(lmao im sorry this is massive but i felt inspired to set the day up)
The morning begins with an infectious thought. Pulling at him under the throes of a shallow sleep. Pieces of a dream pluck at his senses. The taste of skin, sweet but bitter. The soothing of fingernails raking through his hair, brushed with tenderness. Arms pulling him into some dark oblivion. A familiar scent not too cloying lingering under his nose. A voice utters his name, breathless and wanton. Pleading and impatient. Familiar.
Aemond jerks awake, thrashing once over in an empty bed. He turns, sheets twisting around his legs as his senses clamber back to him. Face hiding under the curl of his arm away from a beam of sunlight pointed directly at his face. Curtains drawn to greet him the day.
My prince, a voice speaks again. Exasperated. It is not the one from his dream.
He peels back his arm to see a maidservant waiting at the foot of his bed. The morning, it seems, has run away from him.
The infectious thought lingers as he presses on through his day. Quiet as he breaks fast among a table half full. Aegon never made it out of his room this early. Helaena picks at her food as she is mostly there out of expectation. His father, absent. These days he rarely made it out of his room to join the table for a meal. Aemond's head is kept down as his grandfather and mother prattle on about which to discuss at the days small council. It's barely noise over his head.
Aemond? The familiar voice.
He looks up to see his mother waiting his answer to something he'd not been paying attention to. The heat rises on his neck as he barely remembers agreeing to something. Something regarding Daeron and Oldtown. He'll find the context later, excusing himself from the table in a daze.
His time in his studies serve him no better, reading over the same lines over and over. Unable to digest their meaning. He finds the maester asleep upright in his chair. A blessing of sorts to leave him to his insubordination.
He thinks training might be the thing that clears his head. Reset him for the rest of the day. Even then his thoughts continued to swirl and spiral. Ser Criston notes his distance and uses it to his vantage. His sword lashes out harder, punishing. The tip of Cole's sword taps out each little vulnerability. One after the other after the other. A dead man walking. The only way to survive is to anticipate his opponent. Look into their eyes and feel their next move before it is even made. Focus on nothing else.
The last spar he finally wins. Chipping Criston's sword in the process and upending him into the mud. The young prince is satisfied, but it isn't enough. In the heat of the day, his head still swims.
The bright in his room has faded as the summer sun has passed overhead as the afternoon carries on. Open windows let in the glow and the warmth. He sheds his padded surcoat and linen undershirts along his walk into his bed chamber. The sweat clings to him and curling at the hair behind his ears and underneath his neck. He collapses haphazardly across his bed, one leg and boot hangs off one side. He draws his long silvery blond hair above him to cool, the ends of it reach so far as to spill over the edge of the bed. Breath still catching.
His eye closes, inescapable it feels that he thinks of it again. Haunting. Meddlesome. It calls to the ache between his legs, one he might have been afforded to tend to had he been given the time. His hands soon crawl to undo the pinnings of his trousers and pull himself loose. Recanting each of the fading details of this morning's dream. Piecing it back together and trying to let the details fill themselves in as he begins to stroke himself.
The ache is buried too deep to surface easily. He finds himself so hard it nearly hurts, demanding to be eased first with the slow and methodical workings of his hand. His head tips back gradually with his chin pointing to the heavens, allowing the senses to take him. The heated visions of green satin pooling around his hips, ringlets of auburn hair draping over his shoulders.
By the seven and all those who would see him for his sins now, she should not be the one entering his mind but he cannot seem to shake her from them. The feeling of a slow desperation begins to mount, fighting now a losing battle. As he finds himself consumed in a mounting thrush of pleasure that still does not want to climb fast enough. He does not hear an opening door.
( Unease from a restless and fitful slumber woke the queen hours before the first rays of light dared to spread across King's Landing β twisting and coiling, a knot settled within the depths of her stomach. In those hours, she reverently prays to the seven, and when Talya finally comes to get her mistress ready for the day, she finds her piously kneeling with her hands clasped together in desperation.
Pulled from her wandering thoughts and prayers, she readies for the day β dressed in shades of green while adorned in gold and jewels with her hair pulled away from her face, waves of auburn trailing down her back.
Good and faithful Talya attempts to console her mistress, asking why she hadn't called for her if she was awake, but Alicent gently dismisses the concern as she needs the time alone to think and prepare for the day.
Together they walk, first checking on her lord husband, the King, who is still in a deep slumber thanks to milk of the poppy, free of the unbearable pain and torment he endures without it. She lingers within his chambers, index finger gently grazing over her thumb, looking for a piece of flesh to pick at and tear as she worries the inside of her lip between her teeth.
The threat of tears pricks at her eyes as she watches the rise and fall of her husband's chest; he may not have been a great man, but he was a good man, and to see the man she loves in such a state eats away at her because she knows there is nothing she can do to alleviate the pain and bring him comfort.
Knowing that she has lingered too long, Alicent leaves the King's chambers to make her way to break fast with whatever members of her family wish to join her. It is no surprise that Aegon is missing and Helaena seems disinterested or distracted when Alicent attempts to initiate a conversation with her daughter. When she receives no response, she moves on to talk with her father as there is always a surplus of conversation with that man, especially regarding topics to discuss within the small council.
Warm brown eyes drift over the table as she listlessly pokes at her food, eventually settling on the downturned face of Aemond, who also seems lost in his thoughts after Helaena excused herself.
Perhaps it will be good for you to get away for a time, Otto comments to Alicent, noting the tired look on his daughter's face. Not long, of course, as she had her queenly duties, but there was nothing he, as the Hand of the King, couldn't handle in her stead.
It will be something to think on, she replies, gaze still fixated on her son, who hasn't bothered to lift his head or look at her throughout this meal. We could visit Oldtown. It has been long since we last saw Daeron.
Having Daeron visit King's Landing would be easier. The idea of getting away from the city and back to familiarly brought forth a longing she desperately tried to keep buried.
It may be difficult for the King to go in his state, the hand drones, though, if willing, the rest of the family could accompany you or Aemond at the very least.
She knows it would be challenging to ask Aemond to accompany her anywhere. Then there is Helaena with the children; while not impossible, it will be difficult and an annoyance to uproot them for an extended amount of time, so that leaves Aemond to accompany her if he is willing.
What are your thoughts, Aemond? Patiently, she waits for an answer, and when she doesn't receive one, she prods again. Aemond?
Finally, he looks at her and agrees before excusing himself. The whiplash and oddness of his behavior left her bewildered, grasping for any sense of what happened, as it wasn't like him to act in such a way. Worried she wants to chase after him, but there is still much to do today; she will check on him later as the flush on his neck leaves her wondering if he has come down with a fever.
The day lingers on β filled with a dress fitting, dealing with a mess Aegon made, and finally, the small council meeting where she sits at the head of the table to listen to the council members and the problem of the realm. Idly, the bites at her thumb, feel the give of the flesh beneath her teeth without tearing into the skin β though she desperately wants to, with her father looming over her shoulder, she resists the urge.
It is her turn to be distracted, her mind lingering on Aemond and earlier. She begs the seven that this adjourns soon and that she can check on her son.
Impatience grows within her. Soon, her hands find themselves beneath the table as she picks at her fingers, desperate to escape. Desperate to get to Aemond. Worry, a mother's worry continues to swell within her, threatening to burst forth until there is nothing more to discuss, and she is finally free.
In a whirlwind of green satin, she leaves the chambers hurrying to Aemond's room, her shoes echoing through the halls as she ignores several servants and even Ser Criston when they approach her.
She lingers outside his door after knocking, waiting for his answer; worrying continues to surge within her when it does not come. The maidservant swears she witnessed him enter his room, and with a wave of her hand, Alicent dismisses them all before entering. )
Aemond? ( She calls out into the room lit by the fading afternoon sun as she softly closes the door behind her, desperately scanning for him before stepping further into the room β spotting his shed clothing before settling on his form languidly lying across his bed. )
Aemond β ( her breath catches in her throat as a flush of heat washes over her. The scene before her wasn't new; countless times had she walked in on her sons pleasuring themselves ( mostly Aegon ), so it is always a surprise to see Aemond give in to such pleasures.
Alicent tries to look away, to give her son some privacy, but try as she might, her gaze continues to be transfixed on his hand's slow and methodical workings. He looks unearthly. Ethereal. His hair splayed like a halo around him, chest bare, still glistening with what sweat lingers from his training earlier and the heat of pleasure. When was the last time she witnessed anything or anyone so beautiful? So handsome?
It feels so sinful to watch him, but she can't stop herself. Nor could she stop herself from taking a few steps forward. She swallows hard, trying to push down the lump that has settled in her throat before moistening her lips with her tongue, nervously bringing her thumb to her mouth as she bites at the nail.
For the first time in years, she feels like a young maiden again, with her heart pounding within her chest and the heat radiating from her cheeks; she knows they are flushed as she continues to silently watch him pleasure himself. )
[ Everything feels like fire and it blinds him. With the pleasure too mounts a frustration, swirling in a miasma of thought. One that might try to push an image of his mother out of his mind and replace it with any of the ladies at court. Someone less damning. Any of those sweet simple minded girls that often try to draw his attention in passing. It doesn't work, if anything it seems to only set him back farther. This sort of thing never came too naturally for Aemond. He lacks his brother's appetite. When the urge often comes, it is more a simple release than a relish in fantasy.
Aemond. He hears her voice again like some phantom echo of a memory. Half drowned under the rustle of his sheets as he digs his heel into the bed to cant his hips further into his hand. Feeling both close enough and yet still too far. A mumbled curse groans out from underneath gentle panting. His chin lifts a moment to watch himself, stroking and molding long fingers along the head. Catching the slickness of precum between them.
Aemond stiffens as soon as his head curls back into the dampness of his hair, catching sight of emerald green out of the corner of his eye. A split second he thinks it maybe another twisted phantom lurking in his memory, but Alicent comes quickly into vision as his head whips towards her. Flushed and bathed in golden light. Expression something unreadable as he stares straight into it. Something in that sends a jolt down his spine, twinging somewhere deep.]
Mothβ[ he breathes, the word no more than a scraping that fades in the back of his throat. He doesn't know how long he holds her gaze there, the time feels slow and dragging. As if idle and without thought nor reason, his hand continues to brush along the length of himself. Livened at the twistedness that pulls deep in his gut at the sight of her. At the sight of her staring at him like this.
It's no more than a few dragging strokes before reason punches through the cloud of his mind. The young prince forces himself to roll away from her with a groan that may as well be a growl. Curling over himself both attempts for modesty and to quell himself. His sweaty forehead pushing into cool blankets. Face now flushing with shame. ]
Why are you here? [ His voice sounds ragged, frustrated, but mostly confused. Cobbling together some semblance of formal address as though she'd walked in on him doing literally anything else. Seven hells. How long had she been there watching him? ]
( Look away, she thinks as she tries to break the spell that keeps her gaze transfixed on his half-naked form, all you have to do is look away β yet she is unable, even when his gaze meets hers, catching her watching him in such a shameful state.
Scrutiny and disgust should twist her features, as it often does when she happens upon Aegon in a similar state or has to clean up after his messes, but none of that is there as her features remain soft, though flushed a deeper shade than before now that she has been caught, but there is something more β something that Alicent cannot even name as it is something she has ever felt before.
The dying word on his lips prompts her own to part as she releases her thumb from between her teeth, poised and ready to say something, but whatever it was dies just as the word he spoke did. All that remains is a shaken, breathy gasp that prompts her lips to seal the moment he continues to stroke himself instead of stopping. She continues to watch him, eyes scanning over the features of his face β a face that makes her heart ache and swell β before traveling down his body, down his chest, over his stomach, where she dares to watch the last strokes of his hand before reason pierces through the veil and they both pull away.
Turning away from him, her body facing the open window as she walks toward it, hands smoothing down the front of her dress before clasping her hands together, nails digging into her skin for clarity of mind and to ground her. )
This morning you seemed unwell, prompting me to worry after you abruptly left. ( Taking a deep breath, she tries to calm herself, but her heart still pounds within her chest β she can feel her pulse throbbing down her neck and the drum of her heart in her ears.
Foolishness, Alicent, she scolds herself before turning to face his bed, unsure if she is to meet his back or gaze. ) But it seems you were plagued by a different ailment than what had caused me worry.
[ A shadow moves, and Aemond's eye opens to find her turned away towards the open air. Granting him a slice of privacy. His eyes close again to rest the moment, the image of her is burned into the backs of his eyelids. How she'd been looking at him in a way he'd never looked at him before. Transfixed. Moments and thoughts knocking together as she tries to explain herself while he remains unmoved. The images of her meld back into fragments of a dream.
She'd noticed him as they broke fast, of course she had. There'd never been a moment their entire lives that she did not fret over him and his siblings. If not the threat of a contested succession, it's literally anything else. Poison, plague, assassins, kidnappings. They'd all suffered her paranoia for years, only ever mounting since that night on Driftmark when he'd lost his eye.
He should have noticed it this morning when she spoke to him. It was in her eyes then. He should have said something better to avail her worry. Before the thought took seed and festered in her. She'd have listened to him, she usually does. If he hadn't gotten in his own way, if only.
The painful ache still in his one hand as he gently fixes himself back into his breeches. He feels a heavy heat on his back, head swimming. If he'd seemed unwell before, it could only look worse now that he has been made to abandon his mounting pleasure. Blood left from boil to simmer. By the time she turns back around he is pulling himself upright. Trying to briefly recall hearing her knock. Maybe he'd just been hoping it was his maidservant who would know well enough to just have gone away. ]
I wasn't in here dying of a summer fever, [ he lashes, the exasperation present in his voice. Looking her in the eye still half hunched onto the weight of one arm, the other draped across his lap. Hair a mess as he forces a breath through his nose. As if he can will himself into a quick composure. But she does not look at him in scrutiny. He has done nothing wrong. Had she been looking in admiration?
The regret is immediate. He looks down again as if suddenly remembering that he is her son. That she is owed her worries. A beat passing as he wipes at the sweat collected above his lip.] I'm sorry I had worried you.
( The harshness clinging to his voice causes her to flinch, her eyes squeezing closed as she braces herself for the impact of his words. It is a brief and fleeting movement, easily missed in the blink of an eye as she quickly recomposes herself β remembering that he isn't his brother and it is rare for him to lash out at her in such a way.
A weakness brought by the heat of the moment as his head and senses still clouded, making his judgment poor.
He may not have been dying of a summer fever, but other ailments and dangers could easily take him from her. They may have suffered from her increasing paranoia over the years, but none of it was unfounded or outlandish in her mind. Dangers were lurking everywhere, waiting for the chance to strike, and she would be ready. )
At times, I know that my worrying and affection can be β smothering, but it is out of my love for you that I worry so, Aemond.
( There is hesitance in her step as she closes the distance between them, gently gathering her skirts to sit beside him on the bed.
With a gentle hand, she reaches out, the tips of her fingers gliding over his cheek, just below his scar, before smoothing out his hair as she looks upon his face β a warmth in her eyes and a gentle smile on her lips, though her cheeks still as she begins to sober. )
I will always worry, it is the way of things, but you did nothing to apologize for. I am the one who should be apologizing to you and asking for forgiveness.
[ It's only a simple touch, his mother's touch. Something in his eye flickers upon the gentleness of it. Unsure of whether he'd rather more lean into it or lean away. Only missing it once it's moved on to smooth and soothe through his hair. Aemond's eye closes a moment before relaxing to focus on the spilling of her satin dress between them.
They'd been closer before. When he was much more little and willing to curl into her lap when he was still allowed to feel sorry for himself. It all stopped the nights after he lost an eye and gained a dragon. When he needed to be as strong for her as she had shown she would be for him. In the years since, he doesn't know how long it's been since anyone touched him with a gentleness.
Aemond looks up at her, blue eye darting between hers. Her kind smile. The way her lips part as she speaks. She is close enough to smell the sweet scented oils combed through her hair. He wants to spill into it.
The shame returns, and so does image of her standing there. And so does the ache in his own lap remind him. She did not look away. Looking back at it now, he can't see it in himself to mind.]
You must think of me depraved.
[ Instead of accepting her apology or granting her forgiveness, this is what he can only think to say. A gentle, curious pressing. He would not speak of any of it outright, to call upon her own depravity for watching him. To question her how long she'd stood there. ]
( Idly, her fingers continue smoothing through his hair β a repetitive motion that brings her comfort and brief distraction from the mounting tension between them as his statement nearly brings her to pause.
Catching a few rogue strands between her fingers, Alicent gently tucks them behind his ear. The backs of her knuckles glide over and down his neck as her fingers move along the length of his hair, gently twirling and wrapping the ends around them before releasing. )
Depraved? Never. ( Her voice softer, lighter β a secret just between them β as she canted her head toward him, her eyes shifted to look up at him.
Even if she thought him depraved, admitting such a thing would admit to her own depravity for watching him as well. How long had she watched him? Only the seven knew how long she stood there transfixed and admiring the sight of him.
That in itself was a sin β a sin settling heavily within her, creating weight in her stomach, twisting and coiling in places it shouldn't. The same sin she had thrown into the face of her friend all those years ago, saying that the Targaryen's had queer customs, and yet her eldest son and only daughter married despite it all. )
You are my brave, strong boy turned into a handsome man. It is natural to be consumed by such compulsions, and the desire to quell them is strong.
[ Every touch is light and grazing. He wants to reach up and snatch her hands as they continue to soothe and fret. Instead his fingers curl into themselves as he continues to watch her, head turning which way as she sets his hair and lets it go.
It is not what he meant, and perhaps it is better that way that is the taking she has to his words. It's not the first time she has caught him or even Aegon. He can recall those moments of her voice echoing down the hall as she lashed out in disdain. What had he been doing to evoke that. When he had held her gaze while pleasuring himself and now she sits and twirls his hair. Tells him it's okay. When he knows it could be condemned. The only answer would be is she does not want to condemn him, or perhaps she doesn't want to condemn herself. ]
Temptation is what tests the spirit, isn't that what our faith teaches us? [ He wonders without looking up from from her lips. Gaze dropping into the space between them where the tips of his fingers shift along the cool fabric of her skirts that lay flush against his leg.
The way he speaks of it is depreciative, gentle edges of cynicism. Having been raised in the faith and made to behave under it, but it did not control him entirely in the way it might control her. It is not the faith that truly guides him, it's the consequences brought by those who believe in it.
He looks up at her again, fingers still idling. His sin is not divulging into pleasure, it is thinking of her as he does it.] Is it so wrong to give in to temptation if it hurts no one?
( To condemn him would, in turn, be condemning herself as well β bringing light to the fact that she was watching with an expression ill-fitting of a mother stumbling in upon her son committing such an act. If she does not speak of it, if they do not speak of it, then it can be easily swept under the rug and bury it like many unspeakable things that happen within this family.
Quietly she listens, nodding to his musings while aware of his heavy gaze on her lips and the idling fingers against the fabric against his legs that cause her skirts to shift against her own. She swallows hard before pulling her lips between her teeth, chewing on her bottom lip in thought before releasing them when her lips part to answer him. )
It is a test of the spirit, making us stronger within ourselves so that no one can use temptation against us.
( There was a time when she was completely and utterly devoted to her faith. She was young and naive, believing nothing could shatter that solid foundation, but as time went on, her faith was tested repeatedly. While still a devout and firm believer, she isn't as immaculate or pure as she desperately tries to appear.
With the atrocities she has committed, especially within this room today, she realizes how far she has fallen when she doesn't tell him that any temptation is wrong as she would have at a different point in her life. )
How would you be certain that no one would be hurt? If anyone, especially those desperate to see us fall, caught wind of giving in to temptation, they could use it against us.
[ The air begins to feel cool on his neck, Aemond remains still where he's sat apart from his anxiously idling fingers. The hem of her dress. Looking at her a quiet beat as if to ask Who? Who is there to witness this moment but the two of them? Who else but the seven themselves may be there to use it against them?
She shifts and squirms but does not retreat. Every part of him wants to say something but this is not something to be spoken. Left to pick apart what she might truly feel between the words like some petty table political game. One so convoluted it'd be better shared at the council table than in his bed.]
Tis a fallacy, is it not? [ He wonders. It is her paranoia speaking again. For the sins she has committed against her own enemies, perhaps, would equally fear them lashing back on her own. And if he'd be correct in her knowing, how hypocritical it would be.
Aemond looks down at his meandering hand. In similar kind, worrying at his bottom lip before he speaks.]
For one would have to see it or hear it to speak of it. [ He speaks again as his fingers slip further under the folds of satin. Their actions hidden. From them, from the gods, from their enemies.
The fabric is cool as it brushes the tops of his knuckles, but the warmth of her skin draws at the tips of his fingers meet along the thin stocking of her leg.] And even then must we blame ourselves for their depravity? For taking the Father's judgement on themselves?
( Though it is the two of them alone in his chambers, Alicent knows the walls have a way of talking. Of people figuring out and learning things they shouldn't. Her paranoia, as annoying and bothersome as it might be, is not unfounded or without cause β she has spent many years within these walls to know not everything that should be kept a secret remains that way. )
We mustn't β ( she breathes a sharp inhale upon feeling the tips of his fingers against her leg. Without hesitation, she grabs ahold of him, fingers and fabric encircling his wrist, but she doesn't remove his hand beneath her skirt.
Instead, she looks up at him, eyes wide and pleading, hand around his wrist trembling with excitement and fear, causing her chest to rise and fall faster with her quickened breath.
When was the last touched in such a manner? Long before her lord husband, the king, fell further into sickness and even then, moments of intimacy that often lacked the warmth she desired and fulfillment of her own pleasure.
This is the first time she has ever allowed herself to be touched by another. She should be repulsed by herself and their actions, but she doesn't stop him; instead, she guides his hand higher β an inch, maybe two before stopping again.
Clearing her throat, she tries again, voice quaking more than she wishes it would as she releases his wrist, her fingers sliding up the length of his forearm. )
You are right β we mustn't blame ourselves for their depravity, and their judgment will come to them. What we must do is remain vigilant; if anyone were to find out β if anything were to happen to you as a result β
( she trails off as she continues to look upon his face, her cheeks flushed once more as the hand on his arm raises to cup his cheek once more, thumb brushing just under his bottom lip.
Turning slightly to face him, her other hand coming to rest upon his thigh. )
[ Aemond's hand stills entirely when she takes it. His expression is barely jostled by the volatile reaction. Not wanting to push any further than he's allowed. Expecting her to jump as she does, but is surprised to find that she doesn't remove his hand. Instead it moves up further, fingertips dragging along before it's released once again.
He's expecting to be scolded now for barely being bold, only it doesn't come. His eye wanders down to her hand as it travels up his arm. Listening to the way she tries to force the steadiness in each of her words. Each of them seemingly complicit in their conversation as it lists more easily towards the one that lies underneath. Pried open by his boldness.
It's the hand on his thigh that causes his chest to rise with a heavier breath. The warm, comforting press of her palm sends a jolt to travel through. So close, and yet. He's not close enough. ]
Do not worry for me, mother. [ Aemond reassures, his voice quiet as his chin tips forward to lean into her touch now. Now beginning to digest the idea that she is complicit or accepting or simply that he cannot help himself any longer. She does not seem to stop him.] I won't let you come to ruin.[ His lips tipping just to graze along her thumb as he speaks. He continues to lean forward just enough for his hand to slide over the curve of her calf. Behind the bend in her knee to trace along the inner side of her thigh. The warmth under her skirts mounting the farther he goes.
It is not dismissive, he means what he says. If this is what she would want, would allow, he would do everything in his power to protect it. To protect her. To protect their family from whatever transgressions may come by him or otherwise.]
( The voice ever present in her mind β the one that brings forth the intrusive thoughts that lead her to spiral into paranoid and frantic episodes β tells her that she should stop this madness before it begins. They should stop before they cross the threshold they can never return from.
Sitting there beside him, feeling his fingers travel higher up her leg, her stomach twists and turns in knots as fog settles over her mind, making it harder to grasp onto reason. Harder to will herself to stop this sin they are about to commit.
The words that escape his lips are reassuring and bring her some comfort as she tries to tread carefully upon this path she's never gone down before. To give into desire, the sinful temptation that already has her craving more of his touch. Her hand on his thigh shifts higher, splaying almost teasing as her fingers press into the flesh of his thigh.
Her thumb drags along his lips, her finger curling around the angle of his jaw to tilt his head to make him look at her. )
I know you wouldn't; you've always been so good to me, but are you sure this is what you want? We should stop before it is too late.
( While her words give them an out, to stop this before it goes too far, the way she touches him and looks at him with her brows knit together and lips parted says the opposite, that she might want this just as much as he does. )
[ Despite his blood, this is something else. Something darker than what is excused in the long line of Valyrian tradition. She is not one of them, she is also his mother. But he has also been her confidant, her defender. The one who still sees her when no one else is looking. He knows her sacrifices in that she never takes what she wants.
He knows the look in her eye when she sees something she wants and yet takes no action. To see her suffer in silence, and he has witnessed her suffer so much from all those around her. In the way she speaks to him now strikes similar in those times before. Where she speaks as what is expected of her, and yet her face speaks differently. The hand at his leg speaks differently.
Aemond's breath rattles as she tips his chin upright, looking at her in a way that shows he is spiraling. The press of her fingertips feel hot and jolting. He shifts almost to try and trick her hand closer. To ease his ache. His body tenses, the hand still poised into the blankets grip them tightly as if it is the one hinge left that keeps him from plunging into her. ]
It is too late. The thoughts of you have already spoiled my mind. [ his confession is soft, only meant for the space between them. Sheltered by the grazing of her thumb. Confessing his sins does not come without exposing hers. ] And you came to me in a moment where I try to relieve myself of them and yet did not turn away. They spoil you as well.
[ His hand does not travel further, the curve of her thigh braced between the web of his thumb and forefinger. Grazing and warm, her skin is absolutely soft. ] Perhaps if we purge ourselves of them, they will set us free.
( Sitting beside Aemond with his hand upon her bare thigh, Alicent wonders what has possessed them to act in such a way. To give in to something viewed as an unforgivable sin to the rest of the realm, those who worship the Old Gods and the New, and yet viewed as a tradition with those who have bloodlines connected to Old Valyria. With this tradition β this need β burned into his blood and bones, it is to be expected of him, and yet she does not have such an excuse to allow such dark and twisted desires to consume her.
How long has his mind been spoiled and tainted by thoughts of her? To know that he has allowed such impure thoughts and desires to fester within him should repulse her, much like the thought of these queer customs one had, and yet she cannot find it within herself, and it would be hypocritical as she betrothed two of her children together.
It leaves her to wonder why she has allowed this to happen, to yield instead of condemning him β and also condemning herself β for his boldness and the dark, impure thoughts of her β his mother. For allowing them to fester to the point of needing to relieve himself. Yet, she stumbled upon him and did not turn away; instead, she watched with admiration and the kindling of a desire that should not exist. How long has she harbored such feelings and desires? How long has she buried them deep within herself, hoping they would never resurface?
What is expected of him through a long line of tradition is not the same for her β to harbor such dark desires for her son of all people is unforgivable. For the first time, Alicent finds herself willing to fall to sin with him upon hearing his reverent confession spoken softly against her thumb. )
What if we give in and instead of purging ourselves, it only stokes the fires to burn hotter and brighter β what then?
( Feeling his body shift, desperate for her touch, Alicent allows her fingers to inch further up his thigh, her index finger pressed into the crook of his thigh as she leans closer, thumb dragging off his lips to hold his chin between it and her index finger while the other fingers remained curled around his jaw. )
Are these fleeting urges of a young man, and in time will you come to regret your actions and resent me? ( Closing the distance between their lips, she brushes hers against his as her eyes flutter closed. Her trembling breath dances across his lips as she utters, ) Promise me, Aemond. Promise me that you will not regret this.
[ What then?β He doesn't know and in this moment he doesn't really care. Lust clouds his mind longer than this conversation has lived. The thoughts of her have haunted him since daybreak. How long before then did these feelings exist?
He only knows that she is often the only one that makes him feel seen, safe, wanted. Is it such a sin to want to return that in kind to her? To give everything to her in all the ways he has seen people fail her, seen his father fail her. So many fragments of curiosity whip through his mind in wonder of those parts of her life she does not share with him. How long it has been since she has felt pleasure. If that is something he can provide her as well. Is it still lewd if he is only trying to make her happy?
The weight of him sinks into her hand, beholden to the way she's cupped his jaw. The tease of her fingers slip further, he feels weak enough to almost beg for this. To say anything that might please her to convince her of it. Even though she is already giving herself to him, at the very least a threat to. The guilt in her voice is unbearable, but he doesn't know what he might say to convince her of his want. He is a man grown, she has not forced his hand.
A noise breaks in Aemond's throat, swallowing her breaths as the softness of her lips brush his. One eye fluttering shut, bathed in the warmth of her presence. Moving ever so slightly just to graze and reach a bit further to feel the brush of her. As much as he's allowed.]
I promise, [ his utterance is barely more than a breath. Though it sounds more like a complacent agreement than any true promise of anything. The hand at her thigh curls to the underside and slides back down to pull closer as he in turn moves closer to her. His head tilts to chase her mouth with a breaking patience. If she'll let him.]
( Though complacent agreement instead of the full promise she desires, his words are enough to quell the unease in her stomach and mind as she feels their vibration against her lips. The sensation sends a shiver bolting down her spine and elicits a small whimper through her nose as she presses her lips against his. Her hand shifts from holding his chin to cradling the back of his head, the long threads of his hair entangled between the webbing of her fingers as they splay for better support.
With anxiety and fear beginning to dissipate at his words, no longer a weight within the depths of her stomach, something else begins to take their place β the fires of desire and want, now beginning to burn within her core as he stokes them back to life.
As he grasps at her, fingers sinking into the back of her thigh as he pulls himself closer to her, she wonders when the last time she felt truly desired and wanted was. It feels like a lifetime ago, as she can barely remember it. Even then, those memories cannot hold a candle to the promise of what is to come she feels pouring from him.
The teasing fingers on his leg reward him with their full touch, shifting to shape to the curve of his breeches, pressing and palming against his hardness while her lips move hungrily against his β her tongue daring to steal a taste of him. )
[ When they meet, it feels almost a crush more than a kiss. Aemond inhales sharply through his nose as he pushes forward into her as much as she gives him. Yielding into pull of her hand guided at the back of his head.
In in itself alone feels like a long years wait of release. Of something buried long and deep wrenching out from between his ribs. The kiss alone pales to any other he's been granted, like nothing he'd experienced in the pillow houses he'd been dragged to in years prior. Her want is pure and unfiltered and he finds himself eager to drink it all up.
He feels the deftness of her hand pressing against his hardness and his moan is swallowed up by the reach of her tongue. He twists and pushes himself to seek her mouth with a new roughness, tipping his weight onto a leg to beg himself eagerly into her hand.
She leaves him clambering, uncertain precisely whether he wants her to be on top of him or he her. Only that there needs to be less space, in that he needs every bit of her to envelop him. With him practically already able to feel the deep thrum of her fluttering heartbeat. The hand at her thigh shifts and reaches for her outer leg, leaning himself forward to pull at her. His other hand pushes off the bed to gather her at the shoulder and roll her onto him. ]
( The distance between them is maddening, creating a hollow ache within her, and just as she's about to remedy this, he gathers her into his arms and pulls her onto him.
His actions surprise her, causing a burst of nervousness and excitement to slip from her in the form of a soft, breathy laugh as their kiss breaks and her forehead presses against his. With reluctance, Alicent releases him, freed hands gathering up the surplus of fabric from her skirts so she can settle on his lap before letting the sea of satin pooling around them.
Leaning forward, her knees squeezing against his hips, Alicent presses a trembling hand between them. Warm and flat against his chest, the tips of her fingers trace out every hill and valley of lithe muscle as her hand inches downward. Over his stomach and pausing when her fingers meet the tops of his breeches β gently teasing the gap between them and his skin without venturing further. )
Let me hear how much you want this, ( she murmurs as she presses her cheek against his, lips close to his ear where he can feel her excited breathing slipping through her parted lips while her other hand threads through his hair once more. Tightening around the pale, blond strands, she tips his head back to look down at him. )
[ Through a burst of command at the pulling of his fingers recoils as she settles on top of him. Her laugh brings a light curl to his lips that tells him what he did was okay, it was not unwelcome. His hands retreat from her as she settles, slipping both of them alongside her thighs before they are swallowed by the weight of her dress over them. Hot skin under his palms with the coolness of the fabric rested over top of them.
The weight of his head follows hers, the rhythms of their breaths crashing and overlapping. As her hand travels lower, his own hands turn over the tops of her thighs. His thumbs traveling back up along her inner thigh. A breath sucks in as she grips his hair. Unwittingly, he pulls himself towards it, sloped chin rising even higher. ]
I want you, mother. [ He corrects. May the seven help him, does it make him harder to call her that with her like this. Looking down at him all manner where she should be anything but. His grip along her thighs tighten, as if he may pull her down deeper into the seat of his lap. ] I will take any part of you that you'll give me.
[ He pulls forward in slight, almost as if he is trying to chase her mouth, only to find that he cannot. Breath rattling in some quiet amusement at that. One hand parts from its mirroring grip to delve between her legs. Where her hand teases to touch, he does not. Finding her slick and warm under the drag of two fingertips. ] Your touch, your taste, your pleasure. [ He adds one with every gentle coaxing. Blue eye eagerly trying to drink up what she might give him in return for it.] I want to hear you speak my name like a prayer.
( As the second son to the King of the Seven Kingdoms, Aemond could have any woman within the realm that he desires as his wife or paramour, so why β why does he want and desire her so?
To hear him correct her and reaffirm his want for her β his mother β and not just the pleasures and release she can give brings everything around her to a standstill as she looks down at him. She has always been thankful that he doesn't share the same carnal appetites as his brother, and on occasion, she wondered what made her son tick. Never would she have imagined they were carnal in a darker way that goes beyond what is tradition for his ancestral Targaryen blood.
If she had known sooner, would she have acted differently? Perhaps she could have sent him away to Oldtown instead of Daeron to serve as a cupbearer and squire for her cousin or matched him with one of the simple-minded young women of the court or a Northern house to help strengthen their ties.
No, she wouldn't have wanted things to change, even if she had down. It would have been a shock, nothing that she would have acted on, but she knows without him, her life within the walls of the Red Keep would have been unbearable. For so long, it feels as though he has been the only one to see her and the strife she ensures. He always makes an effort to do whatever is within his power to make her happy, which is what this is β another way for him to bring her happiness. To show her that she's wanted, needed, and loved in a way that no one else can; something that can only be shared between them.
The warmth of his hands feels like fire atop the skin, thumbs grazing over the inner part of her thighs, causing her to suck in a sharp breath, and the mask she tries to wear almost breaks as she looks down at him still β straightening her back to move her face further away from him, even though he cannot reach her with her fingers right around his hair to keep him anchored.
It all comes tumbling down when his hand leaves her thigh, and his fingers drag against her. Alicent hisses, ) Aemond.
( While it might not be a prayer, it is enough to hear and see his mother fracturing before him β the poised, polished, pious woman of faith no longer there, and all that is left is a woman who has needed someone to want and need her for so long. She whimpers as his fingers sink into her warmth, one after the other. Her grip tightens on her hair as her hips roll forward, desperate for more of his touch. )
I cannot remember the last time anyone made me feel this way, ( she admits, and by anyone, she means his father, as she has been a faithful and dutiful wife up until now.
No longer wanting to tease him, the fingers on his stomach lift, moving down to pluck at the fastenings of his breeches and pulling his waistband to the side to open them wider. Her hand finds his stomach again, but she does not hesitate this time. Deft fingers wrapped around the girth of him, stroking upward to free him before sliding her fingers back down to the base of the shaft. )
[ It is dark and depraved. May the shame take him later when his skin is cold and they have parted. For now, it is simple to give into the heat of it. This one thing for himself. May she change her mind come morning and never look at him the same. Marry him off to the weakest allied house they held in the Seven Kingdoms to fulfil his duties as her son. He would not blame her, but now he knows in the ways he might miss her if she did.
Hearing his name on her lips, the way she eagerly grinds down against his hand. As much as it is sinful she is beautiful when she does it. It feels gifted when she admits to him how its made her feel. Therein lies a deeper knowledge that her bed had been cold and neglectful. Another soured notion for abandonment that should neither disappoint or surprise him.
For as much as he has given her, it too grants him some worthiness he'd felt lacking. Rolling with the eager motion of her body down to the tight grip in his hair draws a sharp breath through his teeth. Lips curling into a small smile, bridled with pride.
A smile that bristles as her hand closes around him, releasing him from the tightness plaguing his breeches. Aemond bites down on his own lip as his chin tips down. The weight of her shifting around in his lap as he steadies his other hand along her thigh to keep her anchored. Resisting the urge to buck up into her hand. As her fingers lift up the length of him, she almost feels as though she's lifting away out of his reach. A dry noise dies in the back of his throat as he tips his chin up towards her again.]
You deserve to feel this way. [ He utters quiet and slow, wetting his lips as he grapples his breath. Cupping his hand underneath her to grind his palm upward. Fingers coaxing. Only vaguely able to recall the tenants of what brings a woman pleasure. He relies mostly on the cant of her hips and where the nerves flare up to the flutter in her eyes when he hits it just right.
His mouth is dry and wanting. And while there is something frustratingly enrapturing about the way she keeps him just out of reach. He can't help but ask this time.] Please.
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β π’π§π¬π©π’π«πππ’π¨π§.
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The morning begins with an infectious thought. Pulling at him under the throes of a shallow sleep. Pieces of a dream pluck at his senses. The taste of skin, sweet but bitter. The soothing of fingernails raking through his hair, brushed with tenderness. Arms pulling him into some dark oblivion. A familiar scent not too cloying lingering under his nose. A voice utters his name, breathless and wanton. Pleading and impatient. Familiar.
Aemond jerks awake, thrashing once over in an empty bed. He turns, sheets twisting around his legs as his senses clamber back to him. Face hiding under the curl of his arm away from a beam of sunlight pointed directly at his face. Curtains drawn to greet him the day.
My prince, a voice speaks again. Exasperated. It is not the one from his dream.
He peels back his arm to see a maidservant waiting at the foot of his bed. The morning, it seems, has run away from him.
The infectious thought lingers as he presses on through his day. Quiet as he breaks fast among a table half full. Aegon never made it out of his room this early. Helaena picks at her food as she is mostly there out of expectation. His father, absent. These days he rarely made it out of his room to join the table for a meal. Aemond's head is kept down as his grandfather and mother prattle on about which to discuss at the days small council. It's barely noise over his head.
Aemond? The familiar voice.
He looks up to see his mother waiting his answer to something he'd not been paying attention to. The heat rises on his neck as he barely remembers agreeing to something. Something regarding Daeron and Oldtown. He'll find the context later, excusing himself from the table in a daze.
His time in his studies serve him no better, reading over the same lines over and over. Unable to digest their meaning. He finds the maester asleep upright in his chair. A blessing of sorts to leave him to his insubordination.
He thinks training might be the thing that clears his head. Reset him for the rest of the day. Even then his thoughts continued to swirl and spiral. Ser Criston notes his distance and uses it to his vantage. His sword lashes out harder, punishing. The tip of Cole's sword taps out each little vulnerability. One after the other after the other. A dead man walking. The only way to survive is to anticipate his opponent. Look into their eyes and feel their next move before it is even made. Focus on nothing else.
The last spar he finally wins. Chipping Criston's sword in the process and upending him into the mud. The young prince is satisfied, but it isn't enough. In the heat of the day, his head still swims.
The bright in his room has faded as the summer sun has passed overhead as the afternoon carries on. Open windows let in the glow and the warmth. He sheds his padded surcoat and linen undershirts along his walk into his bed chamber. The sweat clings to him and curling at the hair behind his ears and underneath his neck. He collapses haphazardly across his bed, one leg and boot hangs off one side. He draws his long silvery blond hair above him to cool, the ends of it reach so far as to spill over the edge of the bed. Breath still catching.
His eye closes, inescapable it feels that he thinks of it again. Haunting. Meddlesome. It calls to the ache between his legs, one he might have been afforded to tend to had he been given the time. His hands soon crawl to undo the pinnings of his trousers and pull himself loose. Recanting each of the fading details of this morning's dream. Piecing it back together and trying to let the details fill themselves in as he begins to stroke himself.
The ache is buried too deep to surface easily. He finds himself so hard it nearly hurts, demanding to be eased first with the slow and methodical workings of his hand. His head tips back gradually with his chin pointing to the heavens, allowing the senses to take him. The heated visions of green satin pooling around his hips, ringlets of auburn hair draping over his shoulders.
By the seven and all those who would see him for his sins now, she should not be the one entering his mind but he cannot seem to shake her from them. The feeling of a slow desperation begins to mount, fighting now a losing battle. As he finds himself consumed in a mounting thrush of pleasure that still does not want to climb fast enough. He does not hear an opening door.
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Pulled from her wandering thoughts and prayers, she readies for the day β dressed in shades of green while adorned in gold and jewels with her hair pulled away from her face, waves of auburn trailing down her back.
Good and faithful Talya attempts to console her mistress, asking why she hadn't called for her if she was awake, but Alicent gently dismisses the concern as she needs the time alone to think and prepare for the day.
Together they walk, first checking on her lord husband, the King, who is still in a deep slumber thanks to milk of the poppy, free of the unbearable pain and torment he endures without it. She lingers within his chambers, index finger gently grazing over her thumb, looking for a piece of flesh to pick at and tear as she worries the inside of her lip between her teeth.
The threat of tears pricks at her eyes as she watches the rise and fall of her husband's chest; he may not have been a great man, but he was a good man, and to see the man she loves in such a state eats away at her because she knows there is nothing she can do to alleviate the pain and bring him comfort.
Knowing that she has lingered too long, Alicent leaves the King's chambers to make her way to break fast with whatever members of her family wish to join her. It is no surprise that Aegon is missing and Helaena seems disinterested or distracted when Alicent attempts to initiate a conversation with her daughter. When she receives no response, she moves on to talk with her father as there is always a surplus of conversation with that man, especially regarding topics to discuss within the small council.
Warm brown eyes drift over the table as she listlessly pokes at her food, eventually settling on the downturned face of Aemond, who also seems lost in his thoughts after Helaena excused herself.
Perhaps it will be good for you to get away for a time, Otto comments to Alicent, noting the tired look on his daughter's face. Not long, of course, as she had her queenly duties, but there was nothing he, as the Hand of the King, couldn't handle in her stead.
It will be something to think on, she replies, gaze still fixated on her son, who hasn't bothered to lift his head or look at her throughout this meal. We could visit Oldtown. It has been long since we last saw Daeron.
Having Daeron visit King's Landing would be easier. The idea of getting away from the city and back to familiarly brought forth a longing she desperately tried to keep buried.
It may be difficult for the King to go in his state, the hand drones, though, if willing, the rest of the family could accompany you or Aemond at the very least.
She knows it would be challenging to ask Aemond to accompany her anywhere. Then there is Helaena with the children; while not impossible, it will be difficult and an annoyance to uproot them for an extended amount of time, so that leaves Aemond to accompany her if he is willing.
What are your thoughts, Aemond? Patiently, she waits for an answer, and when she doesn't receive one, she prods again. Aemond?
Finally, he looks at her and agrees before excusing himself. The whiplash and oddness of his behavior left her bewildered, grasping for any sense of what happened, as it wasn't like him to act in such a way. Worried she wants to chase after him, but there is still much to do today; she will check on him later as the flush on his neck leaves her wondering if he has come down with a fever.
The day lingers on β filled with a dress fitting, dealing with a mess Aegon made, and finally, the small council meeting where she sits at the head of the table to listen to the council members and the problem of the realm. Idly, the bites at her thumb, feel the give of the flesh beneath her teeth without tearing into the skin β though she desperately wants to, with her father looming over her shoulder, she resists the urge.
It is her turn to be distracted, her mind lingering on Aemond and earlier. She begs the seven that this adjourns soon and that she can check on her son.
Impatience grows within her. Soon, her hands find themselves beneath the table as she picks at her fingers, desperate to escape. Desperate to get to Aemond. Worry, a mother's worry continues to swell within her, threatening to burst forth until there is nothing more to discuss, and she is finally free.
In a whirlwind of green satin, she leaves the chambers hurrying to Aemond's room, her shoes echoing through the halls as she ignores several servants and even Ser Criston when they approach her.
She lingers outside his door after knocking, waiting for his answer; worrying continues to surge within her when it does not come. The maidservant swears she witnessed him enter his room, and with a wave of her hand, Alicent dismisses them all before entering. )
Aemond? ( She calls out into the room lit by the fading afternoon sun as she softly closes the door behind her, desperately scanning for him before stepping further into the room β spotting his shed clothing before settling on his form languidly lying across his bed. )
Aemond β ( her breath catches in her throat as a flush of heat washes over her. The scene before her wasn't new; countless times had she walked in on her sons pleasuring themselves ( mostly Aegon ), so it is always a surprise to see Aemond give in to such pleasures.
Alicent tries to look away, to give her son some privacy, but try as she might, her gaze continues to be transfixed on his hand's slow and methodical workings. He looks unearthly. Ethereal. His hair splayed like a halo around him, chest bare, still glistening with what sweat lingers from his training earlier and the heat of pleasure. When was the last time she witnessed anything or anyone so beautiful? So handsome?
It feels so sinful to watch him, but she can't stop herself. Nor could she stop herself from taking a few steps forward. She swallows hard, trying to push down the lump that has settled in her throat before moistening her lips with her tongue, nervously bringing her thumb to her mouth as she bites at the nail.
For the first time in years, she feels like a young maiden again, with her heart pounding within her chest and the heat radiating from her cheeks; she knows they are flushed as she continues to silently watch him pleasure himself. )
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Aemond. He hears her voice again like some phantom echo of a memory. Half drowned under the rustle of his sheets as he digs his heel into the bed to cant his hips further into his hand. Feeling both close enough and yet still too far. A mumbled curse groans out from underneath gentle panting. His chin lifts a moment to watch himself, stroking and molding long fingers along the head. Catching the slickness of precum between them.
Aemond stiffens as soon as his head curls back into the dampness of his hair, catching sight of emerald green out of the corner of his eye. A split second he thinks it maybe another twisted phantom lurking in his memory, but Alicent comes quickly into vision as his head whips towards her. Flushed and bathed in golden light. Expression something unreadable as he stares straight into it. Something in that sends a jolt down his spine, twinging somewhere deep.]
Mothβ[ he breathes, the word no more than a scraping that fades in the back of his throat. He doesn't know how long he holds her gaze there, the time feels slow and dragging. As if idle and without thought nor reason, his hand continues to brush along the length of himself. Livened at the twistedness that pulls deep in his gut at the sight of her. At the sight of her staring at him like this.
It's no more than a few dragging strokes before reason punches through the cloud of his mind. The young prince forces himself to roll away from her with a groan that may as well be a growl. Curling over himself both attempts for modesty and to quell himself. His sweaty forehead pushing into cool blankets. Face now flushing with shame. ]
Why are you here? [ His voice sounds ragged, frustrated, but mostly confused. Cobbling together some semblance of formal address as though she'd walked in on him doing literally anything else. Seven hells. How long had she been there watching him? ]
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Scrutiny and disgust should twist her features, as it often does when she happens upon Aegon in a similar state or has to clean up after his messes, but none of that is there as her features remain soft, though flushed a deeper shade than before now that she has been caught, but there is something more β something that Alicent cannot even name as it is something she has ever felt before.
The dying word on his lips prompts her own to part as she releases her thumb from between her teeth, poised and ready to say something, but whatever it was dies just as the word he spoke did. All that remains is a shaken, breathy gasp that prompts her lips to seal the moment he continues to stroke himself instead of stopping. She continues to watch him, eyes scanning over the features of his face β a face that makes her heart ache and swell β before traveling down his body, down his chest, over his stomach, where she dares to watch the last strokes of his hand before reason pierces through the veil and they both pull away.
Turning away from him, her body facing the open window as she walks toward it, hands smoothing down the front of her dress before clasping her hands together, nails digging into her skin for clarity of mind and to ground her. )
This morning you seemed unwell, prompting me to worry after you abruptly left. ( Taking a deep breath, she tries to calm herself, but her heart still pounds within her chest β she can feel her pulse throbbing down her neck and the drum of her heart in her ears.
Foolishness, Alicent, she scolds herself before turning to face his bed, unsure if she is to meet his back or gaze. ) But it seems you were plagued by a different ailment than what had caused me worry.
( A beat. )
I knocked, but you did not answer.
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She'd noticed him as they broke fast, of course she had. There'd never been a moment their entire lives that she did not fret over him and his siblings. If not the threat of a contested succession, it's literally anything else. Poison, plague, assassins, kidnappings. They'd all suffered her paranoia for years, only ever mounting since that night on Driftmark when he'd lost his eye.
He should have noticed it this morning when she spoke to him. It was in her eyes then. He should have said something better to avail her worry. Before the thought took seed and festered in her. She'd have listened to him, she usually does. If he hadn't gotten in his own way, if only.
The painful ache still in his one hand as he gently fixes himself back into his breeches. He feels a heavy heat on his back, head swimming. If he'd seemed unwell before, it could only look worse now that he has been made to abandon his mounting pleasure. Blood left from boil to simmer. By the time she turns back around he is pulling himself upright. Trying to briefly recall hearing her knock. Maybe he'd just been hoping it was his maidservant who would know well enough to just have gone away. ]
I wasn't in here dying of a summer fever, [ he lashes, the exasperation present in his voice. Looking her in the eye still half hunched onto the weight of one arm, the other draped across his lap. Hair a mess as he forces a breath through his nose. As if he can will himself into a quick composure. But she does not look at him in scrutiny. He has done nothing wrong. Had she been looking in admiration?
The regret is immediate. He looks down again as if suddenly remembering that he is her son. That she is owed her worries. A beat passing as he wipes at the sweat collected above his lip.] I'm sorry I had worried you.
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A weakness brought by the heat of the moment as his head and senses still clouded, making his judgment poor.
He may not have been dying of a summer fever, but other ailments and dangers could easily take him from her. They may have suffered from her increasing paranoia over the years, but none of it was unfounded or outlandish in her mind. Dangers were lurking everywhere, waiting for the chance to strike, and she would be ready. )
At times, I know that my worrying and affection can be β smothering, but it is out of my love for you that I worry so, Aemond.
( There is hesitance in her step as she closes the distance between them, gently gathering her skirts to sit beside him on the bed.
With a gentle hand, she reaches out, the tips of her fingers gliding over his cheek, just below his scar, before smoothing out his hair as she looks upon his face β a warmth in her eyes and a gentle smile on her lips, though her cheeks still as she begins to sober. )
I will always worry, it is the way of things, but you did nothing to apologize for. I am the one who should be apologizing to you and asking for forgiveness.
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They'd been closer before. When he was much more little and willing to curl into her lap when he was still allowed to feel sorry for himself. It all stopped the nights after he lost an eye and gained a dragon. When he needed to be as strong for her as she had shown she would be for him. In the years since, he doesn't know how long it's been since anyone touched him with a gentleness.
Aemond looks up at her, blue eye darting between hers. Her kind smile. The way her lips part as she speaks. She is close enough to smell the sweet scented oils combed through her hair. He wants to spill into it.
The shame returns, and so does image of her standing there. And so does the ache in his own lap remind him. She did not look away. Looking back at it now, he can't see it in himself to mind.]
You must think of me depraved.
[ Instead of accepting her apology or granting her forgiveness, this is what he can only think to say. A gentle, curious pressing. He would not speak of any of it outright, to call upon her own depravity for watching him. To question her how long she'd stood there. ]
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Catching a few rogue strands between her fingers, Alicent gently tucks them behind his ear. The backs of her knuckles glide over and down his neck as her fingers move along the length of his hair, gently twirling and wrapping the ends around them before releasing. )
Depraved? Never. ( Her voice softer, lighter β a secret just between them β as she canted her head toward him, her eyes shifted to look up at him.
Even if she thought him depraved, admitting such a thing would admit to her own depravity for watching him as well. How long had she watched him? Only the seven knew how long she stood there transfixed and admiring the sight of him.
That in itself was a sin β a sin settling heavily within her, creating weight in her stomach, twisting and coiling in places it shouldn't. The same sin she had thrown into the face of her friend all those years ago, saying that the Targaryen's had queer customs, and yet her eldest son and only daughter married despite it all. )
You are my brave, strong boy turned into a handsome man. It is natural to be consumed by such compulsions, and the desire to quell them is strong.
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It is not what he meant, and perhaps it is better that way that is the taking she has to his words. It's not the first time she has caught him or even Aegon. He can recall those moments of her voice echoing down the hall as she lashed out in disdain. What had he been doing to evoke that. When he had held her gaze while pleasuring himself and now she sits and twirls his hair. Tells him it's okay. When he knows it could be condemned. The only answer would be is she does not want to condemn him, or perhaps she doesn't want to condemn herself. ]
Temptation is what tests the spirit, isn't that what our faith teaches us? [ He wonders without looking up from from her lips. Gaze dropping into the space between them where the tips of his fingers shift along the cool fabric of her skirts that lay flush against his leg.
The way he speaks of it is depreciative, gentle edges of cynicism. Having been raised in the faith and made to behave under it, but it did not control him entirely in the way it might control her. It is not the faith that truly guides him, it's the consequences brought by those who believe in it.
He looks up at her again, fingers still idling. His sin is not divulging into pleasure, it is thinking of her as he does it.] Is it so wrong to give in to temptation if it hurts no one?
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Quietly she listens, nodding to his musings while aware of his heavy gaze on her lips and the idling fingers against the fabric against his legs that cause her skirts to shift against her own. She swallows hard before pulling her lips between her teeth, chewing on her bottom lip in thought before releasing them when her lips part to answer him. )
It is a test of the spirit, making us stronger within ourselves so that no one can use temptation against us.
( There was a time when she was completely and utterly devoted to her faith. She was young and naive, believing nothing could shatter that solid foundation, but as time went on, her faith was tested repeatedly. While still a devout and firm believer, she isn't as immaculate or pure as she desperately tries to appear.
With the atrocities she has committed, especially within this room today, she realizes how far she has fallen when she doesn't tell him that any temptation is wrong as she would have at a different point in her life. )
How would you be certain that no one would be hurt? If anyone, especially those desperate to see us fall, caught wind of giving in to temptation, they could use it against us.
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She shifts and squirms but does not retreat. Every part of him wants to say something but this is not something to be spoken. Left to pick apart what she might truly feel between the words like some petty table political game. One so convoluted it'd be better shared at the council table than in his bed.]
Tis a fallacy, is it not? [ He wonders. It is her paranoia speaking again. For the sins she has committed against her own enemies, perhaps, would equally fear them lashing back on her own. And if he'd be correct in her knowing, how hypocritical it would be.
Aemond looks down at his meandering hand. In similar kind, worrying at his bottom lip before he speaks.]
For one would have to see it or hear it to speak of it. [ He speaks again as his fingers slip further under the folds of satin. Their actions hidden. From them, from the gods, from their enemies.
The fabric is cool as it brushes the tops of his knuckles, but the warmth of her skin draws at the tips of his fingers meet along the thin stocking of her leg.] And even then must we blame ourselves for their depravity? For taking the Father's judgement on themselves?
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We mustn't β ( she breathes a sharp inhale upon feeling the tips of his fingers against her leg. Without hesitation, she grabs ahold of him, fingers and fabric encircling his wrist, but she doesn't remove his hand beneath her skirt.
Instead, she looks up at him, eyes wide and pleading, hand around his wrist trembling with excitement and fear, causing her chest to rise and fall faster with her quickened breath.
When was the last touched in such a manner? Long before her lord husband, the king, fell further into sickness and even then, moments of intimacy that often lacked the warmth she desired and fulfillment of her own pleasure.
This is the first time she has ever allowed herself to be touched by another. She should be repulsed by herself and their actions, but she doesn't stop him; instead, she guides his hand higher β an inch, maybe two before stopping again.
Clearing her throat, she tries again, voice quaking more than she wishes it would as she releases his wrist, her fingers sliding up the length of his forearm. )
You are right β we mustn't blame ourselves for their depravity, and their judgment will come to them. What we must do is remain vigilant; if anyone were to find out β if anything were to happen to you as a result β
( she trails off as she continues to look upon his face, her cheeks flushed once more as the hand on his arm raises to cup his cheek once more, thumb brushing just under his bottom lip.
Turning slightly to face him, her other hand coming to rest upon his thigh. )
It would ruin me.
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He's expecting to be scolded now for barely being bold, only it doesn't come. His eye wanders down to her hand as it travels up his arm. Listening to the way she tries to force the steadiness in each of her words. Each of them seemingly complicit in their conversation as it lists more easily towards the one that lies underneath. Pried open by his boldness.
It's the hand on his thigh that causes his chest to rise with a heavier breath. The warm, comforting press of her palm sends a jolt to travel through. So close, and yet. He's not close enough. ]
Do not worry for me, mother. [ Aemond reassures, his voice quiet as his chin tips forward to lean into her touch now. Now beginning to digest the idea that she is complicit or accepting or simply that he cannot help himself any longer. She does not seem to stop him.] I won't let you come to ruin.[ His lips tipping just to graze along her thumb as he speaks. He continues to lean forward just enough for his hand to slide over the curve of her calf. Behind the bend in her knee to trace along the inner side of her thigh. The warmth under her skirts mounting the farther he goes.
It is not dismissive, he means what he says. If this is what she would want, would allow, he would do everything in his power to protect it. To protect her. To protect their family from whatever transgressions may come by him or otherwise.]
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Sitting there beside him, feeling his fingers travel higher up her leg, her stomach twists and turns in knots as fog settles over her mind, making it harder to grasp onto reason. Harder to will herself to stop this sin they are about to commit.
The words that escape his lips are reassuring and bring her some comfort as she tries to tread carefully upon this path she's never gone down before. To give into desire, the sinful temptation that already has her craving more of his touch. Her hand on his thigh shifts higher, splaying almost teasing as her fingers press into the flesh of his thigh.
Her thumb drags along his lips, her finger curling around the angle of his jaw to tilt his head to make him look at her. )
I know you wouldn't; you've always been so good to me, but are you sure this is what you want? We should stop before it is too late.
( While her words give them an out, to stop this before it goes too far, the way she touches him and looks at him with her brows knit together and lips parted says the opposite, that she might want this just as much as he does. )
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He knows the look in her eye when she sees something she wants and yet takes no action. To see her suffer in silence, and he has witnessed her suffer so much from all those around her. In the way she speaks to him now strikes similar in those times before. Where she speaks as what is expected of her, and yet her face speaks differently. The hand at his leg speaks differently.
Aemond's breath rattles as she tips his chin upright, looking at her in a way that shows he is spiraling. The press of her fingertips feel hot and jolting. He shifts almost to try and trick her hand closer. To ease his ache. His body tenses, the hand still poised into the blankets grip them tightly as if it is the one hinge left that keeps him from plunging into her. ]
It is too late. The thoughts of you have already spoiled my mind. [ his confession is soft, only meant for the space between them. Sheltered by the grazing of her thumb. Confessing his sins does not come without exposing hers. ] And you came to me in a moment where I try to relieve myself of them and yet did not turn away. They spoil you as well.
[ His hand does not travel further, the curve of her thigh braced between the web of his thumb and forefinger. Grazing and warm, her skin is absolutely soft. ] Perhaps if we purge ourselves of them, they will set us free.
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How long has his mind been spoiled and tainted by thoughts of her? To know that he has allowed such impure thoughts and desires to fester within him should repulse her, much like the thought of these queer customs one had, and yet she cannot find it within herself, and it would be hypocritical as she betrothed two of her children together.
It leaves her to wonder why she has allowed this to happen, to yield instead of condemning him β and also condemning herself β for his boldness and the dark, impure thoughts of her β his mother. For allowing them to fester to the point of needing to relieve himself. Yet, she stumbled upon him and did not turn away; instead, she watched with admiration and the kindling of a desire that should not exist. How long has she harbored such feelings and desires? How long has she buried them deep within herself, hoping they would never resurface?
What is expected of him through a long line of tradition is not the same for her β to harbor such dark desires for her son of all people is unforgivable. For the first time, Alicent finds herself willing to fall to sin with him upon hearing his reverent confession spoken softly against her thumb. )
What if we give in and instead of purging ourselves, it only stokes the fires to burn hotter and brighter β what then?
( Feeling his body shift, desperate for her touch, Alicent allows her fingers to inch further up his thigh, her index finger pressed into the crook of his thigh as she leans closer, thumb dragging off his lips to hold his chin between it and her index finger while the other fingers remained curled around his jaw. )
Are these fleeting urges of a young man, and in time will you come to regret your actions and resent me? ( Closing the distance between their lips, she brushes hers against his as her eyes flutter closed. Her trembling breath dances across his lips as she utters, ) Promise me, Aemond. Promise me that you will not regret this.
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He only knows that she is often the only one that makes him feel seen, safe, wanted. Is it such a sin to want to return that in kind to her? To give everything to her in all the ways he has seen people fail her, seen his father fail her. So many fragments of curiosity whip through his mind in wonder of those parts of her life she does not share with him. How long it has been since she has felt pleasure. If that is something he can provide her as well. Is it still lewd if he is only trying to make her happy?
The weight of him sinks into her hand, beholden to the way she's cupped his jaw. The tease of her fingers slip further, he feels weak enough to almost beg for this. To say anything that might please her to convince her of it. Even though she is already giving herself to him, at the very least a threat to. The guilt in her voice is unbearable, but he doesn't know what he might say to convince her of his want. He is a man grown, she has not forced his hand.
A noise breaks in Aemond's throat, swallowing her breaths as the softness of her lips brush his. One eye fluttering shut, bathed in the warmth of her presence. Moving ever so slightly just to graze and reach a bit further to feel the brush of her. As much as he's allowed.]
I promise, [ his utterance is barely more than a breath. Though it sounds more like a complacent agreement than any true promise of anything. The hand at her thigh curls to the underside and slides back down to pull closer as he in turn moves closer to her. His head tilts to chase her mouth with a breaking patience. If she'll let him.]
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With anxiety and fear beginning to dissipate at his words, no longer a weight within the depths of her stomach, something else begins to take their place β the fires of desire and want, now beginning to burn within her core as he stokes them back to life.
As he grasps at her, fingers sinking into the back of her thigh as he pulls himself closer to her, she wonders when the last time she felt truly desired and wanted was. It feels like a lifetime ago, as she can barely remember it. Even then, those memories cannot hold a candle to the promise of what is to come she feels pouring from him.
The teasing fingers on his leg reward him with their full touch, shifting to shape to the curve of his breeches, pressing and palming against his hardness while her lips move hungrily against his β her tongue daring to steal a taste of him. )
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In in itself alone feels like a long years wait of release. Of something buried long and deep wrenching out from between his ribs. The kiss alone pales to any other he's been granted, like nothing he'd experienced in the pillow houses he'd been dragged to in years prior. Her want is pure and unfiltered and he finds himself eager to drink it all up.
He feels the deftness of her hand pressing against his hardness and his moan is swallowed up by the reach of her tongue. He twists and pushes himself to seek her mouth with a new roughness, tipping his weight onto a leg to beg himself eagerly into her hand.
She leaves him clambering, uncertain precisely whether he wants her to be on top of him or he her. Only that there needs to be less space, in that he needs every bit of her to envelop him. With him practically already able to feel the deep thrum of her fluttering heartbeat. The hand at her thigh shifts and reaches for her outer leg, leaning himself forward to pull at her. His other hand pushes off the bed to gather her at the shoulder and roll her onto him. ]
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His actions surprise her, causing a burst of nervousness and excitement to slip from her in the form of a soft, breathy laugh as their kiss breaks and her forehead presses against his. With reluctance, Alicent releases him, freed hands gathering up the surplus of fabric from her skirts so she can settle on his lap before letting the sea of satin pooling around them.
Leaning forward, her knees squeezing against his hips, Alicent presses a trembling hand between them. Warm and flat against his chest, the tips of her fingers trace out every hill and valley of lithe muscle as her hand inches downward. Over his stomach and pausing when her fingers meet the tops of his breeches β gently teasing the gap between them and his skin without venturing further. )
Let me hear how much you want this, ( she murmurs as she presses her cheek against his, lips close to his ear where he can feel her excited breathing slipping through her parted lips while her other hand threads through his hair once more. Tightening around the pale, blond strands, she tips his head back to look down at him. )
Tell me.
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The weight of his head follows hers, the rhythms of their breaths crashing and overlapping. As her hand travels lower, his own hands turn over the tops of her thighs. His thumbs traveling back up along her inner thigh. A breath sucks in as she grips his hair. Unwittingly, he pulls himself towards it, sloped chin rising even higher. ]
I want you, mother. [ He corrects. May the seven help him, does it make him harder to call her that with her like this. Looking down at him all manner where she should be anything but. His grip along her thighs tighten, as if he may pull her down deeper into the seat of his lap. ] I will take any part of you that you'll give me.
[ He pulls forward in slight, almost as if he is trying to chase her mouth, only to find that he cannot. Breath rattling in some quiet amusement at that. One hand parts from its mirroring grip to delve between her legs. Where her hand teases to touch, he does not. Finding her slick and warm under the drag of two fingertips. ] Your touch, your taste, your pleasure. [ He adds one with every gentle coaxing. Blue eye eagerly trying to drink up what she might give him in return for it.] I want to hear you speak my name like a prayer.
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To hear him correct her and reaffirm his want for her β his mother β and not just the pleasures and release she can give brings everything around her to a standstill as she looks down at him. She has always been thankful that he doesn't share the same carnal appetites as his brother, and on occasion, she wondered what made her son tick. Never would she have imagined they were carnal in a darker way that goes beyond what is tradition for his ancestral Targaryen blood.
If she had known sooner, would she have acted differently? Perhaps she could have sent him away to Oldtown instead of Daeron to serve as a cupbearer and squire for her cousin or matched him with one of the simple-minded young women of the court or a Northern house to help strengthen their ties.
No, she wouldn't have wanted things to change, even if she had down. It would have been a shock, nothing that she would have acted on, but she knows without him, her life within the walls of the Red Keep would have been unbearable. For so long, it feels as though he has been the only one to see her and the strife she ensures. He always makes an effort to do whatever is within his power to make her happy, which is what this is β another way for him to bring her happiness. To show her that she's wanted, needed, and loved in a way that no one else can; something that can only be shared between them.
The warmth of his hands feels like fire atop the skin, thumbs grazing over the inner part of her thighs, causing her to suck in a sharp breath, and the mask she tries to wear almost breaks as she looks down at him still β straightening her back to move her face further away from him, even though he cannot reach her with her fingers right around his hair to keep him anchored.
It all comes tumbling down when his hand leaves her thigh, and his fingers drag against her. Alicent hisses, ) Aemond.
( While it might not be a prayer, it is enough to hear and see his mother fracturing before him β the poised, polished, pious woman of faith no longer there, and all that is left is a woman who has needed someone to want and need her for so long. She whimpers as his fingers sink into her warmth, one after the other. Her grip tightens on her hair as her hips roll forward, desperate for more of his touch. )
I cannot remember the last time anyone made me feel this way, ( she admits, and by anyone, she means his father, as she has been a faithful and dutiful wife up until now.
No longer wanting to tease him, the fingers on his stomach lift, moving down to pluck at the fastenings of his breeches and pulling his waistband to the side to open them wider. Her hand finds his stomach again, but she does not hesitate this time. Deft fingers wrapped around the girth of him, stroking upward to free him before sliding her fingers back down to the base of the shaft. )
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Hearing his name on her lips, the way she eagerly grinds down against his hand. As much as it is sinful she is beautiful when she does it. It feels gifted when she admits to him how its made her feel. Therein lies a deeper knowledge that her bed had been cold and neglectful. Another soured notion for abandonment that should neither disappoint or surprise him.
For as much as he has given her, it too grants him some worthiness he'd felt lacking. Rolling with the eager motion of her body down to the tight grip in his hair draws a sharp breath through his teeth. Lips curling into a small smile, bridled with pride.
A smile that bristles as her hand closes around him, releasing him from the tightness plaguing his breeches. Aemond bites down on his own lip as his chin tips down. The weight of her shifting around in his lap as he steadies his other hand along her thigh to keep her anchored. Resisting the urge to buck up into her hand. As her fingers lift up the length of him, she almost feels as though she's lifting away out of his reach. A dry noise dies in the back of his throat as he tips his chin up towards her again.]
You deserve to feel this way. [ He utters quiet and slow, wetting his lips as he grapples his breath. Cupping his hand underneath her to grind his palm upward. Fingers coaxing. Only vaguely able to recall the tenants of what brings a woman pleasure. He relies mostly on the cant of her hips and where the nerves flare up to the flutter in her eyes when he hits it just right.
His mouth is dry and wanting. And while there is something frustratingly enrapturing about the way she keeps him just out of reach. He can't help but ask this time.] Please.
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I'M SORRY THIS GOT WORDY
lololol
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π
merry shitscram π
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wow 100 comments deep already π
ππlook at us go
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forever later
π Iβm on my phone so I sure hope thatβs the right html for hovertext
guess who's back, back again?
π
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β should they come looking for me, i intend to be found