

Aemond hums, low in his throat.

“Not in front of the children,” her voice drops lower, a scratch of syllables that he wishes didn’t ring quite so true. “Not in front of her.”

Aemond clenches his jaw.

The dinner had not -

It had not gone well.

Had ended with an insult - too low, Aemond knows, even for him - with a hit - Jace’s fist against his cheek, a dull bloom of impact that Aemond hadn’t felt against his jaw quite so much as he’d felt it in his chest - with a shove and a clatter and silverware against the floor, his mother’s furtive shouts, and - worst, worst, worst - Aenys’ high-pitched, red-cheeked scream.

The sound of it had stopped Aemond in his tracks, had sent his blood running cold and heart into his throat.

He hadn’t meant -

But it did not matter.

It was done and his son’s face was streaked with tears, and you - you were unable to meet his gaze.

He’d put Aenys to bed himself, a hundred apologies and hatred caught in a tremor in his lungs.

“I’m just fine, see -“ Holding his hand to his cheek - the strike had not left so much as a bruise. “Everything is just fine.”

In the morning he’d explain to him how inexcusable it all was, would implore him to never act in such a way, but tonight it was all he could do to assuage his son’s fears, to sit with him till he’d fallen asleep and he could dim the lights, could make his way fear-stricken down the hall, to your room.

He wondered whether you’d answer the door.

Whether you might quit on the spot, leave the house in a rush of darkness and leave his life, Aenys’ life, forever.

If you did he would be the only one to blame.

Is, it seems, always the sole one to blame.

He’d never received an apology for the loss of his eye; had never received any regrets for the way his father had treated him, had cast him and Helaena and Aegon and Daeron aside again and again in favor of Rhaenyra; he’d never heard an even half-hearted attempt at amends after Rhaenyra stole the company from Aegon, from him, to pass it down and out of the Targaryen name.

Yes, Aemond knows anger. Has lived with anger and has loved anger and -

Tonight he will have to let it go.

A soft knock at the door. A murmur of your name.

You know from the voice alone who it is - that drawn and even tone, listing upwards at the end - but still you find yourself flushed when you open the door and see him.

The gentle light from the hallway breaking over his shoulders, falling in fractals to the floor. His elbow against the doorframe, his head bent and eye downcast. The sight of him robs you of any and all previous thought, leaves you stranded in that pulse of hope within your heart.

“Aemond -“ you breathe, the word falling from you before you can stop it.

Slowly, he looks up.

“I’d hoped I could have a word with you,” he says, words so dim you strain your hear them. He seems frightened, as though you might refuse him, close the door with a resounding slam and leave him stranded in the hall.

Wordlessly, you nod, take a step back and into your room.

He closes the door behind him.

For a moment silence dwells between you, steals the air from your lungs and the warmth from your blood. He’s not even a foot away, so close you could reach out and grasp him.

“I wanted to apologize,” he says, measuredly, the words well-worn, a rehearsal finally run. “For my behavior tonight. I should never have raised my voice, much less in front of you, and Aenys. It was inappropriate, and I would understand if you wish to take your leave. I couldn’t fault you. I just -“ a grasping for words, his cheeks stained a faint, fire-kissed pink. “I just don’t want you to be frightened of me.”

You feel your heart seize.

“Aemond,” you say again.

Since you opened the door it’s the only word you’ve been able to utter. The only thought that has fluttered within your reach.

“I could never be frightened of you.”

Even in the low light of the room, you can see him swallow, draw in a ragged breath.

“You didn’t frighten me. Tonight - it wasn’t -“

The light from the fire catches in odd flashes against his hair, his jaw, paints him a warm, faded glow that lulls you and lures you.

You banish the impulse to reach out and stroke his cheek, cast it out and away into some dark and endless depth of yourself, where it could never again raise its unruly head.

“I know you, Aemond. I’ve seen you with your dog, with your son. In all the time I’ve worked for you I’ve never seen you raise your voice to either, never seen you so much as bat an eye when one of them breaks something or spills something or -“

The truth of what you want to say lingers just out of your grasp; it’s the same truth that had trembles on your lips before, out in the yard, that you loved him, that you loved Aenys, that you’d forgiven him a thousand times over, could never fear him, no -

Not when you saw, every now and again, the way that he looked at you.

A softening of the eyes. An unguarded, bare look that always heightened all of your foolish hopes.

“Lucerys is the one - the one who took my eye,” he says, slowly, dragging the toe of his shoe along the carpet. “We were boys, and it was an accident, but -“

You reach for his hand.

It’s warm and sure and he does not pull away, no, not even as he continues on, his gaze far-off, caught in a memory.

“My father gave us all pocket knives, one year, for Christmas. We were…not as careful with them as we should’ve been. And there was one night - not too far from here, at their grandparents, when we all got into a fight, Jace and Luke and I.”

The edge of his smile is sharp, rueful.

“I’d called them names. Told them they weren’t really Targaryens, weren’t really members of the family, no, certainly couldn’t be with that hair.”

He laughs, just once, the sound hollow and devoid of any mirth.

“And we fought. Like boys do. Or - like boys who’ve grown to hate each other do. There were two of them and I was all by myself and at one point -“ his fingers slightly outstretched, as though he could reach out and touch this younger, reckless version of himself, the red of the carpet blooming like blood beneath them. “I picked up a rock. It had all escalated too far by then, and we were boys, there was no consequence that seemed real, but -“ A slow, resolute shake of his head. “Luke had his knife, and he swung - I think without really looking, just a desperate, aimless swing.”

Tentatively, he touches the edge of the scar slipping beneath the eyepatch.

“I don’t know what I expected, but he was never punished. Not even made to apologize to me. My father always, always favored Rhaenyra, always liked them just a little bit better, and -“

You’re horror-struck, horrified, lost in the ghost of that swing, Aemond’s scream, the blood-tinged tragedy of it all.

“Is it -“ you begin to ask, the words falling from you unbidden.

At last Aemond meets your gaze, answers your question with a somber shake of his head. “The eye is gone entirely. By the time we’d made it to the hospital it was already too late.”

You wonder if he’d looked like Aenys, as a boy, if he’d been as soft spoken and even tempered and kind.

“Aemond, I’m sorry.”

His eye bores into you at those words. A look that is unspoken, but that you understand all the same passing between you - all of your blood longing towards his, his grip tightening on your hand, a divining of the stars and a cosmic fluke and -

You stand there together, in the dark and silence.

You do not let go of his hand.

looks like something blooming taglist: @heavenly1927 @spinachtz @nina2697 @fan-goddess @amirawritespoorly @tinykryptonitewerewolf @bluevxnus @mynameisbaby9 @blackravena @it-is-getting-better @brie-annwyl @paprikaquinn @mariaelizabeth21-blog1 @mushu-09 @dahlias-and-marigolds @totallynerdstuff @bellaisasleep @queenofshinigamis @glame @adaiasafira @apollonshootafar

Aemond's never been very good at courting women, but mostly due to the lack of trying. He's used to them looking at him with fear and suspicion as if he's some kind of wild animal ready to attack at any minute. Getting sidelong glances did hurt him growing up, but with time Aemond learned to benefit from it, using his fearsome image as a shield. No one ever dared to try and break it to see what was underneath. But now he is faced with the inevitable change that's approaching his life at the speed of a storm wave. To him, taking off the eyepatch won't be nearly as excruciating as giving into the vulnerability of letting someone in, opening up to someone. He's never been afraid of much but that? That was terrifying.

The anticipation made Aemond nervous. He knew he should probably ask around and try to gain any information about his soon-to-be wife, but it felt wrong. Not knowing felt even worse. No matter how good of a fighter he was, fighting the uncertainty seemed like a challenge. Aemond spent his nights tossing and turning, wrapped up in blankets as insomnia was clinging to his body. He tried to busy himself with training, but his usual easy victories brought him no satisfaction. He's been winning for so long maybe it was time for him to lose. Except not to his training partners but to a stranger, who in time will get a permanent place in his life.

His rides with Vhagar, which usually brought him peace, now had the opposite effect. The old dragon acted annoyed and disgruntled for no reason, huffing and grumbling at every turn as if she could sense his own frustration. You can’t tame your emotions yet I’m supposed to listen to your commands? Silly boy. If Vhagar could speak, she would probably tell him that, Aemond thought. And he blamed himself even more.

Somewhere in the midst of it all, the headache came back. As usual, it started with a feeling of pounding heaviness in the back of his head, which then spread further: into his temples, forehead and down the hateful scar. Within a couple of days, the pain gets so bad, he has to grit his teeth to keep a straight face, and he's barely able to shove a few bits of food down his throat. But it's a topic he never brings up, it's a humiliating secret that's just between him and his mother. When he lost his eye, for the first month the pain was close to unbearable. The maester kept telling him that it was caused by the healing of skin tissues and assured that the intolerable feeling would go away. It never did. His scar was something he learned to cover up, and the bright red stripe faded slightly with time, but the pain lingered. Aemond opted to think that it only contributed to him becoming more resilient, yet that argument didn't withstand the test of time. The pain receded for some short periods, but then it'd always come back, and he could never get used to that, no matter how hard he tried.

He can only hope it will get better by the time the guests arrive. But the gods seem deaf to his prayers, and the night before the event he doesn't get a wink of sleep. He goes through his day in a daze, skipping the training session to hide in the library instead, although he can't bring himself to focus and read more than a single page. When the time comes for him to walk into the dining hall, it's the last thing he wants to do but he forces himself to go. Festive ornaments, tables laden with the finest dishes, bright-colored clothing of everyone around him blend and blur into each other. He takes deep breaths and counts his steps, gathering all his strength to sit down and not wince at the movement.

All it takes is one look at him for Alicent to understand what's going on.

"Aemond," she approaches him, whispering. "What's wrong? Is it the headache again?"

Aemond doesn't want to admit it, but he lacks the energy to deny it either so he just nods. She gives him a regretful look, gently squeezing his shoulder.

"Should I call for the maester? Maybe he will be able to come up with something to ease the pain."

"I don't think we have time to fuss over me," he declines with a pain-stained voice. "I was under the impression that we're expecting someone to join us today."

Alicent sighs. She knows better than to fight his stubbornness, but she hates how helpless it makes her feel. Aemond hates that feeling, too.

"Please don't tell me you require motivation," Aegon's voice is loud as it is but right now it sounds deafening, and Aemond sharply exhales. His brother flops on a nearby chair, bringing his ignorant attitude with him.

"Undoubtedly you've interacted with women before," he chuckles, completely unaware of Aemond's suffering. "Try not to scare her with your creepy stare, and maybe she won't run away."

Alicent briefly closes her eyes in annoyance. She glances around, making sure not to attract any attention, and then grabs Aegon by the chin, forcing him to look at her.

"Enough with pestering, I need you to behave yourself," her voice is tinged with irritation. "Just for one evening. Can you do that?"

Aegon's body stiffens up, the smug look disappearing from his face.

"As you wish, mother," he mutters, and she lets go of him. Alicent shoots another glance at Aemond before leaving. Aegon gives his brother a side-eye but says nothing.

Aemond is exhausted, anxiety's bubbling in his chest, and he thinks he has a few more minutes to compose himself yet that time passes in the blink of an eye. Before he knows it, the guards at the door make the announcement, and he sees a group of unfamiliar faces. None of them are of his age, though, and for a moment that realization brings him some comfort. But then he notices a female figure in the distance as she's approaching the entrance.

When she walks in, the music goes quiet, and Aemond hears people gasping. It seems like every man in the room has his gaze on her. And she certainly is a sight for sore eyes. She moves with a gracious pace, the silky fabric of her dress flowing downward with every step. It's not too revealing, but it hugs her body in all the right places. Her hair is up, and he can see the waves of her collarbones peaking through. A half-smile is plastered on her face, but she doesn't seem to be nervous. If he was to take a guess, he would've said she was tired. But she won't let it show, keeping her head high and being seemingly unaware of the attention she got. Maybe she's used to it just like he is, Aemond thinks. Although people usually glare at him for a completely different reason.

"Someone is about to get a piece of cake," Aegon elbows him lightly, his voice low.

"Someone needs to shut up," Aemond snarls, earning a laugh from his brother. That catches her attention, and her gaze lands on Aemond. When their eyes meet, her face softens, smile growing wider. He tries his best to force a wan smile in return, but his stomach turns in discomfort. He can already imagine how people will react: a stunning woman like her with a man like him, what a tragedy. That thought stings, his anxiety growing stronger. The headache gets worse, and he tightens his grip on a cup of wine that he hasn't even tasted yet. Aemond can't help but wonder if she knew she would have to marry him. If it does bother her as much as it bothers him.

The members of her family are greeted as guests, with no mention of a possible betrothal. Her name is the only one he catches — and then silently repeats it a few times. Y/N, Y/N, Y/N, the sound of it breaking through his clouded mind. She's seated next to him, as expected, and he notes that her dress compliments her eye color. Aemond is thinking of a way to start a conversation, but she beats him to it:

"You gave us such a warm welcome, but I must admit, I'm surprised by the scale of it. I hope it wasn't too much of an inconvenience?"

When her words reach his ears, the buzzing in his head stops, and Aemond turns to Y/N, astonished by his own reaction. It's not the naivety of her question, nor the friendly tone of it. It's just her voice. Melodic and mellow, it feels soothing among the loud noises they're surrounded with.

"I assure you, your family was simply welcomed with the respect you deserve," he answers pensively. His throat is sore, but he can't steel himself to take a sip of wine, afraid that it will make him sick. He wants her to speak again.

Aemond asks about her family, letting Y/N lead the conversation. She's easy to talk to and she gives just the right amount of information before jumping to another topic. At any other time, he would've really enjoyed the flow of it, yet now he is growing weary. The headache is still there, but her voice does bring him some relief. That's until she abruptly stops.

"Are you feeling alright?" she sounds worried, and the same emotion is written on her face. Aemond tries to blink away his exhaustion. 

"I apologize if I'm not exactly the best at keeping you company. It's been a long day," he knows he should've come up with a better excuse. He feels like he can hardly function at this point.

She keeps her attention on him for a few more seconds. Then Y/N moves her eyes to the other end of the table, where her family is seated. She makes eye contact with her father and gives him a big yawn. It's obviously and comically fake but it works: her family finds an excuse to leave earlier. Aemond knows that now he also got a chance to escape soon after. He feels a pang of guilt knowing that he's the reason their conversation was cut short, but Y/N doesn't make a big deal out of it.

"We shall continue on the morrow when we are both well rested," she smiles reassuringly at him before leaving.

Aemond seriously doubts that he'll get any rest as his head feels like it's gripped in an iron vise again.

The next morning he drags himself out of bed later than usual, the pain now dull but present nonetheless. He sits with his face in his hands, breathing in and out, until he's almost numb. The almost leaves a sour feeling in his mouth — or maybe it's the nausea, he doesn't know nor does he care. He's been handling this for years, he can survive another day.

Aemond decides that since he is to be wed, he should make an effort for it to work. He thinks about his duty, his mother, about Y/N, who traveled all the way to the King's Landing for a man she's never met before. Aemond thinks of everyone but himself because there's only so much he can do without draining himself completely.

He missed the breakfast already but hopes to find Y/N within the perimeter of the castle and rushes out of the bedroom. He's passing by Helaena's chambers when he hears someone laughing. And it's not his sister. Aemond debates if he can deal with kids right now, but chooses to give it a chance and quietly walks in. Helaena has embroidery in her hands but seems more focused on a sight in front of her, and he follows her gaze. Y/N is sitting on the floor with her back to the door, Jaehaerys and Jaehaera are on either side of her, their cheeks plump and pink, tiny fingers grabbing her dress. She's reading to them, and it's a tale they've heard many times before, yet the kids are listening attentively, occasionally making noises of excitement. Aemond doesn't need to speak gibberish to know that they are fascinated by the melody of her voice and the playful tone she uses to make the story more engaging. He leans on the door frame, his body relaxing at the sound. Jaehaera puts her head on Y/N's shoulder and eagerly turns the page, making her laugh again.

"You are an impatient little thing," Y/N giggles.

"That she is," Helaena agrees, and when Y/N turns to her, she is surprised to see that Aemond joined them.

"Pardon me, I didn't hear you coming in," she stands up in a hurry, both kids are instantly glued to her. "Your sister was kind enough to keep me company."

"I asked her to come by after breakfast, and they haven't left her side ever since," Helaena explains, sounding very pleased.

"Would you mind if I steal this new friend of yours?" Aemond asks while keeping his eye on Y/N, waiting for her reaction. Her face flushes but he sees no indication of discontent. Aemond grudgingly admits to himself that it brings him something akin to joy. But it fades, absorbed by his numbness.

"Make sure to be on time for dinner," his sister nods, calling for the nanny to take the kids.

It takes a little bit of persuasion but eventually Jaehaerys and Jaehaera let Y/N go, and she follows Aemond out of the room. Y/N mentions that Helaena wanted to show her the library, and Aemond agrees to take her there. Along the way, he strikes up a conversation in attempt to compensate for their last one. As she's telling him about her morning, her voice seeps into his mind like honey, and Aemond tries to concentrate to take the right turns and not trip on the stairs.

When they walk into the library, Y/N pauses, looking around in awe. This woman makes men turn around after her, yet she is so easily impressed by the simplest things, Aemond thinks. The prince wonders if she'll ever be impressed by him.

"This is where you study?" she's admiring endless rows of shelves, and Aemond gives her an affirmative "hmm".

"How many of these have you read?"

"Quiet a few," he is modest as ever, and she shoots him a curious look.

"I wonder what are your preferred subjects."

"History and philosophy," he doesn't mean to sound so terse, but whatever interactions with women he's had before, that experience obviously didn't turn him into a lady's man.

"Would you be so kind to share your favorite books with me?" when Y/N glances at him, there's a sparkle in her eyes. It looks like she's actually interested to know more, as if she does want to know him. His immediate response, however, is to distance himself, and he takes a step back.

"I'm afraid there are not enough hours in the day to name them all," Aemond opposes, hands clasped behind his back.

"Please, take pity on me, I need something to help me pass the time," she presses the matter further but does so very gently. "Name just a couple."

He gives into her pleading tone and reluctantly agrees but they don't stop at just a couple. They end up spending the day roaming in the library, lost in the labyrinth of shelves and books. She's never too pushy with her questions, she's making small jokes, she doesn't take offense at his cold demeanor. Behind his mask of feigned indifference, Aemond feels like someone is hammering at his left temple, and the pain echoes through his whole body. But he doesn't dare to leave Y/N hanging for the second day in a row.

The prince is too preoccupied with his internal struggle to notice that she's growing worried about him again, and by the time they come back for dinner, her face expresses an alarming concern.

"I must apologize if I tired you out with my relentless chatting," she says, almost whispering, when they're seated.

"You did not, no need to fret," Aemond states. I must apologize that you are to marry a man who can't curb the pain that's spilling out of him, he thinks.

Food is tasteless in his mouth. Y/N is sitting on his right, and Aemond's body can't adjust to the foreign feeling of someone being in his close proximity. He's so accustomed to being on his own, he doesn't know how to unlearn that.

Throughout the whole dinner, Aemond can feel his mother's gaze on him. Later that evening, when a maid brings him a cup filled with the milk of the poppy, he decides against taking it.

He regrets it the very next day.

When Aemond tries to lift his head off the pillow, he feels like his skull is full of rocks. They're rolling from side to side as the pain rumbles, and for a few minutes he can't hear anything else around him. That's why, when Aemond opens his eye, he's startled at the sight of his mother standing in the doorway.

"I did knock but got no response," she gives him a look that's a mix of concern and suspicion. She suspects that he's unwell again and it concerns her. He wishes she never knew of that burden of his.

Aemond moves up in his bed, clenching his jaw. He knows his mother well enough to realize she must've had a reason for this early visit. Alicent proves him right when she speaks:

"The queen went into labor a couple of hours ago."

He absentmindedly hums, not knowing how to react. His mother continues, with a hint of hesitance:

"There will be a feast when the baby is born. We thought... Rhaenyra and I, we thought it would also make for an occasion to do the announcement. About your betrothal."

Her words come as no surprise to Aemond. It is what's expected of him, it's about his duty and his responsibilities, but this time he doesn't want to think of that. He wants to be left alone, to drown in the layers of blankets, to go back to his short-lived slumber.

"The day Y/N arrived, I asked the queen to postpone the announcement. To give you some time to get to know each other," Alicent takes a few steps towards his bed. "It seems like you're getting along quite well?"

"I could think of no better woman than Y/N," Aemond admits and it is true. What he doesn't say is that he can also think of a dozen other men who would be more deserving of her, more than he is.

Alicent catches the discreet sadness in his words but doesn't know what caused it. She eyes her son with undisguised empathy.

"Her father implied that she is content with the betrothal, too. I thought you'd be happy to know," Alicent gives him a lax smile. "I shall let you go back to sleep," she adds and leaves.

Aemond knows he'll get no sleep now. He repeats the well-known routine of deep breaths with the minimum movements, scraping up the remains of his strength before leaving the room. He goes straight to Y/N's chambers, wondering if his mother visited her, too, and how that visit went.

To his surprise, Y/N is nowhere to be found. A maid informs him that she left the room a few hours ago. He can't find her in the library and she isn't in Helaena's chambers, either. He searches for her in the courtyard and then goes back to roam through the corridors, peering into every room on his way. He's lost in his thoughts until he hears Y/N calling his name. Aemond turns around — and there she is, at the other end of the hall.

"I've been looking for you," she skips towards the prince, beaming. He could never imagine anyone being this happy at the sight of him. She stops when they're only a couple of meters apart, her smile glowing.

"We must've passed each other, because I've been looking for you, too," he confesses. Y/N seems very pleased with herself though he isn't sure why.

"I think the weather calls for a walk," she blithely suggests. "Would you like to accompany me?" — as the words leave her mouth, she reaches out a hand to him. For a moment Aemond's looking at her baffled, and then hesitantly takes Y/N's hand. Her skin is soft, fingers warm, and she intertwines them with his own. That gesture comes so naturally as if they've done it before, yet Aemond clearly hasn't. The feeling of holding someone's hand is unusual to him. But it seems enjoyable.

By the time they get to the garden, Aemond finds that her hand fits perfectly in his. He's blushing profusely. He also notices that his headache receded a little and he can't help but think that Y/N was the reason for that.

"Your mother came to me this morning," she informs him as they are walking hand in hand. "I assume she talked to you, too?"

"She did," Aemond confirms. "Am I right to guess we had the same conversation?"

"Well, mine was about uniting two great Houses," Y/N mimics a man's voice, and Aemond grasps that Otto was there, too. "Your grandfather gave a very convincing speech".

"He had a lot of practice while being the Hand of the King. Maybe he misses having an audience," the prince chuckles and she laughs. Aemond holds a pause and then adds:

"Forgive me if I'm being too blunt but I wonder if the conversation was of unpleasant nature to you."

"It was not," she slows her steps. "I know what's expected of me and I will perform my duty. But if I'm being honest...," she turns to him, and the tenderness of her gaze tugs at his heart. "I am glad that it's you," Aemond feels a flare of an unknown emotion deep in his chest. "We'll make a pretty good team. Wouldn't you agree?"

Aemond lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. He looks down at their hands and then back at Y/N.

"It seems so," he tells her, a slight smile in the corner of his lips. There's a moment of comfortable silence as they make a short stop in the shade of the trees.

"But I shall give you a warning," Y/N says with a mischievous grin. "My siblings take any celebration very seriously. Every single relative of ours will come to the wedding, and most of them won't shy away from enjoying a cup of wine... Or two".

"Can any of them outdrink Aegon?" he jokes, and Y/N bursts into laughter.

Aemond gets carried away by their conversation once again, losing track of time. While she's listing her relatives, adding innocuous remarks about each of them, the prince is enthralled by the warmth that radiates off her. Her presence alone calms the storm of his insecurities, lulling his fears to sleep. She does that so effortlessly, it's almost intimidating. But there's a certain thrill to it, too — the thrill of being close to her, sharing laughs and stories, and Aemond clings to that feeling.

He enjoys the moment while it lasts; until his headache predictably creeps up on him a few hours later. He can't tell if Y/N senses that something is wrong but she's the one to suggest returning to the castle. Aemond gladly accepts it.

On the way back they're greeted by one of the guards who notifies them that the queen gave birth to a girl. Y/N lightly squeezes Aemond's hand.

"Tomorrow is a big day then," — and the prince knows exactly what she means. The fragile bond that they only started to get the hang of will soon become public knowledge. It won't be their secret anymore but rather an over-discussed gossip.

"There is still time for you to plan an escape," Aemond jests half-heartedly.

Y/N looks puzzled for a second, but then shakes her head:

"Only if you're planning one. We are in this together, remember?" her thumb brushes over his. "It's all about teamwork."

Aemond savors the last fleeting minutes of their day. He barely touches the food at dinner, the pain in his head intensifying but he pushes through. When the time comes for them to part, he doesn't want to. That feeling is alien to him and the prince is clueless about its nature. But he knows that with her any misery will be bearable.

When Aemond walks into his chambers, he notices a little jar on the bed table. It's the one that the maester used to bring him the ointments in, and the prince sighs. The maester doesn't grasp the extent of the problem but occasionally would suggest a thing or two to help with the pain. They've tried using cold packs, then the warm ones, tried massaging his temples, then drinking cinnamon tea, then adding some ginger that's known as a remedy for reducing inflammation... Nothing has worked so far.

But he should make an effort.

Aemond barely glances inside the jar and tosses away a piece of paper with the instructions scribbled on it. The prince already knows it all too well: he applies a thick layer of whatever that concoction is on his scar, involuntarily wincing at the cooling sensation. It smells of herbs and feels oily but absorbs into the skin pretty fast.

For some reason, his mind goes back to his mother's words — "I thought you'd be happy to know". Aemond is unsure what happiness means. The happiest day of his life is forever chained with the worst one, smeared with blood and pain that he's been carrying through the years.

But now that he met Y/N, he questions if there's more to life than what he's been through so far.

While he is laying in bed, Aemond wonders if can consider Y/N his friend. If she will ever be more than just a friend to him.

And then, before he knows it, the prince is fast asleep.

He wakes up feeling like a new man. At first, he mistakes that feeling for the remnants of his dreams that he was enveloped with at night. He shakes off his drowsiness and looks at the ceiling, catching a glint of sunlight that seeped through the curtains. That's when Aemond realizes that the pain is gone.

He sits up, bewildered, waiting for any sign of discomfort yet nothing happens. He waits for a couple of minutes — and then for up to thirty, but his head is clear and doesn't ache at all. His eye shifts to the jar on the bed table, and Aemond makes a note to extend his gratitude to the maester later. Suddenly the upcoming festivities don't seem so torturous anymore.

He doesn't get a chance to see Y/N throughout the day as everyone is preparing for the feast. When Aemond walks into the hall of the Iron Throne, he takes in the decorated surroundings. Unlike the last time he was here, now he wants to remember every detail, knowing that this evening would be of great importance.

The room fills with people, but Aemond patiently waits for her alone. He spots Y/N the second she steps in. Her dress is violet, the material bright and luminous, and it puts her into the spotlight yet again since she's the only one wearing that color. As soon as she takes her place at the table next to Aemond, her hand finds his. He's getting used to that way too fast. It's hard not to.

The first round of toasts goes to honor Visenya, the newborn daughter of the Queen. Rhaenyra willingly tolerates the sweet talk, generous with her smiles and appreciation. At some point, when the timing seems right or maybe when her cheeks are already aching, she gives a nod to Alicent, and Aemond knows what it means. As she starts her speech, he ruefully releases Y/N's hand.

But right when they're standing up, with everyone around cheering and staring, Y/N lightly presses her body against his, and Aemond feels how tense her back is. That's when it dawns on him that she's well aware of the attention but she doesn't really like it. Instinctively, he puts his fingers on her waist, his touch respectful and delicate. She breathes out and briefly rests the back of her head against his shoulder. For a moment it feels like it's just the two of them.

That feeling doesn't go away.

Usually, he's not the one to take part in dancing, but he does so for her. Aemond feels out of practice and he can't tell if that's what makes his head spin or if he's getting tipsy from the intimacy of their dance. Her moves are elegant, well-rehearsed, her body follows the rhythm of the music with ease. He doesn't remember when was the last time that silly activity brought him so much elation. Did it ever?

Time flows by in a blur, and they eventually take a pause after going into a fit of giggles at the sight of Lord Velaryon trying to improvise a move and failing, only to amuse his loving wife. Y/N suggests going out for a while and Aemond is keen on following her but then his mother catches up to them, her hand and her gaze are on him in an instant, pulling him away.

"Aemond, you've been dancing," she can't hide her bewilderment, a timid smile on her face.

"Should I not? Seems like a suitable occasion," Aemond chaffs with a tilt of his head.

"It is, indeed," she doesn't let him go just yet, and he discerns the hidden meaning of her words, the apprehension she fails to conceal. Aemond wants to grant her some respite, at least for the rest of the day, so he tells her with plain-spoken sincerity:

"I can assure you, this isn't a cause for your distress."

But then he quickly finds a cause for his when he doesn't see Y/N around. He goes searching for her in the crowd, then leaves the room altogether, coming out into the hallway.

Aemond hears her before he sees her — and she isn't alone. It takes no effort to recognize the second voice, which belongs to no other than Jason Lannister. As the prince rounds the corner, they come into sight, and Aemond has a very bad feeling.

He missed the start of their dialogue, and the look on Y/N's face is unreadable. She's oblivious to Aemond's presence and he decides to watch them. He tells himself that he'll never allow her to get into trouble. There is something very tempting in having a chance to save her from anything; as if he feels the need to prove himself to her. He tries not to entertain that thought.

"... It's not too late to change that, don't you think," Ser Lannister purrs, his tone sickly sweet but arrogant.

"It is. Which I have no regrets about, ser", when Y/N talks to him there's not a hint of friendliness in her voice.

"Your approach may be short-sighted. The proposition of mine wasn't of a frivolous kind," he's circling her, the manner of his movement is borderline predatory.

"I believe you will soon find a lady to welcome your advances but I would very much prefer to drop this conversation," she recapitulates.

Aemond tenses up, feeling like this is the moment for him to step in. Then he looks at Y/N and realizes that something is off. Her face expression changes — but it's not a look of fear. By the rising of her chest, he detects that her breathing sped up, eyes are shooting daggers at the man in front of her. She's looking, for the lack of a better word, positively furious.

But Ser Lannister, apparently, is not very good at reading signs as he comes improperly close to her.

"I can be very persuasive," his fingers fall on her back — and then go lower. "I think you should appreciate the attention while I'm this generous and..."

He doesn't finish his sentence. In about two seconds his face is suddenly slammed into the nearby wall, the hand he put on her is now twisted behind his back. Y/N uses her free hand to push right between his shoulder blades, pressing him into the stony surface.

To say that Aemond is shocked would be an understatement.

Right at this moment, she looks like a different person. This side of her he's not acquainted with but it only adds to her appeal. The change is barely perceptible: she's still maintaining her posture, keeping up the face of a woman who knows her worth. But Aemond catches a flaming spark of defiance that threatens to shutter her restraint. He can sense her anger from far away despite her doing her best to contain it.

"I do not know what kind of attention you are used to, but you're forgetting your manners. Next time you dare lay your hand on me, I will not hesitate to break it," her voice doesn't lose its usual softness, but now has an added layer to it. It sounds sharper, bolder. It sounds like she's not afraid of anything.

Y/N lets Ser Lannister go, taking a few steps back and smoothing her dress. He's frozen at first, but then slowly turns to her.

"You didn't... You did not just do that," there's a visible red mark on his cheek that will undoubtedly turn into a bruise.

"Did what, ser?" her tone is laced with coldness.

The man looks at her in disbelief, his face is a parade of emotions — from shock to annoyance to anger.

"You will not get away with this," he scowls, nettled.

"You're telling me that you're considering letting everyone know you were overpowered by a woman? Sounds hard to believe," Y/N seems unfazed.

His mouth opens and closes a few times before he roars:

"You, insidious wre...!"

This time Aemond is the one to interrupt the man:

"I suggest you watch your tone when speaking to my betrothed," Y/N flinches at his voice, turning to face him, and Aemond slackens his pace a little.

"Shouldn't she watch hers? She's talking to a lord," Ser Lannister exclaims lamely, his arrogance instantly toned down a notch.

"And I see no wrongdoing on her part. Care to explain what got you into this situation?"

"It was a... a simple misunderstanding," his excuse is so pathetic that it makes the prince sneer.

"And what was the matter in question?" Aemond comes closer to the man which makes ser Lannister evidently uncomfortable. He carefully contemplates his next move.

"I only wanted to extend my congratulations on her betrothal," the man fakes a smile. "Mayhaps I expressed myself poorly".

"You should opt to choose your words more wisely next time," Aemond looks down on him. "Perhaps you are needed somewhere else?"

"I shall rejoin the celebration then," ser Lannister eagerly agrees and bows out way too quickly.

Aemond can barely wait for the man to get out of sight before turning to Y/N. Even though the prince witnessed the whole thing, he can't stop himself from asking:

"Did he harm you?"

"He didn't get a chance," she mumbles, avoiding his gaze. She looks so embarrassed, he wants to offer her some comfort but isn't sure how.

"Dare I say we've got enough interactions for one evening?" Aemond tries to lighten the mood yet she only offers him a half-hearted smile.

"I'll escort you to your chambers," the prince suggests, and before she can argue he adds: "I know you can stand up for yourself if needed. But I insist."

Y/N doesn't move an inch.

"...You are not mad at me?" she's looking at him with doe-eyed sincerity, clearly upset. Aemond is mad at himself.

"I'm thinking about cutting his arm off," he says under his breath, but she catches it.

"Aemond, there's no need!" Y/N gasps and he sees a glimpse of a smile on her lips.

"I will have to disagree," he starts but then she grasps his elbow and Aemond's hand — finally — clings to her again.

"I don't want you to get in trouble because of me," Y/N confesses. 

"And I don't want you to get hurt," his fingers caress her arm through the lace material. Y/N's cheeks heat up and Aemond finds it adorable.

"I think I... I was the one who did some damage," she complains.

"You must imagine my surprise," Aemond drawls, teasing.

"Oh, Gods," a quiet groan leaves her mouth. "That was not very ladylike of me."

Y/N covers her face with the other hand, her grip on his arm loosening. Aemond dithers before gently brushing her palm away from her face.

"You did the right thing and you have nothing to be ashamed of," he enunciates each word. "He only sets an example of unseemly behavior."

"I'm afraid I wasn't too far off," Y/N remarks, her voice relenting.

"Hmm, you're certainly not to be truffled with," he retorts, earning a faint laugh from her as they start walking, arm in arm.

"May I inquire how did you... master that very handy skill?" Aemond ventures to ask. That image of her — brave and unapologetic in her anger — will be forever engraved in his memory. Aemond is apprehensive about voicing his curiosity, uncertain of her reaction but when she answers:

"My father taught me that," her tone is surprisingly impish.

"And how did you manage to talk him into it?"

"Talking didn't help much, actually," Y/N grins. "And then I broke my brother's nose and my father decided he should find a way to guide my enthusiasm."

"How old were you?"

"Nine," she looks so satisfied with herself, Aemond can't hold back the laugh.

Y/N joins him and they fall into the comfort of each other's company. But then her smile wilts.

"There was a time when I was the youngest child and my siblings... They weren't very nice back then," she blurts out. Aemond feels his heart sinking.

"What did they do?"

"Oh, it wasn't that bad, honestly, they were only teasing. It's just um," she's looking for the right words or maybe for an acceptable explanation, but there isn't any. "It was very tiresome mostly. I could never understand the reason for them being mean."

Aemond is yet to tell her the story of him losing his eye, and the memory pops back into his head in a flash. He knows exactly what she feels, his own sense of helplessness fresh in his memory. And it still stings the same, and Aemond loathes that.

While he revisits the past, unwillingly slowing his pace, Y/N spots the change in his demeanor within seconds. She sees his facial features congealing, his fingers clenching, and she comes to the only conclusion she can make.

"Is it the headache?" her voice is suddenly quiet, and Aemond comes to an abrupt stop. The question catches him off guard, words stuck in his throat and his mouth agape. He doesn't know how to react nor does he understand how could she possibly know that. Y/N is quick to clear up his confusion:

"I noticed not long after we met and then your mother confirmed my suspicions. I am sorry that I didn't ask you directly, I thought... I didn't want to sound intrusive," she explains coyly.

"By asking about my health?" he finds his voice again. "I am to become your husband, you are free to ask such questions."

"We've only known each other for about a day back then. Surely, you're allowed to take more time than that to open up to someone," she kindly points out.

A day. Up until now the only person who's known about his pain was his mother, and for years no one else ever questioned his well-being. And it took her a day to notice that something was wrong.

"Did the ointment help?" she asks hopefully. For a second he thinks he heard her wrong but the shadow of concern on Y/N's face tells him otherwise.

"That was your doing?" he can't hide his amazement, and it elicits a laugh from her, sonorous and dulcet. Aemond likes the sound of it, he really does.

"I've been fortunate to obtain the knowledge required," she informs him.

"And what kind of witchcraft is it?"

"It is not," she playfully elbows him. "It was something my grandfather taught me. He used to have an ache of a similar nature. No one could understand the cause of it, and it only got worse with age. But my grandmother refused to sit idly by and one day she found a way to ease his pain," Y/N has a dreamy expression on her face but it melts into a wistful one. He guesses that both of her grandparents passed away.

"After her death, he wouldn't let anyone help him. It took me months to persuade him and eventually he let me on her secret," her smile is bittersweet. "Then he died, and I never thought the recipe would come in handy ever again."

Aemond hates seeing her wallow in sadness. He puts his palm on top of her hand in an attempt to offer some consolation. If there was a way to free her of that grief, to take at least some of it upon himself, he would've done it in a heartbeat. But his touch is enough to bring back the cheerfulness in her voice.

"I should mention that your maester did help, too, although he was reluctant at first," Y/N reveals.

"And I presume that it also took some convincing?" Aemond thinks of the maester's face that always looks like he is surrounded by imbeciles.

"I shamelessly boosted his ego," she wrinkles her nose. "Told him there was no way anyone would ever be as skilled as he is, and that my attempt was merely a gesture of goodwill."

"But I wasn't just that," Aemond cordially protests.

They already reached her chambers but he doesn't want to let go of her hand. He wants to tell her that meeting her was like taking a breath of fresh air after being held underwater, like finding a source of light in the pitch darkness of the night or feeling the warmth in the dead of winter. Aemond wants her to know that she's been a saving grace for him, but he's somehow at a loss for words, his thoughts jumbling together.

"It was way more than that and I...," never in his life had he gotten this tongue-tied and flustered. Yet she treats him with the same kindness and with no sign of prejudice, listening closely and keeping her eyes on him. Her gaze is disarming enough to make him say the first thing that comes to mind.

"I must admit, you exceeded my expectations," Aemond breathes out.

It immediately feels like the worst, the dullest choice of words possible, and he wants to sink into the ground right this second. But then he sees her natural smile, genuine and bright, blossoming on her face again.

"I am glad to be of service, my prince," she murmurs the last part, and his heart skips a bit.

He didn't register the moment Y/N came a bit closer, but she isn't shying away from shortening the distance. There's something enamoring about her trusting nature but that's not what draws him in. For the first time, he experiences an unfamiliar feeling that tightens his chest, makes his breathing rapid. His gaze slips over her face, down from her radiant eyes to her smile, framed by the lips that look as soft as freshly bloomed flowers. The feeling melts into an urge — he only needs to take a step, to lean his head forward just a bit and...

Aemond inhales deeply. He thinks they are in no rush, he thinks it would've been disrespectful and naive. He's mostly afraid to misread the situation, to scare her away.

But he wants to make his intentions clear. Aemond runs his thumb over her knuckles, brushing them one by one. And then he takes her hand to his lips, planting a kiss on it. He allows himself just this flicker of bravery before straightening up and releasing her hand. When he looks at Y/N, her gaze is directed at him already. It feels like a particular question is hanging in the air; they let it dissolve for now.

"I shall bid you goodnight," her eyes linger on him for a second before she turns away.

As Aemond watches her go, he is certain he wants them to be more than just friends.

Lucerys's name day comes in a about month, and by that time Aemond's routine has changed drastically. It might look the same: he wakes up with the sun, flies with Vhagar, he trains regularly, he spends his free time reading — except now Y/N is a part of his every activity.

She's never nosy or clingy; he's the one seeking her company at all times. She's an early riser, too, and they're always the first ones at the breakfast table: he asks her about her dreams, they make plans, they poke fun at Aegon, who is perpetually sleepy, and Y/N can effortlessly hold any other conversation with his family which only makes him ever so pleased.

She watches him train with genuine curiosity, she never looks away nor flinches, even when he gets too competitive and rough. Her attention is flattering — and it's all on him, and it feels unusual at first, but becomes empowering and he bathes in it.

When he takes her to meet Vhagar, she's terribly nervous. Aemond jokes that meeting his old dragon will pose no challenge after she handled Ser Lannister. It gives Y/N enough confidence to pat Vhagar's snout as the beast observes her calmly. Aemond assures her that the dragon will never go against his wishes. What he wants to say is that Vhagar senses how he feels about her.

They spend evenings in the library, both absorbed in reading but always sitting close by, their arms and shoulders coming into contact more often than not. He sometimes can't help but get distracted which leads to him forgetting about his book, instead secretly watching her, his glance full of adoration.

For a while, he's oblivious to how inseparable they've become until Helaena tells him one day, while Y/N is playing with Jaehaerys and Jaehaera in his sister's chambers. When Helaena mentions it ever so nonchalantly — "You two seem joined at the hip!", it startles him. But that moment doesn't turn into an awkward one — instead, Aemond realizes that he's not scared anymore.

"I will steal her away from time to time," Helaena says, as cheery as ever.

"Bold of you to assume I will let you," he chuckles, his gaze not leaving Y/N.

"I think she’ll have the last word," his sister retorts with a cunning smile.

Aemond doesn't think twice before admitting:

"She will never say no."

"My point exactly."

The Queen plans a great hunt to celebrate her secondborn son, and a feast is being held in no time. Aemond detests those pompous events yet Y/N seems too enthusiastic about the idea, and he begrudgingly agrees to participate. He doesn't want to burden her with his weighted resentment toward Luke but, as usual, she sees right through him. Y/N asks him if he has any reservations about the upcoming celebration, and that's when he decides to tell her. Aemond doesn't want her to pity him nor does he want to upset her so he keeps the story brief: he claimed the dragon, his siblings didn't like it, things escalated way too quickly and they haven't been on good terms ever since. 

She heeds his every word, then bluntly asks:

"Must you really go?"

He ponders before answering with a sigh:

"It would be rude not to. I should pay my respect."

"I wish he had the courtesy to do the same for you," she frowns.

"It would be a little too late for an apology," Aemond shrugs even though her caring tone moves him deeply.

"I still think you deserve one," she says like it's the most obvious, logical thing in the world. He wonders how obvious the reddening of his cheeks is.

"I do not wish to dwell in the past when so many great things lay ahead of me," and he only means her. Having a future with her is his greatest blessing.

She bestows him with her softest smile:

"I guess we should make the best out of the situation we are in. Maybe you will have some fun hunting."

Aemond doesn't know what was her definition of fun, but his definitely doesn't involve babysitting Aegon. Yet that's what he ends up doing as they get separated from the group of hunters and his brother gets so drunk, he can barely stay in the saddle. He babbles and whines and Aemond is on the verge of praying for a miracle when the two of them finally stumble upon a boar. The younger prince catches the animal without a struggle.

"Oh, must be good to be a boar. Wild and free!" Aegon grumbles on their way back to the camp.

"I just slit his throat. I doubt you would want to switch places with him."

"I didn't say I want to switch places," he shakes his head so vigorously, he almost falls down. Aemond moves his horse closer, grabbing Aegon by the shoulder to steady him.

"Although switching places with you sounds tempting," he sneers.

"And why would you ever want that?" Aemond raised his brow questioningly.

"You've got yourself a pretty wife-to-be," Aegon chants and whistles.

"Are you asking for me to tie you to that boar? That can be arranged," Aemond deadpans.

" 'tis won't be necessary," Aegon's quick to object. "Whatever she sees in you, those qualities are not in my possession," his frown turns into a grin and he winks at his brother.

Aemond lightly chuckles:

"You'll get no argument from me."

Leaving Y/N is not an easy task for Aemond but coming back to her might be the second-best thing in the entire world. And the first one, obviously, is being with her.

When they return to the camp, he helps Aegon down, impatiently looking around, and as his eye lands on her, his breathing hitches.

She's standing next to the hunting tent, surrounded by a group of ladies, Helaena by her side and they're both laughing as his sister unsuccessfully tries to finish her sentence. Y/N has a violet in her hair, strands of it falling down her shoulders, her smile bright against the fading evening sun. She helps Helaena to articulate whatever she's talking about, the ladies around them cackling.

Aemond admires his betrothed from afar, savoring the moment.

It amuses him that her softness is a choice, that she chooses to be open-minded and kind, even though the world around her is armed to the teeth, and she does know how to fight back. And yet, that's not what motivates her. Instead, she's an image of benevolence and generosity, always understanding and forgiving, hence why people are so naturally drawn to her. And he is no exception.

Aemond gets distracted when a couple of servants approach him and he instructs them to take the boar's carcass away.

"You had a successful hunt, dear prince," when Aemond hears the question, he rolls his eye. Turning around, he sees Tyland Lannister with a smile so forged his face might crack in half.

"As usual," Aemond answers indifferently. "Never took you for a hunter."

"I cannot appreciate cruelty," Lannister forces out. "And I am afraid I will not be able to negotiate my way out of a bear's grip. So I am here merely to control my brother's primal impulses."

The mentioning of Jason makes Aemond cautious.

"Developing some self-control may be beneficial for him," the prince mutters.

Tyland goes blanch white, taking the hint.

"I was wondering if I should address the delicate issue of my brother's sympathy toward your..."

"You should not," Aemond cuts him off. "Would be better to address his manners but it's the thing you must sort out amongst yourselves," with that, he turns away to find Y/N again.

Except she isn't there.

The ladies moved closer to the tent but she and Helaena are the only ones missing. It takes him a second to realize that the women look alarmed, glancing at the tent. Or rather inside of it.

Aemond all but runs there, going over the worst scenarios in his head. When he gets in and sees Y/N in the company of Ser Lannister, he thinks he's never been angrier in his life. If Aemond was a dragon, the lord would've been burned to a pulp as of right now.

Jason keeps his distance and his face expresses nothing but regret yet it looks like it's already too late as Y/N is glaring at him with a sharp glint in her eyes. And in the next moment, she loses her temper.

"...What am I missing exactly?" she asks Jason, her voice unexpectedly loud, and it draws the attention of some nearby men. She doesn't care.

"You've been eager to win me over, but I am yet to find a single reason why would any woman find your company endearing," she takes a step toward the lord and he shrivels under the weight of her words.

"Is it the winery that your servants built for you? Is it your herd of fine horses? You talk so much about your stable, one may think your betrothed is to marry a stallion," her smile is mirthless. Aemond hears a faint groan behind his back and recognizes Tyland's scared tone.

"But what are your accomplishments?" the tent gets deadly quiet as she continues. "Do you consider your persevering courtship to be one of them? Or your harassing of my parents, my relatives and even my maids with your never-ending propositions, no matter how many times were they all rejected? Or mayhaps ambushing me in the hallway counts as an achievement for you?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Aemond sees Helaena and Aegon, both looking stunned. Pretty much everyone around him has the same expression at the sight of Y/N. He, on the other hand, has never been more proud of anyone.

Y/N looks at Jason as if she wants to bore a hole in him, her voice getting lower but harsher.

"You want to know what prince Aemond did? None of the above," Aemond feels his heart freeze at the mention of his name. She is yet to see him but when she speaks, it feels like she's seen enough.

"The man I am about to marry has been nothing but kind, respectful and loving, fulfilling my every wish, granting me the comfort of his company and his loyalty. The man with the sharpest mind and the kindest heart — both of which you're clearly lacking," Y/N casts Jason a disdainful glance. "So from where I am standing, it looks like I'm the luckiest woman in the Seven Kingdoms."

When she feels a hand on her waist, she isn't surprised and welcomes the touch with no hesitation, knowing full well who is standing beside her. She swiftly turns to Aemond, their eyes locking.

"I would like it if we left earlier, my prince."

"As you wish," Aemond wishes he could marry her right now.

Disregarding everyone's attention, he leads her out and asks the coachman to fetch their carriage. When they are away from prying eyes, her confidence wavers a little. It only fuels Aemond's ire.

"Give me just a second," he can't help himself.

Aemond goes back to the tent — and right to the Lannisters, one of them is already scolding the other. Tyland stops his lecturing when he notices Aemond, but the prince doesn't let him make a sound.

"That was the second time your brother couldn't hold his tongue," Aemond ignores Jason and walks up close to the other man. "If you care about his well-being in the slightest, make sure there will be no third time."

"Aemond, let us not make another scene. You must think how that will look like..."

Aemond stares Tyland dead in the eyes and promises:

"I will gut him like a boar. Imagine how that will look like."

Without saying another word, the prince storms off.

Y/N already got into the carriage, fidgeting with the hem of the dress as she falls deep into her thoughts.

"Ser Lannister will not bother you anymore," Aemond says, sitting next to her.

"I sure hope so," she mumbles, looking down at the wrinkled fabric.

"Y/N, whatever he said, you should not let it get to you. I do appreciate the gesture," way more than he cares to admit, "but there's no need to go through the trouble of standing up for me," Aemond barely finishes the sentence when she retorts:

"I will."

She looks at him, her eyes burning with blazing certainty.

"No one took your side when you were a kid. But I'm doing it now," she states as her palm covers his, the touch is as warming as her glance.

Aemond thinks he is the luckiest man in the Seven Kingdoms.

He runs out of luck so fast, he must've jinxed it. They are nearing the castle when the pain on the back of his head stings so unexpectedly, he winces, his eyebrows furrowing. Y/N notices it immediately and insists he should take a rest when they arrive.

"Mayhaps you have some of the ointment left?" she wonders, leading him to his chambers. Aemond rarely allows people to coddle him but he accepts her care freely. He is also aware that the near-miraculous balm that she makes is long gone because he hasn't had a headache in a while.

When Y/N finds out, she looks devastated.

"It must steep for a few hours, I can't make it right away," her enthusiasm brittles. She glances at him in a dither, mulling over something, while he lights the fireplace.

"There is another way that I know of," she slowly suggests. "But you will need to lie down."

"Quite a vulnerable position you want to put me in," Aemond lightheartedly jests but brings himself at her disposal with no second thoughts.

She sits on his bed right next to him, the bend of her hips an inch away from his arm.

"Close your eye," she asks calmly and he obliges.

Aemond senses that Y/N leans over him and he struggles not to hold his breath at the realization of how close she is. Then he feels the tips of her fingers on his face, the touch is so light and gentle, it makes him shiver. The pattern of her movements first contours his face, then goes up to his forehead, then slowly glides onto his temples. She massages them delicately in a circular motion.

"It was probably all the noise that caused this," she presumes.

"Or maybe the fact that the man makes my blood boil," Aemond says, although his anger is completely gone by now.

"He is pissed I didn't choose him," she laughs quietly.

"Choose him?" her words peak his interest. "You had a choice in the matter?"

"My father said he would hate it if I marry someone I didn't like," her thumbs are following the lines of his cheekbones, then run under his chin, then all the way up to his hairline, right next to his ears.

"May I ask what was your decision process?" Aemond selects his words very carefully. What he really wants to ask is why would anyone pick him, out of all people.

"I've heard you claimed the biggest dragon in the world at the age of ten," he can't see her smile but he can hear it. "That was impressive enough."

Aemond takes a peek at her through his lashes:

"That can't be the only thing you've heard."

"I can distinguish valuable information from pointless rumors," she notes imperturbably.

"I bet those rumors included the stories of me being the scariest man in the realm..."

Her fingers cover his mouth and he stumbles.

"I decided I would be the judge of that," Y/N says firmly.

"And what is your verdict?" he can't stop himself from asking, his pulse speeding up.

She doesn't think for a second:

"All the people who were spreading those vile tales clearly have never met you. There isn't a single bad thing I can think of when it comes to you."

Aemond shouldn't take it to heart but that's precisely where it hits, her voice cracking his shield, her eyes telling him she will never regret knowing him, caring for him. He thinks this is what true happiness is — being with someone who will choose you every time.

Her fingers graze over the strip of his eyepatch and she pauses her movement. She isn't breaking eye contact, waiting for his reaction, for his permission or refusal. Aemond gulps, helpless under her gaze, and doesn't stop her.

She picks up the leather strip slowly, as if she wants to give him a chance to change his mind. Aemond watches her, his body still, heart rate booming in his ears. Y/N removes the eyepatch and looks straight at the sapphire that gleams brightly in the warm lighting. And then she smiles.

"What do you see?" he exhales.

"Nothing scary, that's for sure," Y/N's gaze doesn't leave his face, her index finger tracing the scar, barely touching his skin.

"Nothing I don't admire," her voice is a little above a whisper.

"Nothing I wouldn't love."

His heart is beating so fast, it feels caged and ready to jump out at any second. Aemond forgets about the headache as if it never existed. In this state of bliss, he contemplates making a very emotional decision. But she makes one instead.

Y/N lowers her face closer to his and all of a sudden he feels a touch so light, it's almost like a petal brushes over his skin. It's her lips. She kisses his face — his scar — moving tenderly from the high point of his cheek to the area under the sapphire and then right above what's left of his eyelid.

When their eyes meet again, Aemond can only think of one thing.

He surges upward, his lips colliding with hers — she responds in an instant. His chest feels like it's on fire as kissing her is the most overwhelming feeling in the world, but he doesn't want to stop, ever. Her fingers gently slide down to his neck and Aemond uses his arm for support as he sits up without breaking the kiss. He then pulls her closer, one of his hands on her lower back and the other nestled under her jaw.

She softly sighs into his mouth — and it might be his new favorite sound. She tastes like berries, her lips getting more eager, fiery, addictive, and he is dizzy with joy and longing, trying to memorize each second. The pacing of the kiss grows heated and intoxicating as they melt into each other perfectly. They only part when both are out of air, their lips tingling, swollen and craving to continue.

"I must admit," she tries to catch her breath, she can't stop smiling, her hands caressing his face, "you exceeded my expectations."

Aemond laughs, cheerful and carefree, his nose bumping into hers.

"It's all about teamwork, as I've heard," he plants a quick peck on the corner of her mouth — and on the other one. And then they're kissing again, desperately drawn to each other. He's lost in the sound of her voice, in the feeling of her lips on his.

His love for her is all-consuming. Her love for him is healing.

Turns out, letting her in doesn't make him lose. With her by his side, he always feels like a winner.

English is not my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any major mistakes!

> the title is a quote from Hozier's song

>> I originally took inspiration from this post that lists the possible consequences of losing an eye. I also can't help but mention the extensive research that @ adderess did, which only adds to that heartbreaking yet very realistic concept.

>>> I have a playlist for Aemond 🎵 I didn't add any music in this fic BUT I've listened to "Mr Sandman" a lot, especially the instrumental version (I didn't mention it earlier in case you don't like listening to music while reading).

You know that you’re spoiled. Your father spoils you, his youngest daughter, while neglecting most of his other children. Your mother spoils you, eyes glowing with love as she speaks of how you take more after the Hightowers than the Targaryens with your looks. Your eldest brother Aegon adores you, easily his favorite of his siblings. Your sister Helaena fawns over you. Your twin Daeron was much the same when he was in King’s Landing. But none spoiled you as much as your beloved brother, Aemond.

All your life, Aemond has treated you like a princess. He’s showered you with love and affection, with gifts and adoration. His darling little sister. While he’s harsh and cold with others, he has never been that way with you, not once. When Daeron was sent to be fostered in Oldtown, he remembers the way he held you as you cried, shushing you and wiping your tears, vowing to you that he would not let you feel Daeron’s absence so painfully, that he would be there for you. And he was.

With how close the two of you grew, it was little surprise to anyone when you were betrothed to your brother in the tradition of House Targaryen. The betrothal was announced shortly after Helaena’s own wedding to Aegon, and the date was set for your eight and tenth nameday, when Aemond would be two and twenty. The day of your wedding was the happiest of your life. You recall the love with which Aemond gazed upon you as you stood before the Septon at his side, pledging your loyalty and devotion to each other. You recall the way he angrily demanded every witness to the wedding ceremony leave your newly shared chambers, lest they wish to be fed to Vhagar as a midnight snack.

When he took your maidenhead, he was gentle, panicking the moment you winced with discomfort. He peppered kisses all over your forehead, your cheeks, apologizing profusely, offering to stop. You shook your head and simply requested that he go slowly, that he allow you to get used to the sensation of your bodies joining as one. And after he did so, you realized that your pain had faded and pleasure was quickly taking its place. Aemond made love to you that night with every ounce of adoration he possessed, continuing to do so nearly every night - and sometimes even more than that - throughout your marriage.

It’s now been nearly one year since the two of you were wed, and you still remain as blissful as a newlywed couple would be. But, a part of you wishes that Aemond would stop treating you like this fragile, breakable thing made of glass. You’ve heard stories from your lady’s maids, from the other noblewomen at court, about how very passionate the act of making love can be. You know Aemond treats you delicately because he adores you so, but as you make your way to the feasting hall, you decide tonight shall be different. Tonight, you’ll awaken the dragon that lies dormant inside of him.

You’re dressed in a beautiful gown, Dornish silk trimmed with Myrish lace that shows off a generous bit of your cleavage, perhaps a bit too generous for your Mother’s taste, with a tightly laced bodice that you hope will capture your husband’s attention. However, as the dinner that your poor father arranged in hopes of mending the bonds between the two warring factions of your family goes on, you note that your brother seems more interested in antagonizing your nephews than paying any mind to your pretty new dress.

Jace, however, seems to notice your displeasure, the pout on your lips as you look at your brother-husband, and crosses the room to you as the minstrels begin to play a tune, “May I have this dance, sweet Aunt?” he smiles at you softly, “Your gown is beautiful. It suits you perfectly.”

You were never extremely close with Jace in your childhood, rather spending most of your time with Aemond or Helaena, but you never bore him any ill will. He was always kind to you growing up, and having someone notice your dress makes you quite happy. You nod and stand, ignoring Aemond’s confused glare, taking Jace’s hand and moving towards an empty part of the hall. He rests his hand on your waist, taking your own hand with the other, and begins to lead you in a slow dance, smiling at you in his soft, sweet way.

“You’re a far better dancer than you are a swordsman, Nephew,” you tease good-naturedly, causing him to laugh, “Does it strike you as odd that I am your aunt and yet we’re the same age?”

“We even shared a wetnurse, you, Daeron, and me,” Jace chuckles, “So, yes, it is a bit strange.”

Aemond watches, seething with envy at how little Lord Strong makes you laugh and smile, and stands up from his seat. He strides toward you with purpose, intent on stopping this with haste. You notice Jace glancing over your shoulder as the two of you dance, soon hearing the sound of Aemond’s black leather boots as they scuff the floor. You turn toward your husband, gasping slightly when he grabs you by the hips, pulling you in toward him, a display of both dominance and affection that is not meant for the eyes of all present, rather, only for you.

“Husband,” you gaze up at him through your lashes, an act which he’s always found to be impossible to resist.

“Husband, hm?” Aemond questions, his lips curving into a sardonic grin as he continues to hold you by the hips, hands sliding up to your waist and squeezing softly, “Is this how you behave when I don’t give you all of my attention every waking moment? Flirting with that fool?”

It’s the first time you’ve ever seen Aemond display any sort of jealousy, at least openly. And you can’t help but find it attractive.

“Are you jealous, brother?” you tease.

The look in Aemond’s eye is certainly one of jealousy, of passion and desire as his hand trails upward to twirl a lock of your hair between his fingers, “Maybe so, dear sister. Is laughing with that dolt more pleasing than your darling brother’s company?”

“Mayhaps,” you hum, “The dolt has grown into quite the handsome young man, hasn’t he?”

Aemond’s jealousy only increases with your teasing as he moves even closer to you, your chest brushing against his, “Handsome, yet a fool and a bastard,” he states, lowering his head close to yours, whispering in your ear, “The only man you should think handsome here is me.”

“I don’t know about that,” you glance over at the table before adding, “Aegon is quite handsome too, husband.”

Aemond raises a brow, bringing one hand up to trace your cheekbone with his thumb, “So you find our brother more pleasing than I? Is that truly the case, dear sister?”

“Mayhaps,” you say again, barely biting back a grin.

Aemond frowns at your words before suddenly pulling you closer and whispering in your ear, “Then I’ll prove otherwise.”

Before you can say another word, your brother drags you off toward your chambers, fire in his eye as he glares at Jace and then Aegon as the two of you leave the hall, Aemond making a quick excuse to your mother that you feel ill.

“Aemy, what are you doing-” you cut yourself off with a yelp when he heaves you over his shoulder the moment you leave the feasting hall and are out of sight of the rest of your family, “Aemond!”

“Reminding you who you belong to,” Aemond states as though it is the simplest thing in the world, continuing toward your shared chambers, “I’ve been far too lenient with you, little sister,” he says as he kicks open the door and unceremoniously tosses you onto the bed.

“I was only teasing,” you protest, gazing up at him, pouting slightly.

“You were being a little brat,” Aemond corrects, gripping your chin in his hand as he stares down at you, “And do you know what happens to little brats, perzītsos.”

You feel your cheeks warm at the way he gazes at you, calling you his little flame, your thighs pressed together in anticipation of what he’s going to say next, “No, but I’m sure you’re going to enlighten me…”

“Brats get punished,” he says quietly, “Now, part those pretty lips of yours and stick out your tongue.”

You look up at him in confusion for a moment but do as he says, feeling unusually small in front of him as he stands over you while you sit on the bed. He’s always been on the tall side, but right now, you can’t help but find his size advantage over you to be quite exciting. The idea that he could easily overpower you, bend you to his will. You part your lips and stick your tongue out, only to gasp when Aemond spits on your tongue, demanding you swallow it. You feel somewhat humiliated by the action, but all that does is send another wave of heat through your body as you swallow his saliva, opening your mouth to show him you’ve done as he asked when he demands it of you.

“If only you’d been a good girl like this at dinner,” he clicks his tongue, “Then I wouldn’t have to punish you.”

This is exactly what you’d hoped for, you think to yourself, for him to treat you like a woman, like the dragon you are rather than some trembling maiden. You gaze up at him excitedly, your lower lip moving between your teeth as Aemond undoes his breeches slightly, exposing his long, veiny cock to you, already hard as he stares at you expectantly. You slide down to the foot of the bed and take him into your mouth, gasping when he holds you in place by the hair, tugging at your locks almost painfully as he begins rutting against your mouth.

Aemond stares down at you, bucking his hips against your mouth, reveling in the way you gaze up at him with those doe eyes through your lashes. Loving how your lips look as they envelop his cock and the way you sound as you gag on it, barely able to handle it.

“Tap my thigh three times if you need me to stop,” he manages to hiss between the movement of his hips, feeling himself getting closer and closer to his own end, “Fuck, such a smart little mouth you have. It looks so much better when you’re choking on my cock.”

He feels you moan around him, your hands moving to cup his stones, massaging them slightly, which sends him spilling into your mouth. He stares down at you, his voice firm as he demands.

“Swallow every bit of my seed like a good little wife. Don’t let it go to waste.”

You eagerly comply, opening your mouth to prove your adherence to his instructions. Aemond smirks, satisfied with himself before pulling you to your feet. You stare at him in confusion for a moment before you realize this is a silent command for you to undress, which you do so eagerly. Your nimble fingers deftly undo the bodice of your dress, allowing it to fall to the floor in a crumpled heap, leaving you in only your small clothes. 

Aemond stares at you, arms crossed, expectant, “All of it,” you move to rid yourself of them, but appear to be taking too long for your husband’s taste, considering he removes his dagger from his pocket and merely slices the straps of the garment off, his good eye widening with delight as he watches it fall to the floor, revealing you to him, “Good.”

He remains dressed, taking a seat on the bed and pulling you onto his lap, laying you across it on your stomach, much to your surprise. You crane your neck back to look at him only to feel the sting of his hand flying against your rear. You let out a yelp of surprise at the feeling.

“Aemond,” you whine, “What was that for?”

“If you want to act like a fucking brat,” he says, punctuating his words with another spank, the sensation being both slightly painful and completely erotic, “Then I’ll treat you like one and take you over my knee and spank you.”

He lets his hand fly once more, then again, admiring the way your supple flesh jiggles against his strikes, your skin reddening after each one. Aemond sees you rub your legs together, desperate for friction and realizes that, rather than taking this as a punishment, rather, you’re enjoying this. He spanks you once more, enjoying the tiny little whimpers you let out, before moving his fingers to trace your wet cunny.

“Pathetic,” he chides, “You’re supposed to be learning a lesson, and here you are. Soaked like a Silk Street whore.”

You let out a strangled gasp as he slaps you between your legs, “Aemond!”

“No,” he shakes his head, fingers teasing you once more, “You’ll call me ‘Your Grace’ tonight, you little harlot. Are we clear?”

You don’t speak at first, too shocked - and aroused - at his words to form a coherent response, when he slaps your cunt once more, right on your pearl, making you cry out as he demands an answer, “Yes, Your Grace.”

Aemond pulls you by the hair to sit up, a mocking smile on his lips, “Now, be a good girl and thank me for spanking you, for disciplining you.”

You feel him beneath you, already hard again, your mouth watering at the idea of what else he has in store for you, moaning softly at his tugging your hair once more, the dull ache of it merely adding to your excitement, “Thank you for spanking me, Your Grace.”

He presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss to your neck, biting down on your flesh, leaving his mark to remind you who you belong to, who you will always belong to. You squirm against him as he does, feeling his tongue lave attention over your abused skin before his lips meet yours in a searing kiss. He bites down on your lower lip, moving his tongue into your mouth when you gasp, allowing it to dance against yours as he explores every bit of it. You feel him maneuver your body so that you straddle his thigh, your cunt pressed up against the fabric of his breeches. And then? He begins bouncing you up and down on his thigh.

“Ride my leg, you wanton little thing,” he demands, glaring down at you, removing his eyepatch and setting it aside, allowing you to gaze upon his remaining eye and his sapphire with awe, “Bring yourself to your peak and I may consider fucking you.”

You immediately begin grinding yourself against his thigh, moaning at the feeling of the coarse fabric of his clothes against your skin, focusing on your pearl, digging your teeth into your bottom lip as you chase your peak. Aemond watches, his large hands splayed across your ass, squeezing your flesh, still tender from his earlier punishment. You feel him grab your hips and begin to set the pace, bouncing his leg in tandem with your movements, bringing you closer and closer to the edge until you reach your peak with a loud moan.

Aemond sits up and pushes you back onto the bed, hovering over you as he removes his tunic, revealing his alabaster skin, every old scar and bruise from his many hours spent training with Ser Criston enthralling you completely. Aemond moves to sit on his haunches between your legs, spreading your thighs with his hands, admiring you. You’d feel self conscious if it weren’t for the absolute look of hunger and desperation in his eye, making you feel like the most desired woman in the realm. Aemond appears to think to himself for a moment before grabbing his discarded tunic and using it to bind your hands to the bed, giving you a wolfish smile as you stare at him in confusion.

“If you wish for me to untie you, to stop at any point,” he says, “Say the word zaldrizes, my love.”

You nod, gazing up at him, excited for what he has planned for you. Your husband has of course used his mouth to pleasure you before, bringing you to your peak as he moans about how divine you taste, but tonight is different. Tonight, he stares up at you from between your legs with a hooded gaze as he spits on your cunt, the sensation making you whimper slightly as he delves his tongue deep inside you, his nose rubbing against your pearl as he laps at your folds. When he realizes how much you enjoy that feeling, he smirks against you and nuzzles his nose against you slightly more firmly, enjoying the way you nearly sob out his name. And you’re helpless to do anything but writhe beneath him, unable to tangle your hands in his hair as you usually do, unable to do anything save for mewling his name as he moans against you, the vibration of his voice adding another dimension of pleasure. Still sensitive from your last peak, it doesn’t take Aemond long to send you toppling over the edge once more, spilling yourself on his tongue.

He’s nowhere near finished with you, moving his mouth to your sensitive pearl, making you cry out, “Your Grace, please, I need you-”

“You’ll take what I give you,” Aemond hisses, landing a slap on your sensitive cunny, making you whimper, “And you’ll enjoy it.”

He suckles at your sensitive nub, holding your thighs apart with his hands as you try to squirm away from him, driving you absolutely mad with desire. It’s almost too much, the way he overwhelms your senses, his lips wrapped around your sensitive button as he stares up at you, a silent command to keep looking at him. He then moves his tongue along your pearl, making you let out a moan as he brings you to your peak once, then twice against his tongue until your thighs are shaking, your body covered with a thin sheen of sweat, barely able to say or think of anything but him.

Aemond moves off of you for but a moment, ridding himself off his breeches before crawling over you once more, head tilted to the side as he muses in an infuriatingly condescending voice, “I don’t know that you’ve earned my cock yet, little one. Let’s see how you take my fingers.”

Little one. You’ve always hated that name, being reminded that you’re smaller than him, but right now, it only serves to arouse you more. You feel him tease your core with one finger before pushing it inside you, making you let out a whine at the intrusion to your already achingly sensitive cunt. He curves his finger in a come hither motion and begins moving it in and out of you, adding a second finger, making you buck your hips against his hand helplessly. You pout as he grabs your hip with his free hand, holding you in place as he adds a third finger, moving them in and out of you, setting the pace he desires, his thumb rubbing at your pearl, smirking at the wet sounds coming from you as he teases your sweet spot, tears forming in your eyes at the sensation. It doesn’t take much for him to bring you to your fifth peak of the night, crying out his name desperately as he removes his fingers from you, pressing them to your lips, a silent demand for you to lick them clean, which you do.

“Now, I think I’ll fuck you,” he grins, running the head of his cock along your entrance, chuckling as you squirm away, oversensitized and overstimulated but still desperate for him, “My poor little wife, are you too tired? Do you wish for me to stop?” he mocks, slapping your pearl with the head of his cock.

You cry out, desperate and nearly sobbing, “No, Your Grace, please, I need you!”

Aemond sheathes himself inside you with a low groan, “So fucking tight for me, aren’t you? Only for me.”

You moan as he buries himself inside you to the hilt, staying like that for a moment before he begins rutting against you at a brutal pace, watching as you squirm beneath him, enjoying the sight, you struggling against your bindings, helpless to do anything as he fucks you.

“Could that little Strong bastard fuck you like this?” he growls, his hand moving to grab your throat, restricting your airflow ever so slightly making you gasp, “Answer me.”

“No, only you, Aemond,” you whine pitifully, feeling your walls flutter around him with each thrust, “Always you, only you, no one else.”

He squeezes slightly harder, pounding into you relentlessly, enjoying the way you squeeze around him as you near your peak yet again, “You belong to me, wife. Say it.”

“I belong to you,” you squeal as his cock hits your sweet spot, “Oh gods, Aemond, there, fuck-”

You reach your peak around him once more and gaze up at him when he pushes your knees up to your chest, moving your legs over his shoulders as he fucks into you deeper, more intensely than before, staring down at you, his gaze burning you to your very core.

“I’m going to breed you,” he snarls in your ear, biting down on your earlobe gently, before speaking again, “Going to spill my seed inside you, going to watch you grow fat with my babe. And then all those cunts, Jacaerys, Aegon, all of them will know it is me you belong to, well and truly.”

“Yes, Aemond,” you say weakly, gazing up at him, helpless to do anything but take the pleasure he gives you, his cock bullying against your sweet spot again, fucking you with abandon, “I belong to you and only you.”

He feels you squeezing around him once more, making it nearly impossible for him to move. Aemond continues rutting against you, pressing your knees to your chest as he gazes into your eyes, letting out a low moan as you reach your peak around him once more, spilling himself deep inside you with a guttural groan as he reaches his own end. You two stay like that for a moment, breathless and gazing at each other before Aemond pulls out of you, only to replace his cock with his fingers, smirking slightly.

“Can’t waste it.”

You laugh breathlessly as he calls for a servant to bring you some water and towels, cuddling into him as he undoes your makeshift binding, “You… That was amazing.”

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he asks, immediately reverting to the kind, caring husband whom you so adore, “I was just-”

“Aemond, I wanted you to be rough with me,” you tell him softly, “It’s the only reason I riled you up like that. I wanted you to realize that I’m not made of glass. I’m the blood of the dragon as much as you are,” you rest your hand against his face as he rests his forehead against yours, “Your love is that of a dragon, as is mine. It is intense, but I can take it.”

Aemond nods, kissing you, losing himself in your embrace, your arms wrapping around each other, completely oblivious to your surroundings as the servants bring in what Aemond requested.

“Would you care for a bath, my beautiful wife?” Aemond presses a kiss to your forehead, “I think we’ve both made quite a mess of ourselves, and mayhaps,” he gives you a mischievous grin, “We can do so again.”

You giggle as he lifts you into his arms, carrying you over to the bath and nod, “I love you, Aemond.”

“And I love you,” he whispers, his lips finding yours again, “More than words could ever hope to express. As Aegon loved Visenya, as Jaehaerys loved Alysanne, that is how the historians will say I loved you.”

You smile at Aemond, kissing him once more, the two of you utterly content.

Warnings: smut, fluff, alcohol consumption, tipsy/inebriated sex, penetrative sex, mommy kink, oral (m receiving), choking, soft f dom, subby!aemond, creampie, begging, praise, aftercare

A/N: back with and update for this series a month later....oops....

only one part remains after this, can you believe it?

thank you for your patience & support--ilysm🫶🏻

as always, comments and reblogs are highly appreciated!

The next few weeks of the semester pass by in a blur of class trips, homework, and nights curled into Aemond's arms.

Now that finals had been completed and the stress of undergrad was unofficially behind you, you'd be hard-pressed to think of a time that you'd ever been happier, as cheesy as it felt to say. 

The same could not, however, be said for Cerelle–at least, that's what she claimed. 

“I'm going to fucking block him, I swear to god,” she grumbles, curled up on the couch in your room, perfectly painted nails tapping against the screen of her phone. “He's so annoying.”

In the time since your class’ midterm excursion to the bar, Quentyn Dayne appeared to have become utterly smitten with her. He sat next to her in class, offered to carry her books, and, most recently, had started texting her with iMessage 8-Ball games and the worst straight-out-of-2012 memes you'd ever seen. You'd almost feel bad for her if she didn't encourage it so much.

“Have you tried telling him to fuck off?” you suggest idly, flicking through the channels on the television for something to put on in the background for you to ignore while you talk. 

“If I do that, he'll give me those stupid puppy dog eyes,” she grouses. “Why can't he just take a hint?”

You cock a dubious eyebrow at her, pausing in your movie search for a moment. 

“What?” she exclaims, tossing her phone to the side.

“Nothing,” you snicker. “It just seems like you care a lot about his feelings, considering how much you say you hate him–and I'm not sure what hint he's supposed to take when you keep texting him back. And let him bring you lunch. And–”

“Okay, you've made your point,” she scowls, reaching for her Diet Coke and taking a swig. 

“I'm just saying,” you giggle, dodging the plastic bottle cap she throws at you in retaliation. “You obviously like Quentyn, and he's so in love with you that you could hit him with your car, and he'd say thank you.”

“Maybe I should,” she snarks with a roll of her eyes. “Anyway–how's lover boy?”

You laugh softly at how quickly she turns things on you, shaking your head in amusement. 

“Really, really good,” you admit, biting back a giddy smile at the admission. “I like him. A lot.”

“Ooooh,” she teases, prodding your upper arm slightly. “You looove him, don't you?”

“What? No, I didn't say that I–”

“Denial,” Cerelle nods sagely. “The first stage of grieving that you've fallen for the guy you said you hated.”

“Oh, fuck you,” you wave her off playfully, though your heart thumps erratically at just how spot-on she was with her assessment of the situation. “Anyway, even if I did, I don't want to make shit weird with us. I like how we are now. It's…easy.”

“Yeah, real love tends to feel easy,” She snickers. You shoot her a dirty look, and she puts her hands up in mock surrender, “Okay, okay, don't kill me,” she laughs, “I'm just saying–now give me the remote–I'm choosing as revenge for implying I have feelings for Fuckhead Dayne.”

“Do you want me to say it outright?” you challenge with a grin. “Alright, how's this: you have feelings for–”

“Oh my gods, shut up!”

You both dissolve into laughter, and she leans into you, lying her head on your shoulder, “Let me be delusional in peace!”

“C’mon, we have to go,” you giggle against Aemond's lips a few nights later, your hands pressed lightly to his chest. “We have to leave separately, and if we're both late, people will think something's up.”

Tonight is one of those rare nights that the two of you aren't free to do whatever you want unsupervised–for once, you had a final class event to attend, and Aemond seemed hellbent on not getting to it anywhere close to on time.

“Hm,” Aemond hums against you by way of response, swatting your ass lightly and grabbing a handful of it, tongue dipping into your mouth when you moan in answer, fingers tightening into fists, grasping at the black button-up he wears. “Or we could just have our own post-finals celebration by ourselves?”

“Aemond,” you try to sound disapproving, but it just comes out turned on and desperate, your voice high and breathy. 

You were supposed to be on your way to your post-finals party right now–your class had rented out an entire boat for the occasion, opting for a river cruise–booze included–to celebrate the end of term and the last final exam season you would go through as undergrads. 

Instead, you were pinned to the door of Aemond's hotel room, his hand creeping up beneath your dark red cocktail dress, fingers squeezing at your smooth thighs. It was a bit ridiculous how insatiable both of you were when it came to one another, but you couldn't honestly say you minded.

Still, you were quite cognizant of how it would look if you both didn't show up to the party.

“Aemond, please,” you sigh as he makes his way down your neck, leaving a trail of heated kisses behind him. “We have to go…”

“C’mon baby,” he croons, grinning teasingly against your skin, “Just let me make you cum once–it won't take long.”

You moan softly, his offer making your heat clench and a flood of arousal dampen the apex of your thighs. It takes every last bit of your resolve not to tell him yes. To give in and let him take you in whatever way he wanted, wherever he wanted, end-of-year party be damned. 

With your last remnants of resolve, you push him back slightly, though you remain in his arms, “We can't be late.” You peck his lips once, twice, and then pull back reluctantly, cupping his cheek in your hand. 

“I'll go first,” you decide, “and you follow five minutes after, okay?” He frowns distastefully but nods in agreement, giving your backside one final light slap before he lets you go. You pause at the door, grinning over your shoulder at him before you leave. 

“Oh, and Aemond?” you coo, blinking innocently at him. 

“What?”

“I…forgot to wear panties tonight,” you giggle, slipping out the door before he can respond to your revelation. As you leave? You can see his eye widen with shock and a flush flaring across his cheeks. 

Just as you'd hoped.

You meet Cerelle in the lobby, biting back a smile of amusement when you see Quentyn beside her, practically bouncing on the spot with excitement to be so close to her.

“Hey Cerelle,” you greet her happily, hugging the other girl tightly, the honeysuckle scent of hierarchy perfume enveloping you as you embrace.

“Quentyn,” you acknowledge him with a quick wave, shooting Cerelle a knowing look. She rolls her eyes.

“You look stunning,” you compliment her with a smile, taking a step back to look at her outfit. You speak nothing but the truth–she wears a dusky rose-colored two-piece outfit, her long, tanned legs and a sliver of stomach visible, her golden hair pulled half up, the curls cascading down her back.

“Says you–you look amazing, baby!” she coos, squeezing your hands. “Ready to party?” 

“As I'll ever be,” you hum affectionately. Over her shoulder, you see Aemond walk into the room from the elevator, seating himself on one of the couches scattered throughout the lobby. 

He looks insultingly good, his hair drawn back into a knot on the back of his head, dressed in all black, with a silver chain poking over the collar, glimmering under the ceiling light.

That stupid fucking chain.

“You'd better close your mouth before you start catching flies,” Cerelle snickers, having turned to follow your eye line. “For someone trying to keep their relationship a secret, you sure are obvious about it.”

“Wait,” Quentyn speaks up, glancing back and forth between you and Aemond, his dark eyes widening in disbelief. “Are you telling me you and Targaryen–”

“No!” you exclaim far too quickly, your cheeks burning. 

“No way–you are,” Quentyn marvels. “I thought you guys hated each other…this is crazy–”

You silence him with a withering stare, crossing your arms sourly, “If you say anything–” you begin to threaten, but Cerelle interrupts.

“Don't bother, Quentyn–she's in denial right now.”

“I am not–”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Cerelle rolls her eyes. “So you've said.”

“That's crazy…” Quentyn repeats, evidently having taken in nothing you've just said. 

You take a deep, calming breath, closing your eyes for a moment. 

Apparently, it was going to be a long night.

The boat your class has reserved is absolutely incredible; you cannot deny it. Below deck, there’s a buffet of local and Westerosi delicacies, white cloth-covered tables, and an open bar, while up above is a dance floor with live music and a dance floor. The railings are strung with tiny twinkling fairy lights, and a banner hangs above the band, congratulating your class on graduation. 

Cerelle bodily drags you to the bar, placing an espresso martini in your hand and grabbing one of her own. The drinks are exceedingly well made, and you make sure to leave a tip even though they were already paid for. Quentyn trails behind you, Cerelle’s purse dangling from his shoulder, looking utterly thrilled just to be included, and the three of you make your way upstairs to the dance floor. 

“I can’t believe it’s over,” Cerelle comments, swaying in time to the beat. “I won’t miss the exams, but everything else…” she sighs wistfully. “It’s been a good last semester, hasn’t it?”

You nod in agreement, smiling at your friend, “I’m glad we got to know each other better on this trip,” you tell her, grabbing her hand and spinning her around. “Not to be too sappy, but you’ve become one of my best friends these past few months. I feel really lucky having gotten to know you.”

Cerelle’s eyes brim with happy tears, and she crushes you into a hug, “Me too.”

Another drink and a few songs later, you sit to the side of the floor, watching as Cerelle nestles her head into Quentyn’s shoulder, her eyes shut, a blissful smile curled onto her glossy lips. Quentyn smiles down at her fondly, pressing his lips gently to the top of her head, and she does not pull away. 

And she had the nerve to say you were in denial. 

You grin to yourself, polishing off your drink with a slight shake of your head, setting the glass to the side. 

“They seem cozy,” Aemond’s warm baritone hums above you, and you raise your head to meet his gaze with a smile. With the semester so close to its end, you figured you could drop the whole ‘hating him’ act at least a little bit, and he appears to agree with you. He holds two drinks in his hands–a French 75 and a Manhattan–which he sets on the table as he sits across from you. 

“Mhm,” you agree, taking the French 75–he was getting to know you and your taste quite well–and sipping at it. “And Cerelle expects me to believe she hates him? Ridiculous.”

“Hm. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?” Aemond grins, grabbing his Manhattan from the table and raising his eyebrows at you over the top of his glass. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you reply, teasing him, extending your leg beneath the table to rub his calf with your foot. 

Aemond smiles broadly at you, and you swear your heart stops for a beat. He looks so beautiful like this, all lit up and beaming, staring at you like you were the only person in the room. You’re seized by the overwhelming urge to kiss him, only managing to hold yourself back due to the fact that you’re in public. 

“Aemond T., my man!” Quentyn and Cerelle have made their way over to the two of you. The previous song has ended, and Quentyn tosses himself into the chair at Aemond’s side, lightly punching his shoulder. “How’ve you been, buddy?” 

Aemond raises a brow at him, shooting an inquisitive look your way–they'd never even been friendly, so you could understand the nonplussed expression on his face, “Doing alright, thanks,” he answers dryly. “And you?”

You almost laugh aloud at his stiff, overly formal demeanor, biting your lip to keep it in. 

“Great!” Quentyn hums, unphased as ever, “Been hanging with Cerelle a bunch, so I can't complain–ow!” Cerelle’s body jerks in her seat, evidently having kicked him beneath the table. “What was that for, babe?”

“Oh my gods–” she hisses, eyes narrowed into slits, glaring at the poor guy with all her might. 

“We should go get a drink, Cerelle!” you intervene, doing your utmost not to shoot her a smug look over the fact that Quentyn has effectively revealed their relationship. 

Cerelle accepts grumpily, stalking off ahead of you.

“Don't say a word,” she threatens when the two of you get back downstairs. “Not one.”

“Wasn't going to,” you grin, raising your hands in mock surrender. “Your not-so-secret secret is safe with me.”

She rolls her eyes, but a tiny smile dances in the corner of her mouth, and a light flush colors her cheeks as she drags you back toward the bar. You both get a glass of water and some food from the buffet in a mildly successful attempt to balance out your drinking, grabbing a table off to the side to chat more about your plans post-grad–Cerelle was taking a position at Casterly Rock Law as a paralegal for a year before starting law school, while you were interviewing at several positions in King’s Landing. 

The conversation quickly fades into idle gossip and mild shit-talking about the people in class that annoy you, and at some point, you spot Quentyn and Aemond over by the bar. Quentyn’s arm is slung casually over Aemond’s shoulder, the pair laughing over gods know what–a bold departure from Aemond’s earlier interactions with the other boy, and the sight makes you smile. 

“Looks like Quentyn’s trying to steal your man,” Cerelle giggles, leaning her chin on her hand, eyes sparkling playfully. 

“He’s not my man,” you remind her, and she snorts dismissively. 

“Whenever you stop lying to yourself, I will say, ‘I told you so’,” she warns. “C’mon, let’s rescue him before Quentyn tries to take him home.”

The two of you drift toward the bar, ordering two vodka cranberries and sidling up to the boys, drinks in hand. 

“Baby!” Quentyn exclaims, ever the human golden retriever, beaming at Cerelle like he was seeing her for the first time tonight. “You’re here!” 

He pulls her to him, and you feel a broad hand clasp your hip, tugging you into a firm chest. Turning your gaze upward, you find Aemond’s grinning face, his eye slightly unfocused but glowing with delight at the sight of you.

“Hi,” he hums, nuzzling his face into your neck, lips pressed to your pulse point. “Been looking for you. Missed you.”

You giggle, the haze of the alcohol you've consumed clouding your judgment. Leaning into his touch, you hum happily, “Missed you too,” you admit, your inebriation dulling the embarrassment of the confession. “I’m not complaining, but where is this coming from?” you quip, eyelids fluttering in pleasure under his touch.

“Mmm, Quentyn got us shots…and two more rounds of drinks…” he mumbles, mouthing up your neck toward your jaw, a coil of heat forming deep in your gut under his kisses. “I don't drink normally, so…” he trails off, leaving the rest of the sentence unspoken. 

Not that he needed to explain further–he was, at the very least, very tipsy, if not a bit drunk, and you were not much better. 

“Mm,” you tighten your grip on the back of his neck, and he grunts softly, pressing his body to yours, close enough that you can feel his hardness through his pants.

You should have guessed he was a horny drunk. 

“Wanna get out of here?” you ask him, biting back a smile at how his eye lights up at the suggestion as he bobs his head in eager agreement. 

You’ve never wanted to kiss anyone so badly before. 

After a quick goodbye to Cerelle and Quentyn, you disembark the now-docked boat and trail back to the hotel. Aemond interlaces your fingers while you walk, swinging your joined hands between you, humming brightly to himself. 

Never before had he been so publicly affectionate–your agreement utterly forbid it–and you try your utmost to ignore the way his gentle touch makes your stomach twist with affection. 

Back in your hotel room, you make him down a cup of water, which he gulps impatiently before setting the cup aside and all but pouncing on you, his fingers squeezing and caressing at your curves greedily as he kisses you, not caring if the gloss on your lips got on him. 

“You’re so…pretty…” he sighs against your lips happily, tugging you back toward the bed where he sits, helping you into his lap to straddle him, the soft swell of your ass nestled securely against his bulge. 

“Hm,” you sigh, slotting your lips with his and enjoying the dark taste of the bourbon he’d drunk earlier that night. “You’re…pretty…too,” you mumble between kisses, taken by surprise when he whines softly at the compliment, bucking his hips up against yours urgently. 

Aemond runs his large, warm hands up your thighs and underneath the hem of your dress, squeezing eagerly at the softness of your legs as he pushes your skirt up, rucking it around your hips. You respond in kind, ridding him of his shirt and belt, running your hands over his exposed chest and stomach, mapping the planes of his well-built muscles. 

Your thumb brushes over his pale pink nipple, and he breathes in sharply, jerking under your touch. Biting back a grin, your repeat the action, and this time he makes a barely audible whimper, his eyelid fluttering. 

Interesting. 

Ducking your head, you lick at the tiny bud inquisitively, glancing up from under your eyelashes to gauge his reaction to you. His breath quickens, chest and neck flushed crimson, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, and you do it again, humming softly when a low throaty moan builds in his chest. 

“Do you like that, baby?” you quip breathily, moving your mouth to the other, pinching his now-free spit-slicked nipple between your fingers. 

“Fuck,” he hisses softly. “Yes–yes, I…like that.”

“Hm,” you giggle, moving from his lap to the bed beside him and mouthing your way down over his sternum and abdomen, undoing his pants and nipping at his hipbone. 

He bucks his hips up, grunting faintly, his stiffened length straining against his slacks and boxers, “Please.”

“Please what?” you coo, taunting him. “Do you want me to suck you off? Is that it?”

He nods rapidly, looking down at you with his eye hazy with lust.

“You’ll have to beg a bit better than that,” you hum. 

You’re not sure where this dominant side of you is coming from–in bed, he’s always been unequivocally in charge, teasing and torturing you until you cried from pleasure. Perhaps it’s the fact that you’re still half-drunk, or maybe it’s the pathetic little noises he’s making, but you feel a heady rush of power, and your cunt clenches around nothing, arousal growing into a needy ache. 

“Please,” he repeats huskily, “I need your mouth–need to feel it around me.” 

You brush the backs of your fingers over his hardened cock, biting your lip when it twitches under your featherlight touch, “How badly do you need it, baby? Tell me.”

“S-so fucking badly–more than I’ve ever needed it before, please,” he groans, the desperation etched across his face clear as day. 

He looks so pretty like this, all tensed and pink and begging, that you briefly consider dragging this out for a while, really making him squirm. The tears glimmering in his sighted eye convince you otherwise, though–perhaps another time. 

“Good boy,” you sigh, flipping your hand to grasp his engorged length. “I’ll give you what you want, don’t worry,” you promise, stroking him steadily. “All you need to do is take these pants off for me and lie back, okay?”

He bobs his head eagerly, and you smile, rising from your spot on the bed beside him to remove your dress, biting back a laugh at how quickly he rids himself of his trousers, tossing them to the side impatiently along with his boxers before lying on the bed again. His cock is deliciously hard, the tip flushed a deep shade of pink, similar to the blush coloring his cheeks, a smear of precum left behind by the leaking head on his lower stomach.

He’s never been so willing to submit to you–there have been a few occasions since your arrangement began where you’d taken the lead, but he always liked to be in charge in the end, holding your hips to control the pace or gripping you by the throat as you rode him. That Aemond was nowhere to be found this evening, though. 

“Please,” he whines, reaching for you as you toss your dress to join the rest of your clothes on the ground. 

You don’t make him wait any longer. Kneeling on the bed, you straddle his leg, taking his hand in yours and encircling his length with the other, giving it a few experimental pumps before you take him in your mouth. Bent on giving him exactly when he wants, you take his cock in your mouth as far as you can, swallowing around it and moaning at the salty taste of his precum as you begin to bob your head slowly. 

You’re rewarded by a throaty moan and his free hand tangling loosely in your hair. Still, he does not attempt to direct your movements–tonight, he seemed content to surrender control, and you fucking loved it. 

You suck him off slowly, meticulously, running your tongue up and down the fat vein on the underside of his cock, slurping at it hungrily. Aemond is a mess already, half-broken curses and pleas tumbling from his perfect lips, asking–begging–you for more. 

Dragging your mouth up, you suckle lightly at the tip before flattening your tongue on his length and licking down his shaft, taking one of his balls in your mouth and fondling it with your lips and tongue. You slowly pump his cock in your fist, squeezing lightly at the base and then running your thumb over the head when you reach the top. 

His breathing is ragged, and he squeezes your hand so tightly that your fingers start to feel numb, but you just keep going; every little sound he makes music to your ears. Repeatedly, the muscles in his abdomen contract and loosen again in time with his unsteady gasps, his slim thighs trembling.

Taking his dick in your mouth again, you swirl your tongue around the head a few times before pushing him down your throat fully. 

“Oh fuck–” he groans, his jaw slacked, his wide-eyed gaze locked on you–more specifically, on your lips around his cock. “Feels so…”

You're utterly soaked by now, your slick trickling down your thigh and onto his leg, making a mess beneath you. Under any other circumstances, he would scold you for being so sloppy and maybe slap your ass as punishment, but this time he’s too consumed by bliss to give a shit. 

“F-fuck–Mommy–”

The words tremble from him like it was the most natural thing he could’ve said–and maybe it was.

A euphoric flush of heat pools between your legs, and for a second, you're pretty sure you stop breathing. Aemond either doesn't notice what he's let slip or doesn't care, continuing to whimper from where he lies above you.

You moan softly, sliding up the bed, tucking a finger beneath his chin, and tipping his head up to look into your eye, “What was that baby?” you croon, “I couldn't hear you.”

Mewling faintly, he blinks up at you, a flicker of defiance in his eye as he says again.

“Please, Mommy.”

“Gods, it sounds good when you say that,” you rasp. “You’ve been such a good boy, haven’t you? Now Mommy’s gonna fuck you, okay? Would you like that, baby?” 

He nods rapidly, and you tut at him, softly chastising, “Use your words.”

“Yes,” he gasps out immediately. 

“That’s my sweet boy,” you coo. You’ve fallen into the dominant role with far more ease than you’d ever thought you would–it’s awakened something inside you that you never knew was there, and it makes you feel warm and tingly all over. 

You shift to straddle him, reaching down to align his weeping tip with your soaked entrance, pressing down on top of him with a pleased sigh. The stretch of him inside you punches the air from your lungs, filling you perfectly. You'll never grow tired of how incredible his cock feels, the head pressing against the spongy spot at the front of your walls.

“Fuck you always feel so good inside me,” you gasp, reaching down to cup his cheek. “I love this cock.”

He groans, his head tilted back against the mattress, eyelids fluttering in bliss. His hands grip your thighs, eager to touch any part of you that you would give him access to, worshiping your body.

“If you want to stop,” you hum, leaning down and pressing a tender kiss to his parted lips, “tap my thigh twice, the same way I do when you're in control.” 

Aemond nods, chasing your lips for another kiss, desperate for more contact, and you give it to him, slowly beginning to rock your hips against his in precise, controlled motions. 

“I need more,” he whines. “Please–more–”

“Such a greedy boy you are,” you hum, straightening back up and settling a hand on his throat. “But since you said please…” you lift and lower your hips, keeping the pace steady, refusing to go any faster no matter what beautiful sounds pass between his lips. 

The swollen head of his cock drags against your sweet spot every time your hips descend, magnifying your pleasure with each movement, and before long, you're fucking yourself on his thick length with abandon, your cries blending with his. 

“Tell Mommy how she's making you feel,” you order him, voice airy as you apply delicate pressure to the sides of his throat. 

“So–so good,” he groans. “So fucking good, Mommy, I love…love being inside your perfect pussy.”

Pleased, you remove your hand from his neck, pressing both palms to his chest to give you leverage, rubbing your thumbs steadily against his nipples. Seeming unable to contain himself anymore, his hips jerk up against yours, shallowly meeting your thrusts, and you bite down on your lip in a weak attempt at quieting the increasing volume of your blissed-out cries. 

You guide his hand between your legs to rub at your pearl, which he does happily, eye trained on where the two of you are joined, his brows furrowed in a mix of concentration and utter bliss. 

“You're…doing so well,” you praise, your head falling back, enjoying the slapping of your ass against his thighs as you ride him, your pussy clenching around him of its own accord. “Look at you…letting Mommy take you…like the perfect fucktoy you are.”

He releases a protracted groan, his eye rolling back though he continues circling your bud with his thumb–as drunk on pleasure as he was, he’s still focused on bringing you to your peak.

In your core, you can feel your orgasm building, and you impale yourself on his thick cock over and over again, working yourself right up to the precipice of blinding euphoria. Your walls tighten around him, and he can do nothing but whine, his eye unfocused and pleading wordlessly for you to grant him his release. 

“Do you want to cum?” you purr, admiring the sight beneath you through heavily lidded eyes. 

“Yes–fuck–I need…” he makes a noise akin to a sob, the hand not between your legs clenching on your thigh. “Pleasepleaseplease–” he rambles, “let me cum, Mommy, I’ve…been so…so good for you–Seven Hells–”

He’s a beautiful, sloppy mess, and you would never dream of denying him what he wishes–not now. 

“Then cum for me, my good boy,” you coax, watching in awe as his head slams back on the pillow, a strangled cry spilling from him as he jerks his hips upward, spilling inside you. His entire body is tense, glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, and his brows draw together so tightly that he almost looks concerned.

It only takes a few more passes of his thumb on your clit before you’re coming apart too, spine curving forward, your mouth hanging open, a shallow moan trickling out of you. He groans again, low and quiet, as you clamp down around him before finally doubling over, crumbling against him, your face pressed to his sweat-dampened chest. 

The two of you lie there for a while, chests heaving in tandem as you try to catch your breath. You recover quicker than he does and slowly push yourself up, tracing delicate kisses up Aemond’s flushed chest, trailing to his mouth. 

“Okay?” you ask him hoarsely, brushing his pale hair back from his sticky forehead. He nuzzles into your touch like a cat, humming in exhausted affirmation, turning his head slightly to kiss your palm. 

“I’m gonna clean you up, and then we’ll get some sleep, yeah?” you tell him, pressing another kiss to his shoulder when he nods again. 

Once he’s cleaned up and both of you have had some water, you lie together, still naked and curled into each other’s embrace. 

“You know,” you murmur, pressing your lips to his hairline, “I never would have guessed that Aemond Targaryen had a Mommy kink.”

He groans softly, burying his face in your neck in embarrassment, “Shut up.”

“No, no,” you laugh softly. “I liked it–clearly,” you assure him.

“Hm,” he mumbles against your skin, but you can feel him smiling against you. 

You both doze in each other’s arms, warm, and happy, and quiet. 

“Hey, baby?” he murmurs sleepily, a touch of hesitation coloring his voice. 

“Yeah?”

“I…I love…”

The words hang there for a minute, and your heart hammers wildly in your chest, wondering if this is it–if this is where the two of you finally confess your feelings and get together.

“I love spending time with you. Not just the sex–just…being with you.”

You find that you aren’t disappointed in his confession, even though it’s not what you’d anticipated–perhaps even hoped for–and you smile tenderly against him. 

“I love being with you too.”

Tipping Point Tag List:

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Aemond Tag List:

@aemvnd @paprikaquinn @persephonerinyes @dreamlandcreations @yentroucnagol @doingfondue @shesjustanothergeek @hb8301 @doublesparrows @boundlessfantasy @buglyberry @diosademuerte @lauftivy @kezibear @boofy1998 @elegantsplendour @valentinqee @okfashionista @blossomedfloweroflove @out-of-life @echos-muses @khaothick @wrendermedone  @tempo-rary-fix @spiderinthevening @englishlight @random-ocity @thatawkwardlittlefangirl

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Based on a SENSATIONAL request from @denaerystargaryen & by the behind the scenes pictures from The Stable...

Summary: The summer after graduating university, you and your best friend Baela are invited to spend a few months with her boyfriend Jace at his family's ranch, Dragonstone Hollow. You get along well with all of his cousins, except for one with a painful past (and a pretentious attitude).

Rating: Explicit/18+

🌿 Series-Inspired Playlist 🌿

🌿 Dragonstone Hollow Headcanons 🌿

🌿 Meet the Horses 🌿

dividers by @firefly-graphics

Saddle Up (Part 1)

Reined In (Part 2)

Broken In (Part 3)

Spurred (Part 4)

Bridled (Part 5)

Unfettered (Part 6)

Green Broke (Part 7)

Best-in-Show (Part 8)

Tethered (Part 9)

Out to Pasture (Part 10)

Off to the Races (Epilogue)