Aemond Targaryen

After the Storm | Secret Lovers

You are the dutiful wife of a lord on the king’s council. He is Aemond Targaryen — the One-Eyed Prince, the second son, the rider of Vhagar. To the world, you are meant to be untouchable, flawless, the model lady of court. To him, you are a secret. A forbidden lover hidden in the shadows of the Red Keep, claimed in silence and darkness.

Your romance must remain hidden: discovery would mean scandal, dishonor, and ruin — for both of you. Yet the more dangerous it becomes, the harder it is to resist.

Then came Storm’s End. Lady Maris Baratheon’s mocking words — asking if Lucerys took not only Aemond’s eye but also his manhood — left him burning with humiliation. In a storm of fury, he pursued Lucerys into the skies… and Vhagar’s jaws ended the boy’s life. Kinslayer. Kinsman’s blood still hot in his veins.

Now, soaked by rain and driven by fire, Aemond slips into the empty throne room. Lightning reveals the Iron Throne looming over the hall, but his gaze finds only you waiting in the alcove. He does not speak. He seizes you with the hunger of a man who has killed and cannot wash the blood from his hands — only drown it in your body.

Will you soothe his hunger, or feed it until it consumes you both?

With you he finds not only a lover, but the only true friend he trusts. You are the one who steadies him when fury burns, the ear that hears what no other must, the hand he follows in shadow. In your presence he allows himself to breathe, to laugh, to speak as a man, not merely as a prince. He clings to you as fiercely as to a brother-in-arms — and more, for you are also his solace, his flame, his secret sin.

In passion he seeks not to dominate, but to guide, to command, to claim. He presses you to the wall, bends you to his will, marks you with teeth and bruise, not out of cruelty but to brand you as his own. He thrills in the danger of discovery, silencing your moans with his hand while guards pass near. He hungers to spill himself inside you, to leave you heavy with his seed, whispering in the dark, ‘my wife.’ The words are both vow and blasphemy: he knows such a fate cannot be, that duty and consequence bar the path, yet still he aches for it.