NSFW Alphabet With The Hantengu Clones

NSFW Alphabet With The Hantengu Clones

Sekido | Karaku | Aizetsu | Urogi x AFAB reader

Warning: this whole post contains smut

A/N: I am here to provide for y’all. I’m going to try and get as much Hantengu clone content out as I can this week LMAO. I am determined to pioneer and fill the clones’ smut tags

A= Aftercare (what they’re like after the act)

Sekido: he’s quiet for once, though he won’t necessarily comfort you after everything he put you through. He’s more or less going to offer you a wet cloth to clean yourself but he won’t do it for you. He’ll share the bed after to sleep but that’s it.

Karaku: talkative and teasing, he’s going to push your tangled hair out of your face and comment about how fucked out you look. He’ll clean you up but isn’t exactly gentle. He’ll lay beside you after but not cuddle, more or less lay shoulder to shoulder.

Aizetsu: he needs praise, he’ll tell you how good you were but he needs you to do the same for him. He prefers if you clean each other up opposed to doing it alone. He’s big on spooning after, big or small spoon, it doesn’t matter to him so long as he’s touching you

Urogi: everything is a competition, when it comes to aftercare he’s determined to be the best at it. He’ll give you whatever you need, clean you up, give you water, help you walk and care for the accidental wounds from his claws. He’s also a fan of cuddling.

B= Body part (favorite body part their own or their lovers)

Sekido: his hands and his biceps. Your neck, he’s obsessed with biting it and leaving angry looking teeth marks on your skin.

Karaku: his chest and his abs. Your ass, he loves to hit it, squeeze it, scratch it. He loves when it turned bright red after hitting it hard.

Aizetsu: his hands. Your everything. There is not one part of you that he doesn’t adore, he finds all of it attractive

Urogi: his abs and his thighs. To be blunt, he loves your pussy. He’s not ashamed to say that either, he’ll gladly proclaim it to anyone.

C= Cum (anything that has to do with it)

Sekido: prefers to cum inside, finds it the easiest to clean up that way. He’s not very fond of making a mess with his cum

Karaku: loves to cum down your throat or on your face. He likes how pathetic you look covered in his cum

Aizetsu: he cums wherever he feels like it, he likes seeing your ass covered in it but he also likes seeing it seep out of you

Urogi: his goal is always to cum inside rather than on you, that means in your mouth, your cunt or in your ass

D= Dirty secret (Pretty self explanatory)

Sekido: he loves when you have a sharp tongue and degrade him. It doesn’t happen often but he loves how it makes him feel. He’s angry, always in a bad mood, sex is the only thing that is able to calm him for a bit and when you talk back it only fuels is desire to unwind

Karaku: secretly wants you hurt him. He can regenerate, you’d have zero chance at actually causing him real, lasting harm. But he wants you to cut him up, hurt him, make him beg you to stop all the while you’re using his dick like a personal toy

Aizetsu: he wants you to tie him up and use him, leave him there for hours at a time, hard and leaking and waiting for you to satisfy him. He wants you to edge him until he’s crying and begging, just like he does to you. Though he often gets upset with you…

Urogi: he wants to fuck you in the wilderness. Given the fact that he can fly, he can get the two of you to some pretty fascinating places. Want to fuck on the side of a mountain? On top of someone’s house? Up in the trees? You name it, he’s sure he can find it.

E= Experience (do they know what they’re doing)

Sekido: he’s had his fair share over the last century but he’s also selfish in bed. He knows what he’s doing but he thinks you need to earn it. Prove to him that you deserve it.

Karaku: he knows what he’s doing but he hasn’t had as much experience as Sekido. He’s more laid back and doesn’t mind his partner taking the lead and showing him a thing or two.

Aizetsu: initially he had no idea, just a lot of fumbling and confusion at first. He excels if he has a partner with experience and would rather you show him what you want to do

Urogi: he has experience from peeping on people, over the last century his appearance has made it harder to actually go out and put his acquired skills to use. Luckily he has you

F= Favorite position

Sekido: mating press

Karaku: cowgirl

Aizetsu: doggy

Urogi: butterfly

G= Goofy (how serious are they)

Sekido: extremely serious. Like no joking, no smart comments, fully serious and fully focused

Karaku: a healthy mix of goofy and serious. He’s more laid back, making slick comments here and there

Aizetsu: fairly serious, he isn’t one to really make jokes in general, more or less he’s too focused and a bit worried to even attempt

Urogi: completely unserious. He’s going to make sly comments, crack jokes at your expense

H= Hair (grooming habits)

Sekido: bald, the hair annoys him

Karaku: trimmed, he keeps up with it

Aizetsu: trims it occasionally but usually he lets it be

Urogi: completely untamed, not one fuck given

I= Intimacy (in the moment romantic or rough/dirty)

Sekido: rough, there are a few intimate moments but most of the time he’s focused on blowing off some steam

Karaku: dirty, filthy even. He’s not afraid to be intimate but most of the time he’s doing this to fulfill desires opposed to romance

Aizetsu: romantic unintentionally, his constant need for praise and reassurance definitely helps

Urogi: heathy mix of romantic and rough, he’s smart enough to know what you enjoy. That way you won’t leave

J= Jack off (do they masturbate and how often)

Sekido: never… which is probably why he’s so damn mad

Karaku: any chance he gets

Aizetsu: rarely, he’s a bit embarrassed of it

Urogi: he’d find someone to fuck before resorting to it

K= Kink (kinks what they like possibly unusual)

Sekido: he’s a sadist, enjoys BDSM, Dacryphilia all the way

Karaku: he enjoys bondage, Somnophilia, and degrading

Aizetsu: massive praise kink, discipline, impact play

Urogi: breeding kink, asphyxiation, lactation

L= Location (where they like to get it on)

Sekido: private and practical, prefers the bedroom

Karaku: not ashamed of being caught but prefers to keep it inside. Would rather a couch, bed or table

Aizetsu: bedroom or bathroom, too scared of being caught

Urogi: anywhere and everywhere. Wherever you want and wherever he can take you

M= Motivation (things that makes them tick/turn ons)

Sekido: when you’re a brat. He wants nothing more than to put you in your place and remind you that he’s superior

Karaku: cute/revealing clothing. Any inch of skin you tease is enough to rile him up

Aizetsu: praising and complimenting him. He’s a bit sensitive and can get easily worked up by the simplest of affirmations

Urogi: trying to run away. He loves a good game of cat and mouse, finding it cute and exciting that you think you can escape him

N= No (turnoffs or absolutely won’t do)

Sekido: slapping, yeah he’s pretty angry most of the time but he refused to intentionally hurt you / touch your face in such a way

Karaku: role play, he doesn’t get it. He’s a fucking demon, either you take him as he is or not at all, he doesn’t get why you’d want him to act like something he isn’t

Aizetsu: bladder patience, if there is a chance he may get embarrassed, he’s not into it all at

Urogi: blindfolds, he needs you to look at him and he needs to see your pretty face. He won’t settle for anything less.

O= Oral (receiving or giving and how skillful they are)

Sekido: given that he has the most experience, he’s pretty well versed in the world of oral

Karaku: quick learner and quick to please, he’s cocky about his oral skills and even likes to annoy Sekido by saying he’s better

Aizetsu: he needed some guidance at first, but once he got the hang of it, there was no going back. He’s pretty good

Urogi: a bit aggressive but very eager, he knows what he’s doing and won’t stop until he gets his way

P= Pace (how fast they are and how long they last in bed)

Sekido: he’s rough and has a lot of stamina, he can last three or four rounds before needing to slow down. Willpower of a god though, he can hold off his own orgasm for a good 10-15 minutes inside of you.

Karaku: he’s a bit more sensitive but tries to act like he’s not, that being said, he can only go about two rounds before getting too sensitive and overheated. Lasts about 2-4 minutes each time he’s inside of you

Aizetsu: not a one and done deal but he definitely needs a minute after coming once, he’s lasting 3 minutes tops once he actually gets inside. He’s a bit shy about it but your reassurance helps

Urogi: fucking feral, he could go on for hours, round after round without needing a break. Each time he’s inside of you he can last about 5 minutes or longer before it’s too much to hold back

Q= Quickie (do they prefer fast and hard)

Sekido: If you've pissed him off enough then absolutely, I don’t think it’s possible for him to go slow/easy even if he wanted to

Karaku: Similar to Sekido, it really depends on if you do something to piss him off. Which is a more impressive feat in the long run. I see him typically not being in a rush

Aizetsu: never, he likes going at his own pace and doesn’t appreciate being put on a time limit nor does he like the feeling of being obligated to do something

Urogi: he’s the most feral of the four imo, therefore any chance he gets… he’s going to take it. Time crunch or not he’s going to snatch that opportunity right up

R= Risk (do they like to try new things)

Sekido: rarely, unless he has a very intense desire to try something

Karaku: risky, he's not opposed to trying new things

Aizetsu: not really keen on trying new things, you'll have to persuade him into it.

Urogi: very risky, there are few things he won't try

S= Stamina (how many times they can go and how long each round lasts)

Sekido: 3-4 rounds, starting strong and able to last 10-15 minutes for the first two rounds, round three and four he dwindles to 5-10 minutes

Karaku: 2 rounds before needing a break, he can last about 2-4 minutes each time. Foreplay is more his thing

Aizetsu: 1 round before needing a break, 3 minutes max. He’s sensitive and trying to build up his tolerance. Stamina isn’t an issue, he’s just really fucking sensitive

Urogi: the only way he’s stopping is if he passes the fuck out. He’s feral in every since, stamina lasting him 5 minutes at least once he gets inside. They only time he takes a brief break is if you beg.

T= Toys (are they game for using sex toys on themselves or lovers)

Sekido: he works with what he has, but sometimes that’s simply not enough. He’s more than willing to use toys if it means they can get the job done in a satisfying manner

Karaku: obsessed with vibrators, he loves the way you squirm because of him, the way you tense and flex around his cock.

Aizetsu: hesitant because he doesn’t want them to replace him. He needs to feel that importance, to know he’s the one that brings you that pleasure. Sometimes toys can ruin his confidence

Urogi: never, he has everything you need, he’s sure of it. Toys would just be a useless addition. Though his opinion may change if you sneak one in

U= Unfair (how do they tease or do they enjoy suspense themselves)

Sekido: he's rude, teasing you until you're sobbing and pleasuring himself in front of you and leaving you untouched. Super unfair.

Karaku: unfair to an extent, the suspense is fun for him but perhaps not so much for you. He'll give in eventually.

Aizetsu: he's pretty fair, mostly because he can't contain himself from time to time and thinks its just easier to give in

Urogi: he's fair unintentionally, he's too damn horny to bother holding back. Which results in nearly equal amounts of pleasure for both of you

V= Volume (are they loud, what sounds, and do they talk)

Sekido: grunts and groans but rarely talks, even then he tries to keep the noises he makes quiet

Karaku: he’s a moaner and he’s not ashamed of it, he’ll use dirty talk the whole time as well

Aizetsu: he whimpers and whines and even cries, it’s the one thing he’s not embarrassed about either

Urogi: this mother fucker screams, he’s yelling, howling even, not one bit ashamed of how good you make him feel

W= Wild card (random sincannon of any sort)

I don't have individual HCs for them at the moment, but I do have a group HC in a modern AU setting. The four of these mother fuckers are stoners and you can't tell me otherwise. Karaku is the dealer who supplies his brothers. The apartment they share often reeks of weed, and one of them always has smoke seeping out from under their closed bedroom door. Stoned sex is a common situation.

X= X-ray (what’s down below in dem pants)

Sekido: 5.7 inches when hard, no curve

Karaku: 5.3 inches when hard, slight curve

Aizetsu: 4.8 inches when hard, curved

Urogi: 5.5 inches when hard, no curve

Y= Yearning (sexdrive level)

Sekido: moderate

Karaku: moderate-high

Aizetsu: low-moderate

Urogi: very high

Z= Zzzz (do they sleep after if so how quickly after)

Sekido: within ten minutes

Karaku: depending on the time, right away or within a few hours

Aizetsu: under five minutes

Urogi: he’s only stopping if he passes out

Aemond In Love

Note: A simple guide to Aemond's heart;

Warnings: None.

We needen't start off by saying Aemond had a rough childhood;

The deepest I can see him fall in love is with a person who's seen him for all that he is - for better or worse;

A childhood companion, who always jumped to his defense against the crude remarks that his brother and nephews laid on him. Who held onto his tiny hand when he sulked about not being good enough. Who always had something kind to say - to him, to anyone.

He craves for someone who is patient, but also incredibly head-strong: after he loses his eye, he will try his hardest to push his love away. He will rain insults upon her. About her status, her looks, her character, anything that he can think of.

He doesn't mean them. He never could mean them.

If you want own his heart forever, instead of turning your back to him, wait for the boy to calm down, stay silently by his side, until the scorching pain of his missing eye and the effects of the milk of the poppy both wear off;

Even so, Aemond would never be the same, and you would have to develop yet another crucial quality: perseverence.

The following year of accomodation promises a very difficult path to thread with Aemond: too much taken interest in his new hobbies, and he'll think of you a nuisance. Too much detachment from him, and you'll stray away from each other in the blink of an eye;

If you find that perfect balance, in both asking him what else he read while also doing your own thing, Aemond would be smitten with you - even more so after you both grow into your teenage years.

He notices, even if he doesn't tell you, how all the other ladies at court scurry away when they see him, scrunching up their noses in disgust at the sight of his eyepatch.

'He could be handsome, if it weren't for that scar.'

'The boy could be the heir to the Iron Throne for all I care. I could never lay with such a beast.'

He is so grateful for you;

He becomes insecure, and very posessive over your bond in return. It gets to the point where he wants to seek out your company during every hour of every day; it's you who keeps him sane, who understands him and doesn't look at him in pure disgust;

He knows it's not proper, for a lady and a prince to always be seen together, and he doesn't want to embarrass or overburden you;

Because he's afraid you'll get bored of him, he keeps half a distance when he can muster;

Still, make no mistake: he's always nearby, lurking, watching you through the comfort of the shadows. And when the Red Keep hosts for either ball or name day, you're the only one with whom he ever dances.

He relishes in the knowledge that you too, only dance with him - no matter how many Baratheons or Tyrells come your way;

He realises he truly loves you when one day, while walking down a hallway, he spots you talking to your handmaid, Arwen.

He quickly picks up the situation from the loose dialogue he can hear: you, expressing your worry for a very pregnant Arwen, commanding her sternly to let you help her carry the heavy wine barrels to the cellar;

Your kindness is pure. Not a front shown by many other ladies, who only ever mourn the losses of the lesser when other noble men of the court are around;

He wants to marry you. To crown you the love of his life, to make you his Princess and the mother of his child;

But his insecurity pushes him down once more;

How could he selfishly keep you, you bright, wonderous and beautiful thing? He could go to his mother and beg her to betroth you, finally making you his - but how could he steal any hope of happiness you may have, by cursing you to marry not only a second son, but a cripple and a thief?

So he doesn't. He lays low. Starts avoiding balls and any other grand event. When he is forced to attend, he doesn't dance with you anymore. He doesn't dance with anyone.

He simply stays put, hammered in his seat;

Your walks through the garden and chats of deep philosphies happen less and less;

The tens of suitors you managed to stir at such occasions take his place by your left side;

Soon enough, the news of your betrothal reach his ears. You, to be wed by the end of spring, with a Stark lord of Winterfell;

That night, he cannot sleep.

He needs to take Vhagar to the skies, in an attempt to clear his head.

Or he needs to see you immediately, and confront you himself on the subject of your hasty marriage;

He almost reaches to your door, but stops again.

Pain shoots like an arrow through his heart - he feels entitled to an explanation, but how could he be?

It was he who encouraged you to talk to other men. It was he who was too much of a coward to court you as well;

For a moment, he rests his head upon the oak doors of your chambers, before turning his back to walk towards Vhagar's lair;

That night, you feel it too - the sadness and dissatisfaction that enveloped both your hearts;

Only you are more pragmatic;

You get up from your bed, making haste to get dressed;

Before you know it, you crush with him on the way to his chambers - his hands are now on you, protectively around your waist, keeping you from crashing onto the cold floor;

He smells of dragon and of old parchments;

"What are you doing here at this hour, my lady?"

"Aemond."

You drop all formalities, all the while hurt by his usage of them, and shrug your shoulders; you ask him what the matter with him is, why he's been avoiding you for all those weeks, why he refuses to look you in the eyes;

He replies that you're not children anymore, that you both have duties that lay outside of your friendship and other fickle desires;

You snap - you tell him how you cannot believe he's become so short sighted, so blind to your pain. You scowl, and insist that you've always been by his side when he needed you the most. Where did he disappear when your turn to beg for solace came?

"I never expected you to love me. But I never thought you'd stop being my friend."

The two of you share your first kiss that night;

He grabs you tightly - one hand on the nape of your neck, the other on your heaving shoulder;

Aemond kisses you with wild abandon, grazing your bottom lip with his teeth, swallowing your tiny moans;

His forehead comes to rest with yours, both of you breathing heavily, and you chase his lips again with your own;

Eventually, you get around to actually talk - he swears to you that he will talk with his mother and your father when the first ray of sunlight brightens the horizon;

"You're right, you know." He whimpered into your mouth, seering your lips with another hot kiss. "You were always by my side, fighting for me";

The passion burning through his gaze made your knees weak, and you were glad that in that moment, your weight was fully supported by his strong arms;

"It is now my turn to fight for you, issa jorrāelagon."

Translations:

"Issa jorrāelagon" = My love;

Just You - Sukuna x Reader

Word Count: 492

Prompt: @kaizokuwritings 's 700 followers event Character: Sukuna Flower: Burnet; exclusive love

A/n: For the sake of me just 2 followers away from 100 followers I have decided (since idk what to do with the milestone) to start writing for JJK and start it off with the amazing Meli's 700 milestone event. Btw, this Sukuna is before he was defeated and just reduced to fingers basically. I hope all of you enjoy this and I apologize for really pushing the maximum word count ahahaha.

🖤❤️🖤

Sukuna, the king of curses, a man who reigned supreme over both humans and curses alike. A king such as him should have anything he ever wanted. That’s exactly what happened. Whenever he wanted sacrifices, the humans will give one of their own, whenever he wanted offerings, they will bring him this season’s crops, and when he wanted women? They would give him only the most beautiful.

These women were what pleasured Sukuna both day and night, whether it was under the covers or just to do his bidding. They were obedient humans he can make do whatever he wanted. Not to mention, the idea of having a harem stroked his ego.

But then you came along out of nowhere.

Just another measly toy, he thought to himself. Just another measly toy that caught his interest, sooner or later he’ll throw you out like he did to many other women right before you. And yet, the word measly soon became non-existent to him.

That interest soon became endearment, and not long after infatuation.

Out of everyone in the world, it was you who took the King of Curses’ heart. The one who he physically can not and will not be apart.

He sometimes pondered if you questioned your relationship with him, or how odd he began acting after just a few weeks you had arrived as a sacrifice to his temple.

How one by one, his women, his concubine, would disappear. How his demands became odder, from asking you to sit on his lap whilst he listens to the villagers from upon his throne, to sleeping in his bed and yet not bedding you without your consent.

Though he would push all those thoughts aside, he was the King of Curses, after all, he would do whatever he so pleased and no one would dare question him.

Yet he should’ve known from the start that the reason he fell so madly in love with you was because of your bravery. Sure, you feared him, but you still looked up at him like you were a champion. A champion worthy to be in his presence and not cower in fear.

That same bravery led to the question he dreaded the most.

“My lord Sukuna?” He hummed in reply, “May I ask why I get the special treatment?”

You felt his chest rumble from beneath your head, he was chuckling. It sounded slightly more strained than the ones he would usually do though.

“Only a human so idiotic would question my decisions.”

He saw you widened your eyes, and immediately look up at him. Only to relax back when you saw that he was teasing you, the fact was quite evident from the mischievous grin he held.

“You interest me in a way no other women can.” He didn’t want to say the words, “Does that satisfy you human?” But you knew from the way he treated you, how much he truly cared.

“Very much so, my lord.”

Hi! Could you possibly do something soft with one of the green boys? Thank you so so much <3

I See You.

(Slightly 18+)

Pairing: Aemond x Strong!Niece!Reader;

Warnings: some NSFW innuendos and angst - other than that, this is pure comfort and fluff!

Word Count: 4k+

Author's Note: Thank you so much for the request, Nonny! I hope you enjoy this little drabble, and forgive me for taking so long to get around it :") 🤍

Aemond Targaryen hated his birthdays - to him, they were a poor excuse for his mother to introduce him to possible matches. The banquets were loud and dramatic, and he'd much rather spend his time training or reading a book.

Aemond Targaryen hated his birthdays - they focused too much on him, and he could see: he could see how everyone at Court turned their eyes away from him.

And yet you kept on looking.

The dizzying nature of the last waltz of the night left everyone in the Great Hall panting. Roaring applauses erupted from the women seated, and even Aegon whistled lowly in encouragement, as his purple eyes dilated and trailed over the wanton skirts of the highborn ladies.

“Well done, brother,” He congratulated Aemond though a slurred hic, “Even when the day is all about you, you still somehow manage not to dance a single time!”

A wolfish grin spreads across his droopy face, pulling his reddened cheeks higher.

“It’s quite a shame, really.” He hums in reserved admission, reveling in the second son’s silence, “She looked really pretty tonight, too.”

Aemond’s lips part with a growl – a quiet warning sent directly to his brother; to cease his antics and leave him alone.

Still, his eye trailed over her frail form for the thousandth time that night. The shadows of the flickering lights licked at his pale features, and the One-Eyed Prince scowled at how she spun so effortlessly in the arms of so many men that night. How he, ever the fool, stood hammered in his seat during such an ospacious occasion.

A knot tightened in his throat when he heard his strong niece giggle at the flat joke a common Lord had landed - her lack of propriety, her open enjoyment of his company, and the flowy dress she was wearing, were enough to set his heart aflame – and his blood run hot.

Even his brother was eyeing him weirdly, for he had contorted in such a way, that his body was leaning forward, seemingly ready to pounce on the Tully Lord and tear him away. His lilac orb had a predatory glint in it, one that spoke volumes about his wordless adoration for the girl before him.

Feeling his swift undoing, the Targaryen Prince excused himself from the table, with one elegant and hasty movement, not daring to spare the girl another glance. His jaw was tightly set, his long fingers clasped behind his back, digging away at the flesh of his calloused palm. All of his blood had run elsewhere, and a stinging pain started hitting him from beneath his eyepatch.

“Qrimbrōzagon,” He hissed lowly in his mother tongue, “Fu-uck…”

“It’s not really gentlemanly to curse like that, you know…” A kind, albeit teasing voice, echoed through the dark hallway.

Aemond almost froze on the spot. Out of all the times to be left alone with her, this had to be one of the worst. A cold shiver ran down the Prince’s spine; not only was he irritated at the stunts she’d pulled, but he had no good words left for anyone, not when his eye hurt so badly.

The man quickly composed himself, however, and shut his remaining eye firmly, before turning on his heel to greet the smiling girl.

“It’s not particularly lady-like to walk around the Keep unchaperoned, dear niece.” Aemond bit back, his remark much harsher than he intended, due to his inpending pain. “A banquet is in its midst. There are plenty of drunk men, searching for a new folly.”

“Then I should be very lucky to have bumped into you, wouldn’t you agree?” The girl suggested with a slight quirk of her head. She licked her lips tentatively, preparing to inquire after him – but sensing his dissatisfaction and lack of amusement at her usual jests, the Velaryon’s words died upon her lips, and she pursed them tightly together, until her shoulders jolted in place.

“Is… Is the scar causing you trouble again?” She asked meekly, not daring to raise her voice too much. “Is that why you left so suddenly…?”

“My scar is fine,” Aemond replied stiffly, trying to put an end to her relentless worries. “I’ve no need for your sympathy – and if you came here to laugh at my expense, you’ll be left very disappointed.”

“Laugh at you…?” The confusion was evident in her voice, and a small pang of hurt reflected in her big, brown eyes. Her brows furrowed deeply, creating two creases that ran in between them. “You know I would never laugh at you. And I would certainly never laugh at the expense of your eye.”

Aemond’s chest was heaving more sporadically by the second. It was taking everything within him not to fall to his knees and grip his face; not to shout at her to leave him and his heart alone.

“As I previously said, I’m fine.” He growled from under a stained breath, “If that would be all, niece…” He sucked in an aching gasp, one that he prayed to the Seven the young Princess hadn’t heard, and resumed his walk once again. “You had better return to your partner and enjoy his smiles. For you are wasting your time with me.”

“If I didn’t know any better, Aemond, I’d say you just insulted me in the acutest way.” She voiced out offendedly, as her hands grabbed onto her long, black skirts.

The younger Princess sprinted right after him, huffing and puffing at his cutting words. She blocked his pathway with her lythe and nimble body, and her cheeks were reddened, from both the wine and worry alike.

While she brushed away a rebel strand from out her face, the girl crossed her hands over her chest, and awaited patiently.

“That will simply not do,” She uttered with a shaking head, “I must demand satisfaction.”

Aemond came to clench his jaw painfully. His eye was boring into her alluring features; his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, swallowing thickly once every two seconds.

“Why did you push me away all night?” She demanded with a hand above his chest. “How can you insinuate I don’t care about you, when it was you who refused to talk to me?”

Her expression turned solemn, almost mourning, and the girl glanced about at her smaller feet. “What happened? Is it related to something that I did?”

Her head shot up suddenly. Her eyes widened in earnest, “If I said something unseemly, or offended you in any way, I’m sorry.” Her voice was carrying a shiver of honesty, “You know you’re my best friend, Aemond. I… I would never dare hurt you.”

“And yet on that night, you rallied with them.”

Her face fell at his cruel remark. For a while, quietness ruled over them.

Seven years separated them from that fated night in Driftmark. And yet for Aemond, it was still a delicate subject.

Her dainty features twisted into a painful sulk, and the younger girl nibbled on her lower lip, before she spoke with a broken tone. “You know this isn’t true.”

She raised her head at him, and glanced at the prince with a clouded expression. Her body looked even smaller now, recoiled into itself, and, as the Princess let out a forlong sigh, she made enough space in the tight corridor for him to pass her.

“I twisted Luke’s dagger away as fast as I could. I slashed my arm for you.”

Aemond fought her stare with a look of pure betrayal, one that the Velaryon hadn’t seen since that cursed night in Blackwater's Bay. “When you saw us all bloody, you immediately went to side with them.”

“You held a rock above Jace’s head…!” She touched her neck while speaking. “I heard a commotion and got out of bed – how could I have known the full of it, then? I only saw my brothers beaten to a pulp and you above them. And even then, I tried to help you – calm down the others!”

Her eyes were glossy with the threat of tears, but she blinked them away quickly, as she gently shook her head.

Aemond only scoffed at her explanation, and brought his right hand to a fist.

The pain was eating away at him, and there was no more holding back.

“You shouldn’t have doubted me, even for a moment.”

“They’re my brothers…!”

“And you were supposed to be mine! My friend.” Aemond swallowed thickly, “You were supposed to believe me.”

Though neither had seemed to notice, their endless bickering had brought their bodies awfully close. The girl’s heart was beating out of her chest, hammering against Aemond’s ribcage. His arms had caged her vehemently against the cold wall, and the One-Eyed Prince nearly collapsed once a sharp sting pulsed through his empty socket.

“My eye.” He uttered darkly, whilst holding her gently with his heated hand, “I thought it once to be a fair exchange for the dragon I’d gotten. But I was a foolish boy who didn’t know that I’d carry its loss with me my whole entire life.”

She was looking at him, her eyes never once faltering, with a guilty expression upon her face. “I am so sorry you had to go through this. I am so… so sorry.” A silent tear rolled off her cheek, hitting the flamboyant details of her dress, and the girl sank her teeth on her wobbly lower lip. “I would give anything in the world, if only I could take your place. I'd have traded my eye for yours in a heartbeat.”

His breath fell heavily over her lips. Aemond let out a breathless laugh, and quietly averted his gaze. Remorse ate away at him, and the young man brought a hand to his face, in order to rub his temples.

His breathing came in slow, labored pants. His body was aching, but the closeness she provided, along with the love he felt for her, grounded the Targaryen Prince, if only momentarily.

“I would have died a thousand deaths, before I’d let you take that fall for me.” His expression hardened, and he readied himself for what he was about to say. “They say I’m a crippled freak.” Aemond spat out his own insult, and he lowered his head, seemingly ashamed of it. “We can both pretend that it's not true, but no lady at Court can look at me.”

'I look at you. I see you, and you are not a freak.' The Princess desperately wanted to say.

Instead, she settled on bringing her hand out to grab his painful fist, and rub soothing circles into his white knuckles.

“That’s not true, Aemond,” She tutted against him, feeling her face fall with each of his words.

The Crown Prince tensed and shook his head harshly. She wouldn’t understand.

“Look at it.”He urged her with a desperate abandon, still gripping her gently by the elbow, not letting her escape his presence. His mind was swirling with a myriad of thoughts, each wildly uncomfortable and scared of rejection. Still, he couldn’t have her away from his grasp.

The farce had gone too far – and he needed her. He needed her so adherently.

“Look at me, and tell me what you see.” Despite his inner turmoil, Aemond’s voice was calm and composed, and he closed his right eye, as if he had already accepted the answer she was going to grace him with: an answer he’d heard so many times while in the shadows of the Red Keep, listening in to the highborn ladies’ conversations.

A salacious truth, though his spying was never intentional.

His request left the Princess confused – even so, she decided to answer it honestly. She ran her eyes over his face and body, drinking in his every detail. Before beginning, she darted her tongue out to wet her chapped lips, and quietly drew in a comforting breath.

“I see a pale man, with long, silver hair, and a beautiful lilac eye. I see a man who trains with the sword every single day - a man who has perfected the deadly craft. I see a man who always has something smart to say, about a book he read or a previous study he went through. I see a Prince of the Seven Kingdoms. I see you, Aemond.”

As she drew the last of her conclusion, his niece made sure to look him straight in the eye, with the calmest of smiles tugging away at the ends of her lips.

Although her answer had taken him by surprise, Aemond didn’t loosen his hold on her. Posessively, he gripped her waist in a secure rapture, and knitted his brows in grave annoyance.

He couldn’t help himself anymore, not when her eyes focused on him, as if he were the only thing that mattered.

He couldn’t help himself anymore, when, instead of trying to wiggle herself away, the girl placed a soothing palm atop his twitching hand, pressing it down gently.

He cupped her cheek with his resting hand, and aligned her jaw to face him. His hawk-like eye glimmered dangerously, protruding to almost black.

“That’s all? Look harder.” He barked at her through gritted teeth. The poise of his composure was now cracking at the seams. “Tell me again what you see.”

The breath in her throat hitched slightly, but the brown-haired girl followed suit with honesty.

“I see…” A short pause ensued, during which the Velaryon had to purse her lips together, unnerved by what she was about to say, “I see a handsome man, with a thirst to prove himself. I see a man who pushes himself further every single day, who hasn’t known a break in his whole life. … I look up, and see a man who is dutiful and loving toward his family. I see a man who covers his eye with an eyepatch.”

Whilst she was busy breaking his resolve, she raised her hand slowly to his face, and bit her lip in anticipation, stopping at the brown leather of the piece of cloth – silently asking for permission to remove it.

“I see a man with a scar on his left cheek… though that doesn’t make him less alluring. I see a man who had to work twice as hard as everyone else to make up for it all, a man too proud to be handed down anything.”

To say that Aemond was taken aback by her touch was an understatement. His chest heaved with exhaustion, and his socket throbbed significantly, but his face remained close to hers. Her words confused him, but they left him craving more.

He allowed her to reach for his eyepatch, and graze her finger over the hard leather – but his hand rested atop hers, to keep it from moving any further.

“That’s all the answer you’re going to give?” He breathlessly inquired, frustration evident in his tone. His hands felt still and tense, and the girl only nodded in reply.

He was silent for nearly a minute. The Targaryen weighed his options carefully, mulling over his actions. Her delicate fingers were driving him wild, leaving goosebumps on his panging skin.

“Then perhaps I should help you.” He hushed to her, tangling a hand in her slick, brown hair.

His fingers made rapid work on the buckle securing his eyepatch, and the Crown Prince sucked in a breath, as the coldness of the air hit his throbbing blinder.

The girl’s lips parted in sorrow and shock.

There Aemond stood, a shaky hand still grazing the nape of her neck, and a tight expression on his face. Stiffly, he awaited her horrified reaction. “What else is it that you see now, my niece?”

Her inner turmoil disappeared with the submission of his question. “I see a man who is so brave and strong, despite all that happened to him. I see someone so beautiful – inside and out.”

Her hand caressed his deep, red scar and, without much further thinking, she leaned in to plant a small, tentative kiss over the wounded flesh.

Her feathered touch drove the man wild. He swallowed down a desperate moan, and fought with every fraction of his being, that screamed and urged him to take her against the cold, stone wall.

His mind was in shambles.

“That’s all I see, My Prince. That’s all that truly matters.”

Patiently, she waited for his answer, while taking his right hand in hers and rubbing his white knuckles with a devotion untoward.

Her kiss was unexpected. What was even more so, was the earnest nature of her speech and her eyes, which held no malice or ill intent towards him.

Instead, they were filled with fondness and sympathy, and Aemond would be lying if he said he wasn’t grateful for it.

He could feel his lower lip quivering as she rubbed her thumb over his busted knuckles. His body was practically shaking.

“It will never be all that matters.” He laid in thickly, trying his damnest to hold on to his usual, impassive mask.

But that facade was slipping, and even more so with her kind touch and the heat her lips had left on him.

Her face dropped at the finality of his words. The girl nibbled on her lower lip, and slouched her shoulders forward. She minced her way closer to him, and squeezed down on his right hand, forehead bumping into his chest.

“It’s all that matters to me. And to your mom, and to your brothers and sister. To anyone that shared a word with you, or has half a brain to think by themselves.” She whispered to him, while slowly snaking her arms around his waist.

For a moment, her breath caught in her throat, and she prayed silently that Aemond hadn’t thought the last of her movements brash and shameless.

She knew how hard touching came to him – in their ten years of rapid friendship, they had perhaps hugged only thrice –, but she dearly hoped their closeness would bring him the closure he needs. “Who gives a shit about anyone else?” Her voice echoed passionately.

Aemond’s lips parted with a weary sigh. His heart was beating out of his chest, and, for the first time in many years, he felt like the boy he once was. The boy he tried so hard to kill – to bury away and get rid of, for the sake of becoming a reliable pillar to his family.

But her warmth – her touch and her kindred words, made him weak at the knees.

A strained smile graced his lips, a quick quirk of his mouth, that was hidden away by his luscious strands of silver hair. The Prince inhaled her scent deeply, before diving his head in the crook of her neck and holding her – just holding her –, until his erratic breathing came to a rest.

The girl let out a relieved sigh, and engulfed him in a proper hug, swaying him from side to side. She hummed quietly in the darkness of the Red Keep, and ran her fingers through his white locks of hair, massaging the scalp gently.

Aemond’s heart jumped in his throat, and Viserys’ second son strained himself to part his face from the heat of her neck.

Their faces remained inches away, and the Princess sallied her mouth forth to kiss over his scarred flesh once again.

Her pecks were meek and innocent, a silent display of acceptance and affection that she’d learned herself when she was but a child.

She remembered how her mother used to kiss over her scraped knees and hands when she was younger, and how that never failed to make her feel better.

Aemond’s stare never once left her face. He gazed at her through a hooded eye, and, despite the pain that only aggravated with the pressure of her rosy lips upon his face, the Prince relaxed his whole body, still gripping her hand in his.

“Does it hurt you when I kiss you there…?” The girl asked quickly, menging their breaths with a quiet pant, “Please tell me if you’d rather me cease with this… I do not wish to cause you pain.”

Aemond’s body came forward still, and the man pressed the girl further into the wall. His hand brushed a strand of hair away from her huffing face. His mouth was slouched open, and his eye was boring into her face, her lips.

Truly, he did not expect her to react in such a way. She wasn’t repulsed, nor scared of his face. She did not look away from him, and she even kissed over his marred scar. She kissed him, like it was nothing out of the ordinary, as if it was the most natural thing.

She kissed him, with so much kindness, that it left him shaking, shuddering in pained pleasure.

“Yes…” he hissed through the wanton choke of a moan. “It hurts. It hurts so, so good.”

Her eyes widened in shock, and his niece tried to pull away. Her eyes were bearing him guiltily, and she bit down on her bottom lip in exasperation. “You should have told me…! I’m so sorry –” She began to say, but was interrupted by Aemond’s disapproving groan.

He found himself trembling, on the verge of frenzy. Her wet lips had been so warm, and they had felt so good, that the man couldn’t think of anything but her. The absence of her lips pressed against his skin was torture.

“No…” He muttered softly, trying to think beyond how much he needed her in his arms and how perfectly they fit together, “Don’t you dare stop kissing me.” He asserted with a small whimper, his voice thick with pain. “Never stop kissing me. Don’t you ever stop.”

“Okay, okay…” She murmured against him, pressing her lips on his cheek again, gracing him with downy and peppered pecks.

“Ivestragon issa konīr iksos daorun pirta rūsīr issa.” He let out pleadingly, swaying their hugging bodies from side to side.

“Ao issi vok.” She replied immediately, and so, so close to his mouth. “Aem, ao issi vok. Nyke jaelagon ao could ūndegon aōla rȳ issa laesi.”

He let out a choked-out sob, and lowered his head atop hers once again. His hands touched her tenderly, greedily, all over the place. His body felt like it was on fire.

They say that Targaryens are accustomed to the damaging flames, that they revel in and enjoy the heat.

Even so, she felt like wildfire – seeping in his every pore.

“Ao issi vok.” The Princess repeated again, nodding for good measure. “And if you don’t believe me, take me, for example. When you look at me, what do you see?”

A rare smile spread across his lips. His eye bored into hers with so much love and adoration, that the younger girl nearly felt her knees give out.

His gentle hand caressed her lips, and Aemond angled her jaw to face him upwards. A quiet request was made, which the girl gleefully answered.

Silken lips pressed against each other, moving so perfectly together, that both mouths opened in a cathartic moan. Aemond held her passionately, pressed flush against him, and both his hands caged her in between him and the hard-faced wall. What started out slow and sensual grew out into tongue and teeth, gasps and promises lost in the decadent darkness.

At last, when they parted, Aemond drew her hands to his mouth, kissing them with pure, unadulterated love.

“Nyke ūndegon ao.” He answered her forgotten question.

He could see the end of his torment.

Translations:

"Qrimbrōzagon" = Curses/Fuck;

“Ivestragon issa konīr iksos daorun pirta rūsīr issa.” = Tell me you see nothing wrong with me;

“Ao issi vok.” = You are perfect;

“Aemond, ao issi vok. Nyke jaelagon ao could ūndegon aōla rȳ issa laesi.” = Aemond, you are perfect. I wish you could see yourself through my eyes;

“Nyke ūndegon ao.” = I see you.

AEMOND TARGARYEN (HOTD) NSFW ALPHABET

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

I cannot emphasize enough just how much Aemond loves and respects you. You are his equal, his beloved, his life partner… If he bedded you, then he absolutely adores you. Which means, he will do anything you need to feel comfortable and cherished after sex. He’ll have a hot bath drawn for you, and then lovingly clean you up. If you are feeling depleted, then he will gladly go to the kitchens himself, to fetch your favorite foods and drinks. And if you merely wish to cuddle close to him, then the prince will happily hold you in his arms until you fall asleep. It doesn’t matter how soft of rough the lovemaking was, Aemond will insist on taking care of you afterwards.

B = Body part (Their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

On himself? Probably his hair – a testimony of his Targaryen bloodline. He takes extensive care of it, making sure to keep it clean, luscious and soft.

And as far as you are concerned, Aemond loves every single inch of your body, and will gladly get on his knees and worship you like the ever-faithful devotee he is.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically… I’m a disgusting person)

Aemond will only ever finish deep inside of you. Mostly because he finds it distasteful to sully your body with his seed (he doesn’t wish to debase you like that), but also because there is nothing more the prince desires than seeing you pregnant with his child.

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Before you two were even together, Aemond discovered you pleasuring yourself, whispering his name as you came. Of course, you had no idea he was there, and he has yet to confess to having witnessed the act… However, he cannot help but fantasize about you, sprawled on the bed, legs open wide, leisurely fingering yourself for his viewing pleasure.

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

The only experience Aemond has had before you, was when his older brother practically dragged him to a brothel on his thirteenth nameday. And that is hardly a memory Aemond is fond of. That being said, the prince is an avid reader, and has acquired various (more or less forbidden) texts regarding the female anatomy – in hopes that he would bring his future lover as much pleasure as possible. So, luckily for you, Aemond more than makes up for his lack of experience through enthusiasm, communication and scholarly knowledge. Your body is a garden of delights, and he is an explorer willing to discover its many secrets.

F = Favourite Position (This goes without saying. Will probably include a visual)

Missionary, because he craves the intimacy this position allows – hand holding, getting lost in your eyes, long hungry kisses, the welcoming heat of your embrace… Aemond cannot get enough of it.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

This man takes himself way too seriously, and is secretly very insecure. So, whenever mishaps happen, he may get apologetic, or even retreat in fear of your thinking he is an inadequate lover. So it’s up to you to make light of the situation, dispel his worries

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

Aemond is a clean, prim and proper prince, so he keeps himself nicely trimmed down there. A trail of well-groomed silver hair extends from his navel to the base of his cock.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)

The prince is a romantic at heart – and loves you more than anything in this world. You are his sun, his moon and stars, his very reason for living. Praises and sweet nothings whispered in your ear, his fingers interlocked with yours, his keen gaze appraising you with utmost adoration… Intimacy plays a huge role in your bedroom activities.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

Honestly, Aemond’s sex drive isn’t that high? Don’t get me wrong, he is overcome with desire every time he thinks of you, but… He doesn’t really masturbate that often? On one hand, his forced incursion at the brothel traumatized the young prince to such an extent that the mere thought of touching himself had been a cause of repulsion – and on the other hand, after you two became a couple, Aemond just felt like nothing could compare to the real you, writhing underneath him.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

Praise kink, edging, overstimulation, body worship, soft bondage, classy dirty talk (aka nothing degrading) – giving and receiving. Soft (!!!!) hair pulling – receiving.

L = Location (Favourite places to do the do)

The intimacy of your bed chamber. Aemond is NOT an exhibitionist, and the mere thought of being caught in the act makes him nervous (and not in a good way). Besides, you are his and his alone, so he doesn’t want any other man to see your naked form.

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

You??? Like, no, honestly, there mere sight of you makes him weak in the knees. But if you openly express the desire to bed him, Aemond might just lose his composure.

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Anything that would cause you pain (impact play, choking, etc). Also NOT into degradation – giving or receiving. In Aemond’s mind, you two are equals bound by love and respect. He will never, under any circumstance, denigrate you, and he would very much appreciate it if you returned the courtesy.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

There is nothing more heavenly to Aemond than the taste of your sweet nectar on his lips, and the dulcet cadence of your desperate moans.  With the incessant flick of his tongue in the right spot, combined with shameless greedy suckles, he can bring you to completion in no time - and he is rarely satisfied unless you’ve come undone several times, with his deft fingers buried inside of you, and his mouth pressed against your throbbing nub.

That being said, the sight of you, kneeling before him, with your pretty lips wrapped around his cock drives Aemond absolutely insane. He never lasts long when you get on your knees, so eager to service him.

P = Pace (Are they fats and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

Depending on the mood, Aemond can be slow and sensual, or fast and rough - but it is always a passionate. To the prince, bedding you is not just a carnal act, but rather the fusion of your bodies and souls.

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

Aemond is a busy man, with many responsibilities to tend to – which means that once in a while, a quick and hot fuck will have to make do. It doesn’t happen very often, though, as he prefers taking his time, and properly savoring every inch of your body.

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

Generally, Aemond is happy to experiment, so long as both of your boundaries are being respected.

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)

The blood of the dragon runs thick, and years of rigorous training are paying off. In other words, Aemond can go for several rounds before he is thoroughly spend and exhausted.

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

The prince isn’t exactly familiar with the concept, but he wouldn’t be opposed to using them, if that is something you desire.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Depends. Sometimes Aemond feels generous enough to give you what you want, when you want it - and sometimes he can be a complete and utter tease, to the point the need to cum becomes almost painful for you. If he is in a particularly cruel mood, though, Aemond will overstimulate you until the mere touch of a feather upon your flesh will cause your entire body to convulse.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

Low grunts and growls and quiet moans. Reverent whispers of love uttered against the shell of your ear.

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

Though Aemond is not an exhibitionist, he dreams of fucking you from behind, while riding Vhagar. The only reason he hasn’t mentioned it yet is because he needs to figure out the logistics first (a bigger saddle, he suspects, would be preferable).

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)

A dragon through-and-through, with a girth to match. Aemond’s cock is long, thick and veiny, slightly curved towards the tip.

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

Before meeting you? Almost non-existent. After meeting you? Impressively high. That being said, Aemond can and will keep it in his pants, if the situation calls for it. No lewd comments and gestures exchanged between the two of you in front of the other lords in the castle. Your love is too sacred to be turned into a spectacle.

Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

After making sure you are clean, comfortable and securely nestled in his arms, Aemond will wait until you fall asleep, so he can admire you for a little while. There is something about the sight of your slumbering self – so sweet and vulnerable – that has a calming effect on the prince. Eventually, he will fall asleep as well, basking in the warmth of your embrace.

Letters Perished in Dried Ink (18+)

Pairing: Aemond x Reader;

Warnings: vivid descriptions of male masurbation, slight angst, a lot of lousy grandpas who have and will continue to butt into your situationship with Aemond;

Word Count: 6.5k;

Author's Note: I struggled with major writer's block this month. I suppose it happens to the best of us :") While I'm still working on the three fics I promised you guys, have this tiny one-shot to make up for the lack of updates ♡

I tried to be poetic. Alas, I miserably failed. See you in the next update (which is going to hopefully present much better)!

How could a misunderstanding ruin everything seven years of love has built?

Her steady hand reached for the quill, and the girl settled her feather over the small and modest piece of paper. For two, mayhaps three seconds she paused, thinking well on what she would like most adherently to convey.

Her eyes glossed over with the swirl of mischief, and the Lady smiled to herself, while expelling a tantalising and brisk breath.

To my dearest, Aemond

While I was afraid that my time in King’s Landing would change the perception I had of my homeland, I must admit that I was wrong. I might push as far as to say that everything remains the same; not a change since I last saw it. My chamber, with the dolls I left on the goose-stuffed pillows, the training grounds – none the grander as the ones in the Red Keep, mind you –, and the large halls of Riverrun… all seemingly frozen in place.

Albeit the doors feel smaller now, and I can reach without the help of a stool where I once could not, I find that I am underwhelmed, and dangerously melancholic over the time I spent in your company, which accounted for so much of my early girlhood.

Grandfather has taken to my return quite well. He is still bedridden, but somehow more vivacious that his blood is nearer yet.

I look at the portraits that adorn the walls of our darkened castle, and sometimes think back to my elder brothers. I think grandfather does so, as well.

But such terrible quarrels have no place in my dull writings! This new life isn’t as tedious as I make it out to be. I was acquainted with my Septa, though much of my education will be taken care of by grandsire now. Yesterday I walked the grounds for hours on end, and managed to spot some old and familiar faces. I had forgotten how kind the riverlords can be.

One thing that must be noted – and recognised as drastically peculiar – is how quiet it is here. Naturally, there is no active Court to gossip and flaunt back their wealth and actions.

You would like it here.

And I’ll say this much: I’d like it better if you were here, too.

I end my musings with burning questions, that you simply must answer in your next correspondence:

First and foremost, how have you been? Secondly, how are our good Queen and King? Word reached the Trident that your father’s fallen sick, and so I pray piously without stray that he recovers well and quickly. Thirdly, how is sweet Helaena fairing? Last I heard of her, the babe was close to being born.

I readily await for your reply, and urge you to make haste with it!

Until then I remain, as always,

Your inquisitive and loyal friend

His eye trails over the slight curve of her writing. And the Prince catches himself smiling, humming in admission at her carefully picked-out words.

He notices, with great perplexion, that despite his hardest efforts of stifling such impropriety, the ache inside his chest arouses. His heartbeat hammers out of him, granting a slight tremor in his lax and calloused hand.

And he stands this way, hovering over the pristine parchment, whilst bringing his hand out to pinch the bridge of his nose – rub his throbbing blinder with the back end of his hand. His broad chest heaves with every laboured exhale, and Aemond sighs with proper longing.

To my good friend,

I hope this letter finds you in good health, and in higher spirits than the day you wrote to me. It is very unlike you to barely fill a page. I expect your next communication to hold greater details of your life in the Riverlands.

King’s Landing is the same as you remember. Smells like shit and feels like shit, especially now, as I'm denied from the raptures of your company.

My routine too, remains identical. I am seated next to Aegon when we break fast as of late, and I must stress how greatly I preferred my view beforehand.

I report with great sorrow that hardly any intelligent conversation has been had since your swift departure. I'm left longing at the dinner table, for your calculated thoughts, for your sweet melodic voice, and for our elbows to be lightly touching.

Mother is overwhelmed with higher duties of the Court. I try to help her as best I can, with whatever tasks she may yet entrust me with. I lack the patience to sit idly, and so I’ve taken to Aegon’s share of duties. I fulfil them better than he ever could, and the exercise proves itself useful: for I scarcely find the time to think of you throughout the day.

The nights and morrows are harder yet, as my thoughts reach out to you, wondering helplessly how you spend your better days, so painfully far from me.

A dozen maesters tend to Viserys, each saying he will get better as time has its murky say. Yet ‘til that “eventual better” makes itself known to us all, he nurses his body with milk of the poppy, and lets mother do all his work.

Helaena is well. She dreamt the babe would be a boy, and already settled on a name for him. She wishes to call him Maelor, something that hasn’t been rebuked by Aegon.

She misses you greatly. As do I.

As does Vhagar.

The Red Keep feels empty without your fits of laughter.

Beckon your reply quickly.

Your most dutiful servant,

Aemond

A little over a week had passed since his Lady’s last reply. One week and four full days, to be exact... though Aemond would never own up to counting.

His sour mood grew to exceed all expectations, and the Prince bit his tongue through most of dinner, barely uttering a single word. His quiet nature wasn’t something to be troubled of, but even his drunk-out-of-his-mind brother noticed something had been irking him.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so brooding, brother.” Aegon voiced out his concern, after another hefty gulp of alcohol. An impish grin spread across his puffy face, and Viserys’ first-born son leaned over in his chair to soothe him. “Am I right to assume that this has something to do with the lack of reply from a certain lady of the Riverlands?”

A low growl etched from deep within the youth’s throat. Aemond regarded Aegon with a cutting look, and extended his arm forward to grip the base of the wine pouch. He took a moment to ponder on the gaucherie of getting drunk, but settled on thrusting himself to the momentary relief that a hazy mind could offer.

Briskly, he took a swing of the burning liquor, and disregarded the way in which his mother absent-mindedly glared at him.

A loud snicker echoed through the quiet room, and Aegon clasped his hands together, pouting acutely at his brother's actions. “I’ll take that as a yes, then.”

A knot of heartfelt disregard tightened in Aemond’s throat, and his fist clenched painfully right above the wooden table. His free hand gripped the handle of the knife with a knowledge untoward, and the Prince shared a look with his elder brother, while rotating the blade about.

“Careful, Aegon. There are plenty of sharp objects around this table. And you haven’t been spotted in the training yard for quite some time."

His purple eyes widened to rounded specs of unreliant fear. Still he put on a lazy smile, and merely shrugged his shoulders. Aegon’s mouth opened again, threatening to spew out words that would grant no happy ending to their cosy dinnertime.

Eventually, it was Alicent’s glacial tone that interrupted their clash of wits.

“Boys,” She warned them both, not even bothering to look at them, “That is enough.”

Aegon’s mouth slouched childishly, and the man scoffed in rebuttal, while pointing at his rowdy sibling. “I was merely expressing my concern for Aemond, mother. He’s been very affected, now that his lady love abandoned him.”

Immediately Aemond rebuked his cutlery, and in the span of a single second, the Prince latched onto his berating brother. A dangerous look drew across his Targaryen features, making them all the sharper and unforgiving. Woefully he gripped his collar, hoisting him off the ground with an unnatural and vexing ease, and settled on squeezing Aegon’s gorget as he muttered to him darkly. “Either keep quiet on your own accord, or I’ll gladly silence you.”

Four white cloaks swarmed around them, and Otto Hightower nearly screamed, but the brawl reached an early end as the elder nodded rapidly at Aemond, and the latter loosened the hold he had over his bouchered vest.

“Seven Hells…” Aegon had cursed, mumbling lowly whilst feeling his neck for any sores, “Didn’t know it was such a delicate subject.”

Throwing a jaded look around the table, the One-Eyed Prince clenched his jaw.

He frowned deeply, and let out a tired hum at the notion of his sister’s face, so shocked and confused by his sudden outburst. As he felt his own grow numb, no doubt reddened by the scene he’d single-handedly played out, Aemond’s lips pursed to a tight, embarrassed line.

Whilst his hands itched him in shame, and his eye desperately avoided his mother’s, the young man instead focused on the erotic tapestries that adorned the stone-hedged walls.

His lone orb remained fixated on their arched positions, but, as his brother laughed again, Aemond begrudgingly returned his stare.

“Pardon me.” He muttered coldly, whilst giving a slight bow to the silent gathering, and, with one elegant but hurried movement, grabbed the full cask of wine, as he turned tautly to retreat to his chambers.

He swallowed thickly at his swift undoing, and chastised himself for losing touch with what was proper and allowed. His long fingers clasped painfully behind his back, digging at the flesh of his calloused palms, making him click his tongue in disarray; he notices, mayhaps too late, that all his blood had run elsewhere – thus the man takes wider steps to reach the confinements of his room, and lets out a choked-out breath, as the clogged air of his chamber finally hits his nose.

Methodical, aware and present, he sets the wine aside from him, pouring himself a generous cup, and fiddles with the expensive sheets that lay across his wooden table. His hand stumbles over the ink bottle, and the Prince levels out his rapid breathing, preparing himself to write again.

To My Lady,

A gulp of the liquid courage is all he needs to decidedly settle his red feather over the wilted paper.

Your lack of response to my latest confession irks me to no bitter end. I am a patient man, but I will not be denied entrance to your life. I will not have you refuse me the candour of communication.

Not when I spent my entire life waiting submissively by your side.

If your perpetual silence is owed to something I said, or something you’ve heard about me, I demand that you scorn me for it. Write a lengthy paragraph of all my near and far shortcomings, as you so often did when we were children. I promise to make a praying altar of that letter, grovel over it and at your feet, until my indiscretion should be forgiven.

Do not attempt to drive me away with petty ignoring. Such a feat is beneath you.

Another gulp of bitter wine is what allows his hand to flow more freely.

I confess that days and nights I have spent laying restlessly in bed, praying to the Seven to grant me passage to a single thought of yours. I ached to hear your words and feel your voice touch me so deeply. I am afraid I became brazen and unkind in the tortures of your absence.

I lest conclude that this should be a leisure letter to write – words should come easily, and in short, it should be simple for me to tell you how desperately happy I was to open your communication, and see your sweet and narrow writing.

Aemond halts his hurried musings, and encouraged by the hotness of the room, thinks back on the sinful indulgence he’d committed with her letter.

How he kissed over the parchment a million times thereafter, and how he licked at its bent corners, shuddering at the thought that her hand had ghosted over – perhaps even rested on – the marginal and flimsy paper.

He abjures his thoughts to the back of his mind, and lets out a low curse at the throb that forms over his missing eye.

A Prince should never bow, nor beg, nor relent. Yet here I stand, forever obediently at your beck and call, begging you to write again.

His patch fell heavily upon his skin. The nerves of his face stung the stimulated bit of skin, and Aemond huffed out an exacerbated breath, as he decidedly yanked the blinder away from his handsome face.

My duties at Court make it such that it is impossible for me to leave the proximities of King’s Landing. But should you make the mistake of not replying to me again, I’ll have no choice but to mount Vhagar and fly over to you myself.

… So reign your anger on me, should you need to. And just grant me with a quick reply.

Aemond.

Not even bothering to read it over, the man reached for the stamp she gifted him, inspecting its sapphire hilt with a scorned look over his face, and an angry furrow to his brow. His tongue poked the inside of his cheek, as he passively set the hilt aside.

His next movements were slow, methodical – Aemond folded the paper in half, and poured the hot wax over it; grabbing the stamp, and lowering it on the paper, allowing the Targaryen seal to leave its mundane mark behind.

Harsh thoughts swirled inside his head, and the Prince lowered the parchment, promising to send word out on the morrow, and personally deliver his Lady the much-improved, insistent letter.

‘The best of friends for seven years,’ he scoffed bitterly to himself, recalling the oath they’d made each other.

He wouldn’t allow her to walk away. He wouldn’t allow her to forget about him. And he would force her to look at him, and explain the means of her reaping silence.

The gentle rays of morning wash themselves over his handsome features. The heatwaves of summer lick over his translucent skin, and the golden rays of daybreak thread themselves into his silver hair.

Aemond groaned in roaring anguish, as he ran a calloused hand up and over his throbbing cheek.

The discarded eyepatch, now resting on the floor. The littered parchments, still laying on his table. The lone letter, which had been written so angrily, just to be resentfully abandoned as his ire simmered down the night before.

Each object served as a dull and pained reminder of his lack of princely conduct, of the effects of the wine… of her brazen and determined silence.

The Prince bit over his lower lip, and fluttered his eyelid tightly shut. Enwrapped in his fine silks, and under the comforts of his chambers, he allowed his mind to lead to her again. To the image of her sprawled-out form, waiting for him inside his bed.

He sighs deeply, and questions his sanity – or lack thereof –, his patience, his virtue. What he wrote in his confessions was the fair and honest truth – In the few moments of solitude that he grantedly took for himself, the riverlander scarcely ever left his thoughts.

Aemond writhed into the mattress, and peeled the cover away from his heated body. He needn’t have looked down upon him to see the quaint trailing effect that his friend had had on him; but he did, and in the process, hastily pulled his throbbing cock out of his breeches, to begin to pump himself – mayhaps relieve the stress and anger that ruled over his very being.

A tender hiss escaped his lips, as his movements sped up in pace. The Crown Prince bit over his lower lip, and a shaky hand came to rest over his parted mouth, to dull the shameful and alluding sounds that escaped his burning throat.

He ran his thumb over the leaking tip, gathering up his seed in singular and striking swipes, guiding the clear droplets of liquid to trail towards his aching stones, and coat over his impressive length.

A low grunt slipped past his hand, and Aemond sank his teeth into the tender flesh, stifling down any further moan or laboured breath.

"F-Fuck… my Lady…"

His back shuddered from the blinding pleasure, and his free hand came to rummage under his pillows in the most desperate of searches.

His eye opened but for a moment, as his digits grazed the bent edges of the first letter she'd addressed him – the one he'd cherished with ample reverence, and secretly carried with him to every place he went.

His lilac orb trailed over the contents of the wilting parchment, which by then he knew by heart, but stopped at the very beginning of her scattered and bereft writing.

'To my dearest, Aemond' – either by crude mistake or heinous design, she'd flicked her wrist right after dearest, drawing out a bold and elongated pause, that hence consumed his wakened days.

It must have taken her no more than seconds to descend her quill upon the page, yet for Aemond, the mundane piece of calligraphy became his most burdensome slither of hope.

Before he could catch himself in his lustful daze, the Prince brought the letter to his lips, and kissed over the dried ink with devotion untoward, accelerating his ministrations as he pressed into it harder.

He pictured her alone and writing, enraptured by the dead of night, dressed up in her modest nightdress, and her hair loose from her bun. She must have made some able pauses, to glance up at the moon, perhaps, or sigh in puckered concentration.

Had she shared with him everything that was on her mind back then? Or did she hold her secrets in, choosing instead to only hint at all that they had left unspoken?

Did she also think of him, as he nightly thought of her, and in her attempts to clear her head, brought her hand out to her ruddy pearl? And did she dare to rub it gently as sinful fantasies of him emerged?

Did he plague her every thought – visited them, at the very least, nestling inside her mind, as she so oftenly did to him?

His unanswered plethora of questions only fed into his fire. His hips began to move languidly against his hand, and the familiar licks of release beckoned in his tired loins. But fucking his hand would never come close to how he envisioned fucking her would be like. How tight and welcoming her cunt must be, how she herself was so untouched, so pure, unaware of the pleasures he alone could make her go through.

How breathlessly she’d gasp against him, and leave her lascivious mark over his skin, in the form of clawed-out patterns, adorning his pale and muscled back. He would return her favour in kind, pressing himself deeper inside her, molding her warmth to the shape of his cock, leaving bruising kisses over her breasts and neck and claiming her – over and over, again and again.

His. His, his, his and his alone.

Propriety be damned, he’d have her. Ensure she’d never leave his bed thereafter.

She’d make for a fantastic mother, he caught himself thinking with abhorrence, and a new heat wave of pleasure enveloped his arched, unyielding back.

His despair reached new peaks of torture, as his mind led him to the memory of her crouching form, playing with Helaena’s twins, with such a pliant and kind smile upon her agonizing lips. How she’d chase them through the royal gardens, how the sun would catch her hair aflame…

Often during the long nights of winter, he’d shut himself inside his chambers, and touch himself repeatedly with the oils gifted from Aegon – with only that specific recollection playing tricks inside his mind.

Whilst elating her as his wife inside his head, the man slumped further into the bed, focusing on working his shaft up and down in blinding delight.

Her voice, her laughter, her handwriting and eyes – so wide and curious and always ready to look upon him, to really see him for who he was. She’d been the only one who never glanced directly at his scar. She’d focus in on his remaining eye, and listen to what he had to say. Intently. Remarkably so. She would remember his favourite book, the passages he’d read her last, and would partake in conversation – urging him to share his thoughts.

His climax neared him closer still, and Viserys’s second son focused on fucking his fist at a wilder pace than done before. Droplets of precum rolled down his cock, as forming sweat coated his brow. A final swipe of his rough thumb over the tip of his manhood, and a tender caress of his tightened stones was all it took for the man to drive himself over the edge, and feel the warmth inside his chest spread across his lower body.

He hissed painfully into the open letter, spending all over his chest and stomach and spilling her name from his parted lips.

He heaved out one breath after the other, and gingerly ran his hand over the written testament of her thoughts. He wanted to curse the Gods for making him so, for giving him the thirst for knowledge of a man fitting his station, but the crass bashfulness of a ruddy stable boy.

For the first time in his life, Aemond wished he were born different. A softer and more patient man, who’d find himself worthy of her; one more handsome, courageous and outspoken – a man who could express his feelings, without so much as a second thought, who didn't allow hesitation and carelessness to break his strengthened up resolve.

He ached to tell her all the things he’d left unsaid, when he saw her leave his sight. That she was lovely and brave and better than anything he deserved. That he was twisted, crooked, wrong – but not so wrong that he couldn’t pull himself together into some semblance of a man for her. That without exactly meaning to, he’d begun to lean on her, to look for her, to need her near.

That love within him laced with doubt. Longing with predestined pain. That he prayed night after night, obsessively, tentatively, that she’d grant him passage into her life again – that whatever held her from speaking to him would absolve itself with time, and he’d finally be free again.

Free to love her from afar, to revel in the bottled hope she’d grant him with the lightest touch, the faintest smile, and the most mundane of glances.

To delve further into the sweet delusion that mayhaps she'd learn to love him. That somehow he’d be deemed to be enough.

As he stood there, unmoving in his very bed, his warm seed rolled off his stomach, staining onto the silken sheets. A long sigh escaped his lips, and Aemond propped himself onto his elbow, cleaning the mess he’d left behind.

His want for her ran hard and deep, and the Crown Prince tensed once more, feeling his stomach tighten in such familiar hot knots of pleasure, that his cock went stiff again. He hummed in admission of his solitary fate and reached for the sinful oils with a shaky and extended hand. Through the musings of a quiet moan, he aligned his hips to his waiting hand, preparing to grant himself the second peak of his cursed and debauchered morning.

Alas, a lacklustre knock put an end to his self-indulgence, and Aemond stifled back a groan. He swallowed up his lust with haste, pushing himself back into his linen breeches and off the ruined satin bed – running a hand through the forming mats of his silver hair, to make himself seem more presentable.

Frustration and madness welled up within him, but he merely sucked in an irritated breath, whilst grabbing forth a shirt to adequately front himself.

“Yes, what is it?” His shaky voice barks out for him. He listens intently for any noise outside his door, and a great displeasure settles in his gut, as the voice of a servant boy echoes through the quiet walls.

“A letter for you, Your Grace. I beg your pardon for disrupting you –”

Readily he jumps out of his bed. And as if burned, as if possessed, Aemond opens the door with a readiness unperturbed, descending his anger onto the poor, expecting boy. The letter rests upon a silver platter, shaken with the messenger’s panicked voice. The Tully emblem that seals over a vast calligraphy drives the Prince to the brink of hysteria, and the Targaryen grabs a hold of the boy’s bouched shirt, pushing him further down into the hall.

“When.” He questions breathlessly, “When did the letter arrive.”

“L-Last night, Your Grace – near the hour of the wolf –”

A feral scowl settles over his sharp features. Aemond takes a step forward, tightening his fist over the cheap material, and calmly professes to the whimpering boy.

“For waiting so long to bring it to me, I should have you flogged and executed.”

The child's blabbering reaches deafened ears, as Aemond reaches for the letter crassly presented to him, and offers the youth a pressing look.

“Get out of my sight, before I should make the call of feeding you to my dragon.”

A clumsy courtesy is followed by a tantalised “Your Grace”. The echo of footsteps gets lost through the depths of the narrow hallway, and the man hums absentmindedly, before shutting himself inside his room again.

He wants to rip the envelope in a violent and perusing fashion, but his first instinct is to trail over the paper gently, to run his digits where her hands had been, to touch the edges of her writings with such a desire to be close to her that it scared him.

In a slow and gentle act, he peeled her seal away from the pesky parchment, and sucked in a hectic breath, as he scanned the contents he’d so longly dreamt about.

His hope shattered as rapidly as it came. And Aemond nearly ripped the letter, as his heart clenched painfully inside his chest.

To Aemond,

I thought about what I might say, and word it out in such a way that won’t leave you perplexed or angered.

I think it’s best for us to move along, and stop with these childish musings, that have hence occupied our time since I moved from the Red Keep.

I will forever cherish our acquaintanceship and hold your friendship in the highest regard. But I am a woman grown now – you, a man in all his right –, and we must both start to think about the survival of our families.

Please do not send me any more letters, as I won’t reply to them, and focus instead on your best interests.

The Lady Tully of Riverrun

His feet carried him close to his bed, as he grabbed a hold of her first note. Desperately, he began searching for differences – in the means that it was written, in the handwriting he’s known since his early adolescence, in the marginal and flimsy paper.

The sting of rejection fell heavily over his shoulders, but rationale trumped his crushed spirits – for there must have been something, anything inside the new communication, that would explain its fabrication.

It was impossible those were her words. She’d never been a jousting woman – never regarded her tens of suitors as less than wanting, for the simple fact she didn’t desire them. She would have let him down more softly. She wouldn’t throw away his company.

Contentment can emerge in the quietness of separation, but their friendship endured years of scorn from the gossips of the Court. Her good opinion of him just couldn’t have changed so suddenly.

A final reach entered his mind, as he folded the paper roughly, and settled it atop his table.

If those were truly her words within that letter, and she wanted him to keep his distance, she’d have to tell him to his face.

More than a week had passed since she’d sent him her first letter. A week since she’d awaited his reply, inquiring every messenger within the castle on the arrival of a straying raven, all the way from the Red Keep.

In spite of her avid efforts, each day repeated the same encounter without so much of a hitch – the scrawny boys shaking their heads, as they ceaselessly informed her that nothing addressed to her has reached the tower of the West Wing.

Since then she’d sent out two more hurried manuscripts, despite never once being graced with a reply. All hope seemed lost when she’d woken up that very day and was still met with livid silence.

Through all their years of rapid friendship, Aemond had never ignored her so. As she cut into her plate, the Lady gnawed at her bottom lip, thinking hard on what possibly could have happened to make him turn so cold towards her.

If her status quo were any different, she’d have taken the Red Fork road on horseback, to reach King’s Landing, and confront her oldest friend on the reasons for his dreaded silence.

But her grandsire had fallen ill, and little to no progress was made on his state of brittle health. Her duty thus assigned her to the Riverlands, despite her need of seeing him.

“You have been very quiet, sweet girl.” The husky voice of Grover Tully echoed through the silent chamber. The girl’s cutlery stilled upon the half-full plate, and her eyes raised from her lap, clashing with the stilling blueness, the knowing assessment of his own.

“Apologies, grandfather,” She uttered rapidly with a forced smile upon her face, “My mind was otherwise engaged.”

“As it has been for the past week.” He concluded with a quirked-up brow. The softness in his gaze enveloped her, giving her a rapid sense of security, and her grandfather coughed in the back of his hand, drawing a pattern over the motifs of their tablecloth.

“I suppose I miss some aspects of King’s Landing. I have spent most of my youth there… – though the Riverlands are just as beautiful.” She was quick to intervene.

“Is King’s Landing all that you miss, or is it a certain boy from there?”

Her bright orbs widened with her grandfather’s suggestive tone, and her cheeks reddened in place, as her voice denied it brashly, “Certainly not, I – Aemond and I are friends.”

“It might seem like a long while has passed since then, but I’ve also been young once.”

When her reply was met with sarcasm, she swallowed thickly and drove on, “We are… really good friends, but that is all.” Once again, her stare dissolved, “Though… I’m not sure we’re exactly friends anymore.”

A knowing look adorned his face, and Grover turned his attention to the family crest above their heads. He took a while to pounder, thinking longly on a vast reply, but he eventually nodded to her, and graced the child with an unperturbed, brilliant smile. “I’m sure the Prince is very busy – as are you, my sweet child. Men, and young men especially…” He muttered the latter of his teachings, “Aren’t exactly prone to sentimentality. Not in the way that women are.”

Her lips pursed into a tight line, as his words rang in her ears.

But not Aemond, she wanted to say. He was hardly like the other men she knew – he could be kind and good and comforting. He cared for her, and for their friendship. He wouldn’t just ignore her, just for the sake of not being overly attached to writing.

Although she couldn’t possibly say such a thing – for then her grandsire’s teasing would have been a certain. The girl made herself busy cutting up a piece of meat in carefully drawn-out halves, until she beckoned a reply.

“Indeed. … You’re right, I should stop being so concerned.” She strained herself to answer him. The older man hummed disconcerted, and returned upon his plating. They continued eating in silence, till he mauled himself to tell her.

“... I know how hard this is for you. But our family depends on you. I had to bring you back to Riverrun, to get the other Lords used to the image of a woman in our ancestral seat.”

“Gods, of course, grandfather – and for that, I’m more than thankful.”

Grover raised a shaky hand, and cut her off with a gentle smile, “You do understand… as much as we both hate the idea, I’ll have to soon match you with someone.”

She gripped the goblet of wine before her, and wet her lips with the bitter liquor. “... Of course I do. It is my duty.”

“Your claim will be stronger with an able man around. And if the Gods are good and you also bear a son…”

“I know.” She sighed into the ample cup, “My claim would be thus undisputed.”

“Aemond was not the right match for you.”

The girl bit over her lower lip, wanting to both negate her feelings, and contest upon his honoured values. But she simply nodded to the greying Lord before her and offered a lacklustre smile.

“Perhaps a change of scenery will do you good. I was thinking that you might like the Reach better than the Riverlands... Lyonel Tyrell is an especially kind and thoughtful host.”

A relocation was the last thing on her mind, no doubt, but the Bliss of Riverrun turned her attention to the latter of his eversion.

“Visit the Reach? You think of marrying me off to the boy of Highgarden? … He’s not yet fourteen.”

Silence washed over their council.

“Boys grow swiftly into men. I'm assured he'll be a good one for you."

“He’s a child.”

“You’re seventeen.”

“It still makes for quite the difference.”

“You won’t have to mother children until he’ll also come of age. It gives you three more years of freedom – other ladies would kill for a faction of what you have.”

“I don’t like the finality of your words."

A long and pressing breath beleft his pale and tired lips.

“I couldn’t send you to the North. Jason Lannister has no sons. The Greyjoys are ghastly savages.” As he presented her his trail of thought, Grover Tully shook his head, “And the Targaryens…”

“You’re childhood friends with King Viserys. A match would not fall outside our rank." She slipped and added restlessly, much like a frail and foolish child. Even before he could answer her, his granddaughter raised her hand, as she brushed off her latter thought. “A succession crisis will ensue.” The young woman muttered in his stead.

“I’m old – I’ve seen disputes start for much less. But here we’re talking of the Iron Throne.”

“You think a war is in its midst.”

A cutting silence washed over them. Grover lifted first from the dinner table and breathed in an anxious breath.

“I pray for the sake of the Realm that such a thing will not take root.”

The languid fires of their threshold illuminated her conflicted face.

“Then it’s a good thing Aemond didn't bother to reply to my letters.”

For but a second, Grover’s face was etched with guilt.

“We all have to protect our own.” Sometimes the means to do it are less honourable than we'd wish to.

For all that was worth on that rousy and portentous night, her fate had been agreed upon. And ever the loyal and oppressed servant, the young lady of the Riverlands left with the first callings of dawn, for the impetuous and striking gardens, which were smugly kept inside the Reach.

She would then leave, with her soul and heart all torn to pieces – yet still completely unaware that she’d never see Aemond again.

Never, at the very least, to how she’d known him to always be.

His wide and calculated steps led him to the stronghold’s gates. So easily it came for him to pass the cluttered training grounds, and disregard Ser Criston Cole with a mere shake of his head.

Above all else, he thought it then, he needed to feel his love again. He needed to hold her near once more, and ask all the outlandish questions he endured inside his head, counting for so much of his weakened days. He needed to reach a resolution, after being disregarded for so long. He needed the closure that her voice could offer him, that her mouth would utter out – that this had all been a grave mistake on her behalf, that the note never belonged to her, that she loved him as he loved her, and had merely been scared of it.

His morning session could very well await him, as he so viciously awaited the perfect chance to get away.

Two days away from the arrival of the pesky letter, Aemond had finally managed to slither unperturbed from his neat and tidy prison. Neither his mother nor grandsire had caught him in the act of it, Aegon had been too drunk to notice him dress up for a morning ride, and Helaena had solely clicked her tongue and scowled at him.

As he anxiously secured the belts of his dragon’s saddle, the man hummed in disarray – Riverrun was but a short flight away, but the despair he felt to hold her inside his arms again trumped over his better senses.

With any luck, he figured, she should still be found in bed. His love had never been an early riser, and she loathed getting out of bed in the damning morning light.

He didn’t waste time figuring out pleasantries to share with Grover – much less the words needed to explain his unprompted visit.

His sole purpose was to get to her, ask for her hand, make her his wife and forever be done with it.

He had the biggest claim to her – a Prince bonded with the largest dragon in the world, the one who’d seen and grown with her so many years inside the Keep.

The command of flying was given to his formidable dragon, and the Prince took off for the Trident's three heads.

Hopefulness emerged with unforsaked determination – but as his actions would dictate him from then on out, his efforts would be all for nought, torn apart in stinging vain.

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