Chapter Text
You remembered your life before, running barefoot through the gardens, dancing with your sisters, skirts flaring out as you spun, laughter rising and echoing off the marble ceilings. Everything was different back then, awash in golden light and soft music. Your memories have a hazy glow, a warm feeling that you cling to as the carriage rocks and shifts. You try to imagine the smell of your eldest sister’s baking, praying it would ward away the smell of unwashed flesh and smoke. King’s Landing was horrid, a pit of mourning, shambling, and listless pensioners, all hoping their mighty king would turn his piercing violet eye upon them and toss scatterings of mercy their way.
No matter how your father tried to reassure you that all cities looked this way after war, you refused to believe him. There was a stench of death that seeped from every pore of this wretched city, and you feared what you would find at its very heart. Truly you did not remember arriving at the Red Keep, your hood pulled forward shielding your face from the curious looks of the remaining nobles. You moved as if in a trance, unsure if this was real or a ghoulish nightmare you would soon awake from. You prayed for the latter even as your father pushed you to your knees in front of the Iron Throne, the chill of the stone floor cutting through the thin silk of your dress and digging into your knees.
But the chill of the floor was nothing compared to the ice that lay in the one remaining eye of King Aemond. He sat upon the Iron Throne in well-made armor, the color of the darkest night, the sword of the now deceased Rouge Prince propped against the side of the throne with an almost intentional carelessness. As if dulling the Valyrian blade was not even a concern of the king’s. You kept your eyes low as you had been taught as your father spoke those vile words he had been practicing the entire journey here.
“Mighty King Aemond, in slaying the wicked Princess Rhaenyra and her traitorous followers, you have freed my house from the grasp of the Rouge Prince.” Your father stepped beside you, his hand hovering over the crown of your head. “In return, I wish to gift you a truly precious tribute.” He pulled back your hood and bade you to lift your head.
You did as he silently ordered, burying your hands in your skirts to hide their shaking. You heard the king shift and dared to sneak a glance. He was striking, otherworldly; if you had met under different circumstances, you might have found him handsome. But now as he sat on the throne, legs spread, the Conqueror's crown atop his head, his eye observing your father, no warmth or life within it, you only found him terrifying.
His gaze fell to you, and yours dropped to the floor. He let out a low hum and stood, his footsteps echoing until he crouched before you and tilted your chin up with one finger, forcing you to look at him. “And why is she truly precious?” he asked, using his index finger and thumb to turn your head side to side, surveying you as one would a trinket in the market.
Your father pulled off the rest of your cloak to expose your scantily covered body to the king. You had been in your nightgown, awoken in a rush and not allowed to change. Your father had ordered a guard to pack your clothing, and the man grabbed the nearest articles—more nightgowns. So, you kneeled before the king in a light silk gown, arms bare, neckline shamefully low, and every shift of your weight exposed the slits that ran up the sides of your skirt, revealing the smooth skin of your thighs.
You did not believe your father was aware that this particular gown was chosen by your sisters for your wedding night, but it mattered not now.
“She is my daughter, y/n, from the most beautiful of my wives; the Seven protect her soul. I have kept her from the taint of men; she is untouched, uncorrupted, and now yours,” your father said, taking a step back, ignoring the fearful whimper that escaped your lips.
King Aemond’s fingers left your chin and brushed down the side of your neck in a slow and smooth movement, as if he wished to keep you from startling. “That would be intriguing if I believed it to be true.” He moved to stand, and your hand shot out, gripping his forearm.
You remembered your father’s words. If the king did not believe that you were pure as you truly were, and you were sent away, then your sisters would be married off to the highest bidders. “Please, My King, my father speaks the truth. I am a maiden pure, saved for my future husband, or well…”
King Aemond pried your hand from his arm but did not cast it aside; he held it within his, that ever watchful violet eye roaming your face. “Well?”
You could not look at him; intimidation rolled off him in waves, and your eyes refused to obey you. “Or, well, it is for you now My King.”
His grip tightened on your hand for a moment, then he dropped it. “I will accept this tribute, but be warned, y/f/n, I will not accept flesh for gold again.”
He settled back on his throne and beckoned you forward.
You cast a look back at your father, who squeezed your hand then retreated, leaving you alone before the king.
“Did I not summon you?” King Aemond asked, his voice low and cold.
You scurried up the steps and stood before him.
He reached out and hooked one arm around you, pulling you into his lap.
You let out a squeak of surprise. “My King?”
He adjusted your weight, then rested his arm across your legs, which were folded to the side in your lap, your knees pointed outwards. “I keep the tributes near me until the court session is finished; surely you noticed the piles of treasure around you.”
You glanced around and realized he was right. Chests of gold and gems, rich fabrics, and priceless pieces of art were scattered around the throne. “My apologies,” you whispered, praying you had not gotten yourself killed so soon.
He just hummed in acknowledgment and continued accepting tributes, his grip on your legs tightening whenever a nobleman’s eyes lingered on you for too long.
Aemond did not know if he was appalled or impressed. Lord y/f/n had offered up his own daughter, not as a bride but as a tribute, a replacement for objects of monetary value. He was prepared to reject the tribute, demand the foolish man bring back gold, but when you looked up at him, anxious to prove your purity, something took hold.
Your words were not those of a girl who did not wish to be caught for her dalliance with the stableboy, but of one who did not wish for her life of chastity to be besmirched.
He breathed in your scent as he leaned forward to inspect an ornate necklace presented to him. You smelled of jasmine, sweet and soft, your hair falling in waves, your curious eyes examining the jewelry as well.
“It is so beautiful,” you breathed, your voice soft and sweet. There was a musicality to it that made him yearn to hear his name spoken over and over again, your lips forming the syllables so sweetly as you looked up at him through your eyelashes.
He distracted you from the twitch he felt, the ever-growing tautness of his trousers, by holding it up to your neck, humming in satisfaction as it rested against the exposed tops of your breasts. “I find I must agree.”
Your cheeks warmed beautifully, and he fought back the urge to hold them, to cover them with his lips, to let his tongue dart out and taste the sweetness of your skin.
Aemond clasped the artfully arranged strands of diamonds and, oddly enough, sapphires around your neck, fingertips brushing down the stones, stopping just below your clavicle, when he noticed the stiffness of your body. “I will accept this tribute,” he announced, the volume of his voice making you jump. He bit back a groan at the movement, unable to remember the last time he had been so affected by such a simple reaction.
“Are there many more?” you asked quietly, once again pulling at the slits in your skirt, attempting to keep them closed.
His eye followed your actions, and his hand covered yours. “Ser Criston, bring a cloak.”
The man did as asked, presenting it to him with a nod of his head.
“Thank you, My Lord,” you said to Ser Criston, who froze for a moment, then nodded to you, giving you a small smile.
“He is not a lord; you need only address him as Ser or Ser Criston,” Aemond said, meaning no offense towards his old swordmaster.
“But I am a slave? Is everyone not above me?” you asked, a nervous look on your lovely face, your lips turned down slightly.
“You are not a slave; you are a tribute, and you are mine.” He chuckled at your clear confusion. “I do not deal in slaves, nor will I force myself upon another, but you are mine; no others may touch you, and you will not go anywhere without me.”
You nodded in understanding, your bottom lip trapped between your teeth.
He freed the soft flesh with the pad of his thumb. “And you will not injure yourself either; I prefer my things to be in good condition.”
Your lips parted ever so slightly in surprise, and he had a vision of letting the tip of his thumb slip past your lips, of your teeth scraping his skin; perhaps you would draw blood. There was a strange desire within him for you to draw blood, to mark his skin, and claim him as your own.
“Of course, My King,” you said, lips moving against the pad of his thumb as you spoke. Soft, everything about you was soft.
“The presentation of tributes is finished for the day,” he said, nodding at the guards, a sign for them to start herding the remaining nobles out. Then he turned to Criston. “Take Lady y/n to my chambers; I will join her there once the tributes have been recorded.”
Criston stepped back up to the throne, holding out a hand to you, and you looked at Aemond hesitantly. “I thought I was not to leave your side?”
You looked up at him with such innocence, such confusion and concern; he gripped the arm of the throne, restraining himself, and you sprang from his lap, obviously fearing you had upset him.
“Allow me to escort you, Lady y/n,” Criston said, holding his arm out to you.
You took it and let Criston lead you away.
Aemond waited until you had gone, until he could steal away into the abandoned room his late father should have been using as an office and all but tore the laces from his trousers, taking himself in hand. He imagined your lips, the softness, how pretty you looked as you sat in his lap, wearing the necklace he had commandeered for you. He stroked himself fast, gripping tighter and tighter as he pictured you beneath him, writhing and whining. You were untouched; he knew you would cry, would bleed, but he would make it pleasurable, and soon you would crave him as a drunkard craves drink. He felt his peak unusually fast, focusing on the soft tones of your voice in his memory. How they would grow in volume, in pitch, or perhaps they would spiral into mindless babbles and cries of his name as you dissolved into a pleasurable nothingness, cradled in his arms.
It was a blinding delight, climaxing to the image of you, thoroughly fucked and flushed with pleasure, marks of his desire, of his devotion covering your skin. He would take you on the throne, that much he was sure, have you ride him in the very seat his father, uncle, and bastard nephews had tried to keep from him. The possibilities were endless because he was king, and you were his, fully his, no other hands would touch you, no Aegon to ruin you, no bastards claiming to be heirs and drawing away your attention.
Mine, mine, mine. His mind chanted it as he finished, your pretty face stuck firmly in his mind’s eye. He cleaned himself up and left the office, a satisfied smile on his face as he pictured you waiting so patiently for him, blissfully unaware of his deliciously sinful actions.