Chapter Text
You startle awake with a broken gasp.
The hour is late, you know this because the fireplace has long burnt out and only the pale moonlight keeps the cold room from woefully being consumed by darkness. Sleep dances on your eyelids, doing it’s very best to seduce you back into an unconscious state, and while you want nothing more than to let yourself be swept away back into the lands of hedonistic fantasies— a place where you’re free to imagine a different life, one where you never sleep alone and it is the other brother who takes you under his protective hold beneath the eyes of the seven— , there is an itch begging to be scratched, a pounding in your heart which refuses to go ignored, a pulse between your thighs you’ve never felt before.
You aim to yawn, yet find the sound you make is far more erotic, a breathless whisper thrown out into the chilling air. Sweat gathers over your body like a second skin, stirring you uncomfortably. It’s only when you try to readjust your position that you realise your legs are bent at the knee, spread apart and with each foot planted on the feathered mattress below.
An unknown weight rests between your parted limbs.
Like every itch, this one grows greater with each satisfying scratch delivered upon it, only it can not be from your own hands as one is splayed out to the side, fisting at the sheets where your husband should be laying, and the other digs crescents into the meat of your thigh, squeezing the flesh like it is a thief and you, an unforgiving lord who seeks justice in strangulation.
Another scratch, another whimper, another spreading of legs, this time pushing to be wider than is comfortable, yet you find there is no other option against the solid mass which knocks against the inner parts of your thighs.
“Hmm,” the unmovable weight hums a noise against you, making you all too aware of both it’s tangible presence and it’s positioning against your most intimate area.
A sound, akin to dripping water or a kitten lapping up the sweetest milk, flutters past your ears and lands in your brain, building it’s nest within and condemning you to a future of relating such mundane noises to such an ecstatic feeling.
“Oh!” Your mouth is dry as it opens to speak, tongue sticking to the roof momentarily before dropping down and slipping out to wet your lips, the wet muscle flicking over your dried petals and watering them back to their more voluptuous life.
Realisation dawns upon you.
Till now, you’d heard only rumours, hushed whispers and giggled gossip between the maids that filtered in and out of your chambers, of such acts of depravity, where a lover would don their bed partner with their tongue and deliver them pleasure, for the pure sake of pleasure.
It is something you’ve struggled to wrap your head around, brought up to believe the act of consummating a marriage was one of duty, a ritual performed by husband and wife with one goal in mind: an heir.
Your own wedding night certainly had been just that, your husband rucking up your chemise and spilling his seed into you, only to tuck himself back into his trousers and return to the wine and festivities, not sparing so much as a glance to your tear stained face nor your aching bod, bleeding from the act of being broken in and weeping at the hollow feeling in your chest.
Four moons passed, a whole season changed, and you can still count on one hand the nights your wifely duties have been called into use, each ending in the king-to-be chasing his high and leaving you dry, slamming the door on his way out of your supposed marital chambers.
There is no pleasure in the way Prince Aegon moves over your body, only duty.
And, so, this is new.
You struggle to decipher what is warmer: his mouth or your skin. unlike the thrusts he delivers while jabbing the tip of his cock uncomfortably against your neglecting womb, there is a rhythm to how this appendage moves.
It licks, and pokes, and tastes each unnamed part of you, wetting you in more ways than one as it drags over your centre, reaching higher, higher, higher, till it touches a part of you you’d yet to discover.
“Please...” You’re fairly sure it is a whisper, yet it echoes in the dark room, mocking you with your own pleas for something, anything, everything so long as you get to feel this kind of cooling burn for the rest of your waking— and sleeping— hours.
The man between your thighs graces you with no verbal response, mouth full with your own dripping essence and pulsating crotch, yet a hand, warm and soft and large, cups the underside of your thigh. It travels slowly, languidly, in sync with the tongue on your previously neglected pearl, till it’s fingers intertwine with your own and relieve your skin of the assault under your sharpened talons.
He makes no protest as the nails dig into his flesh.
You have no clue what’s gotten into Aegon, for it was merely hours ago he’d complained at your unswelling womb, a mouthful of food and a goblet emptied of wine as he grovelled over the thought of once again performing such an exhausting chore only for you to waste his seed and grow no child within you.
But a beggar can be no chooser, you will take his vulgar offer of affection and pray he never speaks a word of how he’s defiled you with his tongue. The thought that he simply aims to slick your entrance and make his job easier crosses your mind.
Hummed satisfaction from below silences your mind.
He’s enjoying this, singing you praises in forms of lustful sighs and muffled moaning. It is nothing like laying with Aegon in the traditional sense, where a hand covers your mouth to silence whatever pained whine you let slip and his face remains stoic till he cracks out one measly grunt as his seed spills.
“Aegon...” you’ve breathed his name before you can stop yourself, eyes widening in panic as the hand intwined with your own gives a squeeze. You ruck your hips up to chase his mouth as he parts to breath, not wanting to welcome the chill of the night against your dampened skin. “My king, don’t stop.”
He could have your head for this, demanding something from the man who was destined to sit the iron throne. He’d certainly threatened to do so for less, like the time you’d dared to tell him his tunic was sporting a stain.
No threat leaves him this time.
Instead, he delves deeper into your pleasure, recharged from the one full breath he’d snuck into his lungs and ready to explore you once more with his tongue. It is not long before the hand on your thigh trails further back, till you feel the tips of his fingers dance on the edges of where your thigh meets the very centre of you.
“You taste sweeter than any heaven the gods may offer me,” he’s never spoken with such eloquence, and certainly not so kindly towards you. The most you’ve gotten is a look of approval on your first meeting, body still adjusting the warmth away from your wintery home and eyes more terrified than a startled doe, no more than a nod towards his grandsire, Otto Hightower, needed to confirm that he’d take you to wed. “If only I could bottle you up and drink you each day.”
The pale light of the moon casts shadows all over the room, images that you can not make out painting the walls and the ceiling above. The voice in your head, driven mad with your fiery desire, whispers sweet nothings into your ear, coercing you to take a peek down at your husband and bask in the way he’s drinking from your body as though you are his holy grail.
You’ve never seen Aegon look anything but bored or irritated. It’s all new, the way his eyebrows are scrunched, the way his eye hungrily gazes up at you, the way his hair threatens to fall from it’s signature tied-back style, long tresses of silver already tickling your thighs and dancing on his forehead as he-
Aegon wears his hair loose.
Aegon has short hair.
Aegon has two eyes.
You’re frozen where you lay, spine running cold as the terror of reality takes over, yet legs burning hot as his tongue draws pretty patterns over your buzzing bud.
A million and one thoughts run through your head, most about how aegon will have both your heads on a spike, a few about how much the one-eyed prince is too intelligent of a mind to lose it over such an act of sin, and a single one about how you need him to hurry up and decide what he’s doing with his finger instead of merely stroking it over your lower lips.
“He’s passed out in my chambers,” like always, Aemond reads your mind as easily as he may read a book on the origins of the Dothraki people or the history of dragons. His head tilts to the side, resting against your thigh as he stares up at you, eye inviting you to kick him out your bed.
Your legs only move to rest upon his shoulders.
Aemond peppers your skin with several kisses and you cringe at the sticky residue they leave behind, unprepared to face the part of you that feels pride in catching the shine of your wetness along his lips and down his chin.
“I only meant to check you were resting soundly, my lady,” his words are whispered against your skin, lifting goosebumps where his lips brush against your inner thigh. he’s gentle, a trait you’ve always wondered how he earned growing up with a brother like Aegon to watch over him, and it near makes you want to cry, out of sadness for the marriage you have, and out of longing for more of this kind of affection. “But you were making noises, thrashing in your sleep, mumbling incoherences. I believed your dreams were troubling you, until you spoke my name in the sweetest voice and your back arched like a purring cat.”
The tension between you both grows stronger than ever the longer he holds your attention. It’s always been there, hiding beneath the surface like a siren awaiting a ship of sailors to lure into the trepid waters. With looks that lingered too long, and dances meant for a lord and his lady at public feasts, and hours spent seeking each others company, the tension went ignored and unaddressed, convincing you it would disappear with time.
Clearer than ever, it is, that this feeling is only bound to grow.
“Why...” You exhale a shaky breath, hand seeking out the comfort of touching him and finding rest on the scarred side of him, thumb smoothing over the rough tissue peeking out from beneath his eye-patch. Aemond sighs, eye closing as the muscles in his shoulders relax. “Why did he come to you?”
“He didn’t,” the finger between your thighs is a cruel replacement for the wonders his tongue had worked over you, brushing and rubbing and touching you in the same pattern yet it lacks. Nevertheless, your thighs clench around his neck and he nips over the skin once more with his teeth, painting a vision of bruises without your knowledge. “I found him lurking the halls, attempting to seduce a marbled carving of a nude woman. It seems his taste goes beyond only those who carry a heartbeat.”
And, still, he does not desire his own wife, you wish to say.
But then you wouldn’t want Aemond to misinterpret you, to believe you cared that much about Aegon and his indiscretions. Though the maids may whisper differently, you are not blind to the ways he touches the serving girls, nor the hours he makes his way down to the street of silk, eager to stick his weeping cock in the cheapest whore. You never speak on it because, why would you? So long as they keep him entertained, you’re free from him. But it is only human to want to be desired, even more so by a man who has his standards set for anyone who may take him, or even not take him.
It leaves you only to conclude that there is something amiss with you, something so repulsive about you that not even the new lord of Fleabottom himself wants you.
Aemond brings you out of your own head with the breeching of your hole.
At last he’s decided what to do with his hands, slipping his longest finger snug within your warmth. With Aegon, he treats your insides like a doormat, there for him to trample all over. Aemond is, as always, different than his brother, curling his finger against the spongy flesh and eliciting a wanton moan from you.
“Aemond!”
“I’ve always known my brother was a fool,” for the first time in your life, you’re saddened to feel the return of that empty feeling between your thighs, the prince retracting his finger and guiding it back to the bundle of nerves. He works over it in a figure of eights, slow enough to keep you burning yet not enough to let you be consumed in the flames. “His attitude is egregious, his behaviour even more so.”
You’ve always marvelled at Aemond’s potential to be so calm and, yet, so angered. You’ve watched him, more times than you’d care to admit, during family dinners and throne room gatherings. You’ve seen how his face remains so stoic, no emotion slipping through. But his voice. Oh, his voice, it always let’s the hatred, the anger and the loathing bleed through.
“Your words are treacherous,” the irony, to accuse this man as he douses you in pleasure, recounting tales of your sleeping husband. “Aegon is your future king.”
“And he is your husband,” a pointed look is sent your way and he furthers his point by returning the feel of his tongue to your skin, licking a strip right up the seem of your opening. Your hips cant into him, he blesses you with a kiss upon your pearl. “Even knowing his nature, i can not understand how blind he is to what he has. How he can sit in my chambers, drink my wine and speak ill of the wife he’s been gifted.”
He reenters you with his fingers, this time two, thrusting them into you at a slowed pace, each one punctuated with the bend of his knuckles and the mind-numbing feeling it brings over you.
Your mouth drops open, another gasp leaving you as Aemond takes possession over your body, lips enclosing over your pulsating ball of nerves.
“‘Tis I the one who lacks an eye, yet I see clearly what he can not,” the more impassioned he becomes, the faster his fingers empty and refill you. Like a harpist plays his instrument, the prince plucks the strings of your body and makes you sing. An uneasy feeling begins to take form in your loins, akin to the feeling you get when you’re in desperate need of relieving your bladder only it’s warmer, more urgent, stretching your limits till they threaten to snap. “That his wife is more rare than any gem in the seven kingdoms. If you’d been wedded to me, I’d never know the touch of another woman. Why would I need to, when a goddess with the prettiest cunt already warms my bed?”
“We never share a bed for me to warm,” you hate to confess such a thing out loud, it’s different to when the maids whisper about it each morning they wake you alone. And confessing it to Aemond, of all people, leaves you with tears stinging your eyes, pitiful and small under his watchful gaze. “He gives his seed and leaves when the deed is done.”
“Then he is a greater idiot than I ever imagined.”
He speaks no more, mouth returning to your burning skin and fingers fondling you deeper, harder, sweeter in their strokes. He welcomes the taste of you with open arms- and open mouth-, the resolve he’d feigned tossed aside with great abandon in exchange for the ecstasy that is the vision of you, face flushed, thighs tensed, nipples hardened beneath your night dress.
You squeeze tighter around his neck, rewarding him for his skilled tongue with cries of approval that shoot right down to his hardened cock. He barely registers the way his own hips have began to mimic yours, rutting into the sheets beneath him as he imagines you, completely nude and skin lit up with the light from his fireplace, a crying beauty as he splits your legs till they threaten to break under his thrusts, driving his cock deeper each time till his seed spills and makes home in your womb, soon to swell with a babe made of his silver hair and your dark eyes.
“Oh, gods, please!” You wonder what will send you to hell quicker: the scathing you cast upon your husband with his own brother or the way you let him gift you such sinful pleasure. Nothing will come of this act, no babe will be made, and so it is supposed to be all in vain that he touches you so intimately. Were you more strong willed, you’d tell him to stop. Were he not so caring, you’d kick him away. “Aemond I... please, something is... happening!”
He ignores your louder cries and the hand that takes hold of his precious targaryen locks, pulling at the roots. You’re certain a few rip from his skull, yet the man only grows more desperate in his touches.
“Shh, relax...” He breathes the words against you, eye refusing to close like he’s trying to burn the image of you into his mind, so he may remember you every time he wishes to. “It’s just your peak. Has Aegon rejected you so much? Has he taught you nothing about the pleasures in a marital bed?”
His questions are rhetoric, neither of you needing to verbalise the truth.
“I could teach you, my lady,” his offer leaves him before he has time to consider what he’s saying, thinking more with his cock than his brain. at last, a similarity with his brother dearest. “There’s so much I could teach you.”
The coil in your stomach snaps.
You lift off the bed like a woman crazed, vision gone white, mouth babbling noises unintelligible, ears ringing and hands pulling, grasping, holding anything they can find, one within the prince’s hair and the other being dragged into the warmth of his free hand.
Aemond shows no sign of stopping, loving on you deeper as you topple over the edge of pleasure. He pulls your closer, as if it’s possible, lifting the rump of your arse off the bed with your legs dangling over his shoulders, wearing your thighs like a set of ear-warmers.
The time between your wailing and the come down is unknown but, when you crash, he catches you, returning you to the safety of your mattress, hand still soaked in your slick as it soothes over your burning skin, littering your thigh with traces of your own pleasure and butterfly kisses from his soft lips.
Aemond pulls back with one last searing press of his mouth to your soaked folds, the fingers which had been in you slipping into his awaiting lips and coating his tastebuds in you, you, you.
A hollow feel takes over you and a shiver leaves you as the cold of the room meets your sweat covered skin. You ache to speak, to call his name and beg him into your arms. What comes next, you expect, is his turn to chase pleasure, to reenact his brother’s own explores with your body as you lay limp and accept it, like a good wife is meant to.
Only, you shamefully like the idea of aemond using you.
Unexpected, it is, when the prince stands himself up right, hand ignoring the glaring hardness within his breeches and, instead, focusing on tucking his rumpled tunic back into place. His eye avoids your own pair, like realisation has struck him with it’s lightning bolt and woken him up from his lustful haze.
Regret is bound to flood his soul.
Like his brother, he leaves you splayed out on the sheets, hair a mess and face tear-stained, though for completely differing reasons. His boot covered footsteps echo- one thud, two thud, three thud, four- and your startled by the crackling of wood. Light refills the room with a swift stroke, the embers burning once more in the fireplace and gracing you with the view of him, messy hair and all.
The prince parts ways with you, before he can give into the want to return to your bed and let himself be found there, consequences be damned, and turns only to face you once more as he reaches the door, hand turning white with the force of his grip.
"Sweet dreams, Lady Stark.”
The door does not slam behind his back.