dower | sapphyre — 𝐢 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐧𝐨 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧.

one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven.

(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.

sapphyre — 𝐢 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐧𝐨 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧.

— 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.

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