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Chapter Text

The streets of Lys were bathed in the soft glow of lantern light, their golden hues reflecting off the pale marble buildings that rose elegantly around Aemond.

The air was thick with perfume and the distant hum of stringed instruments, a symphony of indulgence and excess. He had been to Essos before, but Lys was something different. A city of pleasures, a place where the line between fantasy and reality blurred into something indistinct.

Aemond walked through the opulent halls of the famed pillow house, his brother Aegon leading the way, already half-drunk on Lysene wine. The structure was grand, its domed ceilings painted with celestial bodies, its walls draped in silks of deepest red and gold. Incense burned in ornate braziers, casting a haze that mingled with the sultry voices of courtesans as they cooed in High Valyrian.

Women and men lounged on plush cushions, clad in translucent fabrics that left little to the imagination. Their eyes, painted with kohl, followed Aemond as he strode past, their hands outstretched in invitation. He barely spared them a glance.

"Brother," Aegon drawled, clapping him on the back. "You look as if you're walking into a war camp, not a house of pleasure. Relax. Lys has the finest company in the world."

Aemond exhaled sharply through his nose, his single eye scanning the lavish room. The women were beautiful, undoubtedly so—creatures bred for seduction, their laughter honeyed, their touches practiced. And yet, none of them stirred anything within him. They were too polished, too artificial, their charm woven like a well-rehearsed play.

He moved past them, deeper into the establishment, letting the golden light flicker over his face. The architecture, the perfumes, the softness of the place—it was all so different from the cold stone of Westeros, the rigid formality of his homeland. Here, everything was indulgence, pleasure without consequence. And yet, despite its beauty, he found it lacking.

Alys Rivers' name echoed somewhere in the back of his mind, a reminder of why they were here. Aegon had insisted on a night of debauchery in honor of the impending wedding, but Aemond found himself restless, his thoughts adrift. He was here, in the most lavish pillow house in Lys, surrounded by temptations most men would kill for. And still, he felt nothing.

Aegon was already lost in the arms of a dark-haired beauty, grinning as he pulled Aemond toward a cluster of waiting courtesans. "Come, brother. Let Lys show you its finest treasures."

Aemond smirked, shaking his head. "None of these treasures interest me."

Aegon groaned, rolling his eyes before raising his cup in surrender. "Then at least drink, for the sake of the night."

Aemond accepted the cup, letting the sweet burn of Lysene wine slide down his throat. He may not indulge in the pleasures of the night, but he would endure it—for Aegon, for the wedding to come, for the weight of duty he had carried all his life.

And then, he saw him.

A figure slipped between the heavy silk curtains, moving with the grace of someone accustomed to being overlooked. Slender, draped in loose black fabric that clung to lean shoulders and a narrow waist, his presence was like a ghost in the flickering candlelight. Aemond’s breath caught in his throat.

The man did not look his way, did not spare him a second glance, and yet Aemond was frozen
Dark curls framed a sharp, elegant face, the kind of beauty that lingered between youth and something unknowable. The high cheekbones, the deep-set eyes, the delicate yet unwavering strength in his posture—it was a face Aemond had seen before. Or had imagined seeing for years, buried beneath the weight of memory and regret.

Lucerys.

No, it could not be. Lucerys was dead.

And yet, Aemond found himself stepping forward, gaze locked onto the man as he disappeared deeper into the perfumed haze of the brothel. His heart pounded, hands curling into fists. He had to see. He had to know.

And then the man turned his head ever so slightly, just enough for the light to catch his eyes.

Aemond stopped breathing.

Those eyes—Lucerys’ eyes— held a stormy depth he wasn’t familiar with, the color of a tempest brewing over a darkened sea. Violet edges with curls circulating dilated irises. They were older now, shadowed with something Aemond could not name. Something hardened. Something that had survived. The way they flickered in the low candlelight made his pulse quicken, an unfamiliar heat curling in his stomach.

His jaw clenched, his teeth grinding together as something raw surged inside him. Rage. A deep, biting anger that he had not felt in years, buried beneath duty, beneath the illusion of peace. It surfaced now, as sharp as a blade pressed to his throat, as the past came crashing down upon him with all the weight of a dragon’s wingbeat.

His heart beat mimicked the deep, haunting, booming flaps of Vhagar’s wings. That night rushing back to him like a spill of ice cold water over his head. Shocking him into a frozen state of some-where-else.

Memories resurfaced unbidden—the roar of the storm, the spray of seawater, the sheer, blind panic in those very same eyes just before he fell. Just before Aemond took everything from him. How he yelled —- how Vhagar didn’t listen.

Then how he told himself he didn’t care.

How he watched that poor dragon get ripped to shreds.
Memories taking over … how pleased he felt once he finally had a victory over those cursed Strong boys.
Yes, cursed was very much the word.

His nails dug into his palm as he took a step forward, breath uneven. Was it him? Was it possible? Or was this some cruel trick, some phantom conjured by the gods to taunt him?

"My lord?" A voice purred beside him, honeyed and sweet.

Aemond barely turned his head. A courtesan stood beside him, a Lysene beauty with cascading dark hair and golden eyes, her smile practiced, inviting. She probably was the fairest maiden here, in any other circumstance she would have earned a turned head from even him. She placed a delicate hand on his forearm, pressing closer. "You look troubled,” she notes. “Perhaps I can ease your mind?"

His grip on his cup tightened, his body rigid as he wrenched his arm from her grasp. "Leave me."
She blinked, taken aback, before schooling her features into something softer. "Are you sure? I can—"

"I said leave.” His voice was steel, sharp and unyielding. In no mood to converse with those lower than him. The courtesan gave a quick nod, stepping back with a murmur of apology before vanishing into the silken depths of the brothel.

"Not much for company, are you?" A smooth, accented voice murmured behind him.

Aemond’s spine went rigid, his breath catching in his throat as he turned. And there he was, standing close—too close—a smirk playing on lips Aemond had not seen in years.

The same face. The same eyes. And yet, the man who stood before him was no trembling boy.

He was lithe and sharp. His father’s coloring his his mother, Rhaenyra’s, unique beauty and features. A delight to take in with your eyes—

"I am called Lioro," the man said, tilting his head, watching Aemond with something unreadable in his gaze. He didn’t know how to respond.

Chasing him all across the brothel, to what? Make awkward eye contact with him.

"And you are?"

Aemond bit back a slurry of vengeful words. You know who I am. How dare you ask your prince regent who-

“You’re staring,” The boy interjects his thoughts again. Amused, a smile forms on his lips and Aemond feels his knees go weak for half a moment.

“Aemond,” The kinslayer informs, gritting his teeth.

Lucerys—no, Lioro—was draped in sheer black, burgundy and smoky grey silks, the fabric clinging to his body in a way that made Aemond’s cheek blanche. The delicate material shimmered under the dim lighting, hinting at toned muscle beneath, the sharp dip of his collarbone, the slender curve of his waist. His long, dark curls were damp, framing his face in loose, decadent waves, his lips painted a faint shade of red, accentuating their fullness. Silver chains glimmered at his throat, resting just above the swell of his chest, an adornment fit for a prince, for a ghost reborn in silk and shadow.

Without thinking Aemond brings his thumb to that smear of red across the male’s lip. Wanting to touch him, make sure he was real. The color is deep and reminds him of blood, that singular swipe. He drags it perfectly down his chin.

The male's body obeys, turning his jaw up as he’s grabbed. Throat extending … exposed, ready for the taking. How easily it would be to slice it. Or snap his neck. Or sink his teeth into that pale flesh—
Aemond’s throat went dry. He had faced warlords, dueled the finest knights, flown Vhagar through tempests that would break lesser men, and yet… this? This made his pulse hammer against his ribs, his grip on restraint weakening by the second.

Lioro—Lucerys—watched him like a cat watching its prey, his smirk just a breath away from something cruel. The dim candlelight flickered across his sharp features, accentuating the high cut of his cheekbones, the curve of his lips, the shadowed hollows of his throat where the silver chains rested. He had grown. He had become something refined, something dangerous and the realization coiled like a vice around Aemond’s chest.

Aemond clenched his jaw, forcing himself to breathe, to master the violent storm rising within him. It cannot be him. It should not be him. Yet every detail, from the glint of his dark curls to the unmistakable depth of those eyes—Lucerys’ eyes but not quite— undid him.
Lioro’s head tilted, his smirk deepening as he stepped closer, the sheer silk of his tunic shifting against his skin like water. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost?” he murmured, voice smooth as honeyed wine.

Aemond swallowed hard, his fingers twitching at his sides. He could cut him down here, end this madness before it unraveled him entirely. But his limbs felt leaden, his mind a warzone of fury and disbelief.
Lucerys was supposed to be dead. And yet, here he stood. Taller. Pliant. Under his grasp and offering no words of retaliation.

Perhaps, this was trickery.

He let’s go and steps back.

Aemond’s fingers twitched at his sides, itching for the familiar weight of his sword, but it was not there. He had not thought he would need it in a place of silken whispers and perfumed lies. Yet standing before him now, wearing another man’s name, another man’s life, Lucerys was more dangerous than he had ever been wielding a blade.

Aemond’s eye raked over him again, slow and deliberate, trying to find the cracks, the flaw in the illusion. But there was none. The silk clung to him like a second skin, shifting with each movement, revealing glimpses of bare, golden flesh beneath. The soft, damp curls framed his face in careless decadence, lips stained red as though he had been feasting on pomegranates and sin.

Storm-dark, sea-deep, unforgiving.

Aemond felt his teeth grind together, an ache forming in his jaw. He had spent years trying to forget that gaze, to bury the memories beneath war, duty, fire. But it had never left him. Now, faced with it once more, staring into the abyss of what should have been long dead, something inside him snapped

"You play a dangerous game," Aemond bit out, voice low, sharp as a drawn blade.

Lioro only laughed, the sound soft, knowing. “Do I?” he mused, stepping closer, slow as a predator savoring the moment before the kill.

Aemond did not move. He could not.

Lucerys—or Lioro, or whatever name he had chosen for himself—reached up, dragging a single fingertip along the edge of Aemond’s collar. A teasing touch, light as breath, deliberate in its cruelty. “You look as though you want to strike me,” he murmured, voice like silk against steel. “Or perhaps… something else?”

Aemond exhaled sharply through his nose, his blood burning hotter than dragonfire. “Careful,boy” he snarled.

Lioro smirk widened. “Your hair,” he notes, his voice smoother than all the fabrics around them. Leaning in just enough for Aemond to feel the heat of him, the scent of salt and spice lingering in the air between them.

“Nyvara said we’d be dealing with Targaryen’s tonight — I’m guessing you’re one of them?” He lets his skeleton long fingers drag through the straightened strands of the taller man. Waiting for his touch to be swatted away. But Aemond only shivers. Jaw tight.

“Whose Nyvara?” He asks, a steady glare as the boy begins to move. To circle him.

Lioro drinks the figure in. He’s handsome. Handsome in a way men around here don’t look. Broad shoulders, yes, but a narrowed-firm waist. He was muscle but not rock. The courtesan had become used to slave owners, with dark everything and weak hands. Or Dothraki men, who were ceiling high and forced their cocks into you without much care.

“Our mistress,” He informs easily. Coming back around to see a trace of jealousy dancing in the male’s eye. “She takes care of us,”

“Oh? Yeah, and how is scum like you being taken care of-“ Aemond begins

Lioro steps back. “I’ll see my presence isn’t wanted,” He nods his head. Wondering why looking at his man brought both unease …. Yet since of familiarity. Which he hasn’t felt in so long. Perhaps that’s why he was lingering. “I’ll take my leave elsewhere-.”

He hardly lasts a step. A large hand is around his wrist and he’s being tugged back. Tugged closer.

He stumbles, he nearly falls. But he’s kept upright. Face to face now, or how close they can with a height difference of three inches.

Aemond’s stare is seething and his voice is iron-hot. “If anyone else lays a hand on you, they will lose them.”
Lioro stares, wanting to say something now but he’s finally at a loss for words.

The customer before him smells like smoke and steel, leather and—a scent that feels oddly familiar, though he cannot place why. There is something sharp in it, something burning, as if fire clings to his very skin, though no flames touch him now. Beneath it lingers the faintest trace of cedarwood and aged parchment, like the remnants of an old, half-forgotten dream.

It unsettles him.

The scent is not soft like the perfumed men of Lys, not drenched in sweet oils or exotic spices. No, it is clean, robust, and unyielding, a scent that speaks of war rather than pleasure, of cold winds rather than sun-drenched shores. And yet, when Lioro breathes it in—deep, instinctual—it stirs something in him

“Lay your hands on me then,” He says without a damned thought in his mind.

Aemond gulps and doesn’t speak for a moment. He’s finally caught what he’s wanted to obtain in all these years. Oh, how easily he could pluck out his eyes. Peal it from his head, rip it from his skull, watch the blood drench down his face. Spill down his clothes.
He would rip these sheer clothes off just to see how nicely his Strong blood would look on that Targaryen colored flesh. What a complexity he was. He would bring his tongue to it. Through it. Feel it’s warmth slide across his taste buds—

“I may not be kind if I lay my touch upon yours.”

Aemond murmurs. Timid, even in a room of moaning pleasures. He feels the insecurity of his youth, the uncertainty of it, surfacing for reasons he doesn’t enjoy.
The harlot brings his small form against his uncle. Fitting against him, warmth shared in such a way that makes Aemond’s blood run cold.

“I can handle it,” Lucerys says in a steady tone.

Carefully, with precision, Aemond places both of his hands on that narrow waist of his. Seeing how it responds, how his hips shift, ready to grind against his or buck forward at any given seconds.

Since when … did Lucerys have such a fucken slutty waist?

His eyes weren’t his. His body wasn’t his. He was older. They both were … He certainly definitely wasn’t Lucerys. Because he wasn’t alive— But that didn’t matter.

Because was gonna fuck him like he was.

Chapter Text

Aemond did not remember moving, only the feeling of silk slipping through his fingers as he seized the courtesan by the wrist, dragging him through the dimly lit corridors of the pillow house. The laughter of patrons, the distant strumming of a lyre, the scent of rose oil and burning incense—all of it blurred into nothing, a distant hum drowned beneath the roar of his own pulse.

The door slammed behind them, the lock clicking into place, sealing them away from the world outside.

Lioro barely had a moment to react before Aemond’s hands were on him—rough, demanding, dragging him forward. Their mouths collided, more a battle than a kiss, all sharp edges and reckless hunger. Aemond’s teeth scraped against Lioro’s lower lip, a warning, a demand. The courtesan only gasped into him, lips parting, fingers curling into the high collar of Aemond’s tunic as if daring him to go further.

It felt unfair, with Aemond’s clothes; thick fabric, rich, clean, with too many layers for the younger to enjoy. All the while he was basically walking around naked in near-sheer clothing.

The room smelled of myrrh and jasmine, of something heady and intoxicating, but all Aemond could breathe in was him. His skin was warm, impossibly so, his silken robes nothing but a whisper between them, teasing, maddening. Aemond’s hands found the delicate ties at Lioro’s hips, tugging until the fabric came loose, baring more fair skin to the flickering candlelight. Too familiar. Too much.

“Have you always been this beautiful?” Aemond asks, and frankly, he seethes it out between his teeth like it was a partial insult.

Lioro’s breath hitched, and for a moment, just a moment, Aemond hesitated.

“You haven’t even seen all of me,”

A heavenly storm churned in Lioro’s dark eyes—dark, but not quite black, not quite brown. Violet hidden in the depths of night. A color Aemond had seen before. A color that haunted his memories. His grip tightened involuntarily, rage warring with something far more dangerous in his chest.

Lioro pressed forward again, lips brushing against Aemond’s jaw, a slow drag of heat and softness that sent fire licking down his spine. His voice was nothing more than a whisper, teasing and sinful.

“Do you always kiss like you’re trying to win?” Lioro’s turn to question him.

Aemond’s jaw clenched. His fingers curled against Lioro’s waist, dragging him closer until their bodies were flush, until there was no space left between them.

“Yes.”

Lioro laughed, breathless against his skin. “Then I wonder—what would you do if you lost?”

Aemond’s only answer was to claim his mouth again, punishing and unrelenting. Whatever this was, whoever he was, it would end the way Aemond decided. And yet, deep in the marrow of his bones, something whispered that he had already lost.

“You don’t want to tempt me,” Aemond says with an unsteady breath as he watches the fragile male step back. Getting at the last remains of his cloths. The shimmery thick part that covered his lower region, he backs up, making excruciatingly long work of a simple knot.

And as his knees hit a rather large bed, he sits back open. Thighs wide as the last remnants of concealment fall to the floor. Leaving the courtesan naked as the day he was brought into this world.

Sprawled out with thighs apart, arms propped behind him, shoulders and torso wonderfully carved.
He was stunning—his body sculpted from ivory skin, lean muscle defined beneath the soft glow of the room. The faintest scars traced across his ribs, his hips, remnants of a life hard-lived, but they did not mar his beauty. His hair, dark and curled, cascaded just beneath his ears, framing his sharp cheekbones and full lips, slightly parted as he watched Aemond with a knowing gaze.

It was like a well crafted painting he would see back at home. In those books his mother tried her best to hide. Beautiful men, beautiful women, the demigod in front of him sharing the likes of both. With some subtle backdrop scene that added tension, and depth, as if it were erotic in its own right.

The space was not meant for comfort, nor was it meant for love. It was a setting—a stage—a place crafted for pleasure, for illusion, for the performance of desire. Yet, beneath the carefully placed artifice, there were remnants of something else, something unintended.

“Is this temptation enough for you?”

Aemond suddenly, too, regrets his own clothing. He works on his belt, doing his best to keep himself at bay as he steps forward. Once. Twice. Until he also meets the edge of the bed and right between the knees of the younger.

Lioro leaned back against the pillows, the soft fabric pooling around him, a wicked smirk playing at his lips. “They say Targaryens fuck different than anyone else. With passion and fury. With fire.” He begins, his new form of taunting as Aemond behaves. Disrobing himself first as he watches, as he listens.

“Touch yourself, Taoba,”

A ring-clad hand listens as well. Wondering down his thin frame to between his thighs as he continues. He stretched, languid and unhurried, the candlelight tracing over the taut lines of his body. That very hand wrapped around a half-hard cock but not playing with it just yet.
Aemond thinks he’s asking for assistance. Or if he’s just being a brat about prolonging such desires. He spits a heady mouthful of salvia right between his legs and watches as the brunette gasps.

“I didn’t know princes could spit like that,” He teases, using it as helpful lubrication. He spreads it over his pink-tipped cock.

Aemond swears, that alone, is a sight to undo him. It would plague him for weeks on end, no doubt about it.
“There’s a lot of things princes do that folks like you wouldn’t even dream of,” His shirt comes off within seconds.

Aemond took a step forward, then another, boots soundless against the thick woven rug beneath him until he hits the wood of the bed. His eye roved over the courtesan’s form, cataloging every sharp angle, every inviting curve, every scar that should not have been there, not on this man—not on him.

His pulse roared in his ears, a battle cry of confusion and need and something dangerously close to remembrance.

He should have pinned the youth down all of those years ago. Pealed out his eye and called it a truce. Never to bother beyond that. Save all this worry, this turmoil, this war.

Or, maybe he should of pinned him down and fucked him. Taken his innocence as Lucerys had done to him. If he had been born a girl he would have, the court wouldn’t have judged him. He would have marked her up instantly and ruined her name into a smear of whore, a ghost of the Realms Delight, a pattern repeating itself.

Maybe killing him was the best option. Yes, stop this. You can’t change anything. This wasn’t —- isnt — him.
The weight of the past pressing against his ribs like a blade, for the first time in years, he was bleeding. Looking at this beautiful hyperfixation as he plays with himself. Sprawled open like a feast to be consumed. It was self torture.

“How long have you been-“ The words hang empty on the tip of his tongue.

Lioro shakes a curl out of his face as he speaks. “How long have I-“ His eyes daring, feline almost with such a playful energy. That look, that right there, was all too familiar.

“Fucking-“

“Working?”

“How long,” Aemond tries again. Feeling more dangerous he leans his broad frame down over the tiny one and watches his flinch beneath him. A dragon flying over a cowering sheep. One hand over each shoulder as he leans down close to clarify himself. “Have you been fucking, for work?”

The harlot begins to stroke himself faster at the proximity. The sounds growing; wet and crude. “Since I was ten and six,” He informs. “So, three years.”

“How many women?” He asks, curious. Pressing forward.

“I don’t know-“ Lioro’s breath staggers as he feels a large hand reach between them. Wrap it’s tight grip around his cock. “I don’t know.” He panics for just a moment. Eyes wielding shut to focus. “Many!” His hips buck into the warm palm. Earning a tsk from Aemond.

“And men?” His breath tickled against his ear.

That one’s easier. “Hundreds-“

Lioro lay beneath him, body relaxed, like he was utterly unbothered by the intensity burning in Aemond’s gaze.
Aemond’s other hand lets his fingers ghost along Lioro’s jaw, tracing the sharp line of it, lingering against the pulse that beat steadily at his throat. He could feel the heat radiating from him, the soft hitch of breath as his touch lingered just a moment too long.

Then, finally, Aemond closed the distance, his lips crashing against Lioro’s in a kiss that was both desperate and unrelenting. Lioro did not resist. Instead, he met him with equal fervor, his arms twining around Aemond’s neck as he arched up into him, pressing skin to skin.

Whatever war had been waged between them, whatever memories clawed at Aemond’s mind, they burned away in the heat of that kiss.

Lioro whispered something, soft and breathless, but Aemond did not—could not—understand it. Or perhaps, he did not want to. He didn’t have the energy inside him to pull away for even a mere second to ask what exactly.

He tasted of honey, and something else sweet. Intoxicating in the same way he assumes certain poisons are. Driving you delirious and out of sorts before ceasing your heart beat and killing you all together.

His body fit beneath his … perfectly.

He understood Daemon now, with Rhaenyra. With needing her. With knowing they were made for eachother, that whatever Gods above divined it so. He understood, by the grace of some evil deity, his mother now, too. In her hysteria. Her longing for an old friend — the same woman. How wanting her, needing her, had drove her to do absolutely cruel and absurd things.
Tonight, he would do them all. Gods be good, he would just slay the boy after. Have him not speak a word to anyone of his actions or desperations. And, if it truly was Lucerys, maybe this would just be a clean up job to seal up an impossible loose thread.

“Please,” Lioro begs beneath him with a voice crack that automatically loops in Aemond’s psyche.

Lioro writhed beneath him, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he clung to Aemond’s shoulders, his nails biting into scarred flesh. His body trembled with desperation, each slow thrust dragging a broken plea from his lips.

“Please,” Lioro whispered, voice thick with longing, with need. “Aemond—please.”

Aemond’s smirk was sharp as a blade. “Please what?” he drawled, deliberately slowing his movements, savoring the way Lioro’s body arched to chase him. “You’ll have to be clearer than that.”

Lioro’s lips parted, his frustration bleeding into his desperation. “Don’t—don’t tease,” he gasped, his fingers tangling in silver-white hair, tugging just hard enough to make Aemond hiss. “I need—”

He cums with all but a gentle squeeze around the mushroom head of his cock. It was a succulent shade of pink, the same tone of the insides of his mouth, yet more slick than his panting tongue that lays inside.

Aemond chuckled darkly, dragging his lips along the curve of Lioro’s throat, feeling the frantic pulse beneath his own tongue. Feeling the poor thing paint both their stomachs between, “What a sight you are,” he murmured against heated skin. “Reduced to begging like a common whore.”

Lioro shivered, his breath catching, and Aemond felt the delicious tension ripple through his body. He wanted more—more of this surrender, more of this breaking, more of Lioro unraveling beneath him.

“Is that what you meant?”

“I-“

“Yes or no?” He grits. His temper right below the surface.

They make eye contact finally, and truthfully haven’t since their eyes met across the room. “I need you — I need—“

“Say it,” Aemond demanded, his voice velvet and steel.

“Beg me properly.” He needed to hear the words, he needed to finally hear this man beg.

Lioro’s eyes—dark, wild, and glistening—met his. He swallowed hard, pride warring with need before the latter won out.

“Please, Aemond,” he whispered, every syllable laced with something dangerously close to reverence. “Take me. Ruin me.”

Aemond exhaled harshly, something primal coiling deep in his gut. “I’m going to need you to open up your legs wider for me, ñuhys dārilaros,” Listening to the bed creak as their weight shifts.

He pulls back just enough to let himself get a better view —- but not Lioro. He wants to fit every inch, force every inch inside him, as punishment for just how painstakingly hard he had made him.

“Just like that,” He praises as he guides himself between the prostitutes legs, trying not to think how many had been here before.

“Aemond,” Lioro pleas quietly again. All too sure this was taking way too long. Usually, he’d have a customer pick out one of the bottle of oils to help this transition run smoother, but something had taken ahold of him. He was too far gone in his growing lust to care.

There’s a moment, right as the slit of his cock disappears into the tight wedged ass of the frail, young, Lioro, that Aemond realizes how pretty his name sounds on his lips. How he also …. doesn’t recall? Ever telling the male his name to begin with?

But his cocks inside such a heavily expanse a moment later —- that his entire train of thought it fucked out of him within a moments notice.

Lioro cried out, his back arching as Aemond finally gave in, moving with a force that stole the breath from his lungs. Pain dancing like fire bursts behind his eyes as he cries out. His hands scrambled for purchase against Aemond’s skin, desperate, feverish, nails scoring down the broad expanse of his back.

Aemond relished the way he writhed, the way he gasped his name like a prayer and a curse all at once. He dragged his teeth along the line of Lioro’s jaw, savoring the way the courtesan trembled beneath him, utterly at his mercy.

He forced his entire length in.

“You wanted this,” Aemond taunted, his voice a rasp of dark amusement as he thrust deeper, feeling the way Lioro clenched around him, helpless and wanting. “And now you have it. Is it everything you begged for?”

Lioro’s breath hitched, his head falling back against the pillows, his body taut with unbearable pleasure and pain. “Yes,” he gasped, his voice breaking. “Yes—Aemond, please—”

Aemond’s smirk deepened, his grip tightening on Lioro’s thighs as he forced them wider, pinning him in place.

“You sound so sweet when you beg,” he murmured, dragging his lips down the column of Lioro’s throat, biting just hard enough to leave a mark. “Like you were made for it.”

“You sound so wet to-“ A thrust in an out and repeated.
“You feel like a tight-“ A slam, “virgin bride,” a harder slam.

Lioro whimpered, his body shuddering beneath Aemond’s relentless pace, his fingers tightening in silver-white hair, dragging Aemond’s mouth back to his own. Their kiss was messy, frantic, teeth clashing, tongues tangling—Lioro’s desperation spilling into every breath, every moan.

Aemond swallowed every sound, devoured every plea, his own restraint fraying as he drove them both closer to the edge. He wanted to see Lioro come apart, to feel him shatter beneath him, to know that no matter what name he wore now, no matter where he had been, here—now—he belonged to Aemond.

“Say my name again,” Aemond demanded against his lips, his voice thick with possession. “Let the whole damn brothel hear who’s making you feel this way.”

Lioro’s fingers dug into his shoulders, his breath coming in broken, helpless pants. “Aemond—” he gasped, voice raw, pleading, perfect.

Aemond groaned, his control snapping. “Again!@

“AEMOND!”

His grip on Lioro’s hips tightened, his movements shifting—less rushed now, more deliberate. A steady, claiming rhythm. His breath came heavy against Lioro’s ear as a new thought took root in his mind, coiling deep and dark in his chest.

The thought of filling him. Of leaving something behind.

His fingers spread wide over Lioro’s stomach, his thumb tracing absent circles against sweat-damp skin. He could feel the warmth of him, the way his body responded, yielding so beautifully beneath him.

“Mine,” Aemond murmured, half to himself, half to Lioro, as if the word alone could make it true.

Lioro shivered, his hands sliding up Aemond’s back, nails raking softly along his spine. His eyes were dazed, unfocused, lips parted as he moaned—high and desperate—each sound feeding the fire in Aemond’s blood.

Aemond smirked, slowing his thrusts even further, pressing deep, grinding just enough to make Lioro whimper beneath him. “You can take more,” he murmured, voice thick with something raw and possessive. “Can’t you?”

Lioro nodded frantically, his thighs tightening around Aemond’s waist. “Yes—”

Aemond groaned, dragging his lips along Lioro’s neck, kissing, biting, marking. The need to fill him, to keep him, burned hotter with every thrust, every moan, every breathless plea that fell from Lioro’s lips.

The thought of his seed spilling inside him, of something deeper, more permanent—it made Aemond’s grip turn bruising, his control unraveling thread by thread.

“You’d let me, wouldn’t you?” he whispered against Lioro’s skin, his pace steady, relentless. “Let me claim you properly.”

Lioro moaned, back arching, body opening to him, and Aemond knew he had his answer.

Aemond growled against Lioro’s throat, his teeth dragging over flushed skin before biting down just enough to make him jolt beneath him. He wanted him—wanted to ruin him, to carve himself so deep into Lioro’s body that there would be no escaping him.

His thrusts grew sharper, more cruel, and Lioro gasped, legs tightening around his waist, nails leaving red streaks down Aemond’s back. He was so open for him, so needy, and it made something vicious coil in Aemond’s chest.

“You want me to fill you up, don’t you?” Aemond snarled against his ear, his breath hot, his voice thick with something raw and dangerous. “Want me to breed you like some desperate little thing?”

Lioro’s breath hitched, his body trembling. “Y-yes—”

Aemond laughed, dark and cruel. “Of course you do.” He thrust harder, deeper, making Lioro’s mouth fall open on a choked moan. “Look at you. Nothing but a pretty whore begging to be claimed.”

Lioro whimpered, his hands clutching at Aemond’s shoulders, his body arching, desperate, undone.

Aemond loved it. Loved the sight of him like this, all his poise and mystery shattered beneath him. He wrapped a hand around Lioro’s throat, tilting his chin up, forcing him to meet his gaze.

“Say it,” he ordered, his grip tightening just enough to make Lioro gasp. “Say you belong to me.”

Lioro’s lips parted, his chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths. His pupils were blown wide, his hair a tangle of dark waves against the silk sheets. He looked ruined. He looked perfect.

This was a new image of the Strong boy that would haunt him.

“Aemond—” he moaned, voice wrecked. “I—I belong to you.”

Aemond groaned, something feral inside. He slammed into him, his hand pressing down on Lioro’s belly, feeling the way he took him, the way his body swallowed him whole.

“Good boy,” Aemond growled. “Then take every fucking drop, Lucerys.”

Chapter Text

The heat of the night still clung to him. Aemond lay in the quiet dim of the early dawn, his body boneless against the soft sheets, the air thick with the scent of sweat, salt, and something richer—something that still lingered on his skin, between his teeth. A reminder of the hours before, of how he had taken and been taken, lost in something desperate and deep.

His breathing was slow, uneven, as he drifted between the last threads of sleep and the pull of wakefulness. The weight beside him was warm, familiar in a way that made his pulse tighten. He shifted slightly, and the bare figure next to him moved, a soft sigh escaping from parted lips.

It sent a spark through him. Aemond didn’t yet open his eyes, only let himself sink back into the moments before—his hands gripping slender hips, the slide of sweat-damp curls against his jaw, the breathless gasps against his throat, the way those violet-shadowed eyes had looked up at him, glassy and wanting.

He hadn’t even asked the price. Hadn’t cared.

Aemond exhaled, rolling onto his side, fingers itching to trace the ridge of a bare shoulder. The room was dim, the Lysene dawn creeping through gauzy curtains, turning skin to gold. He finally opened his eye, gaze dragging over the body beside him—

And then his breath caught.

It was him.

Older, yes. The softness of youth had sharpened, the curve of jaw more defined, the lashes dark fans against flushed skin. But it was him.

Lucerys.

The name didn’t make it past his lips, caught in his throat like a blade. His body went rigid. His fingers, which had almost touched that golden skin, curled into a fist instead. Aemond swallowed against the sudden, crushing weight in his chest, his mind whirring like a storm, trying to make sense of what his eyes saw.

Lucerys Velaryon was dead.

And yet—he was here.

Aemond inhaled sharply through his nose, forcing his fingers to unclench. His jaw tightened as he stared at the man beside him, watching the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest.

Fool.

It was the first thought that cut through the haze, slicing deep, sharp and unforgiving. He had let his guard slip. Let his lust twist his mind, turn him blind to reason. *Lucerys is dead.* He had seen it himself, felt it—felt the rage and the storm and the sick satisfaction that had soured on his tongue the moment it was done.

This was a trick. A cruel one.

His eye darted over the features before him, searching for the lie, for the thing that would unravel the illusion. The curve of his jaw, the softness of his parted lips, the way the early morning light traced his naked skin in golden hues—it was all too perfect. Too real.

But it couldn't be.

He scoffed under his breath, fingers raking through his silver hair as he turned his gaze away. The Lyseni were known for their games, for their whores who could mimic queens and lost lovers alike. A skilled courtesan could be shaped to any fantasy for the right coin.

And he had been weak enough to fall for it.

His stomach twisted in something like anger, but it wasn’t directed at the figure beside him—it was at himself. At the way his hands had trembled as they traced familiar skin, at the way his breath had hitched at those soft gasps, at the way his lips had murmured a name in the dark, over and over, before he'd even realized it.

The name felt like a wound in his mind. A ghost. A curse.

And yet, when he looked at the sleeping figure once more, his resolve wavered. The slight furrow between his brows, the way his dark lashes fluttered in sleep—it wasn’t just a cheap imitation.

Aemond swallowed hard.

*Who are you?*

A soft sound broke the silence. A whimper—fragile, breathy—spilling from parted lips as the man beside him shifted in his sleep. He rolled onto his back, the sheets slipping lower, exposing more of that golden-bronze skin to the morning light.

Aemond’s breath caught.

Gods help him.

His resolve wavered, crumbling like sand under the tide. Logic and suspicion were suddenly drowned beneath the sight before him—the gentle rise and fall of his bare chest, the curve of his collarbone, the way his curls tumbled against the pillow in unruly waves. His skin gleamed where Aemond had kissed, touched, marked him in the dark hours of the night.

And his face… Seven above, that face.

Aemond had spent years haunted by that visage, painted in memory with the colors of youth and fear. But here, now— Lioro, the beautiful liar—was no boy. He had grown into something devastatingly beautiful, his features sculpted into the kind of soft, untouchable perfection that made men lose themselves.

And Aemond had touched. Had taken.
His fingers itched to do so again.

Aemond barely realized he was leaning closer, his single eye tracing over every familiar detail, desperate to carve it into something tangible, something real. His throat felt tight. How was it possible? How could this be?

A trick. A lie. A cruel illusion spun to ensnare him.

Yet as Lioro stirred, shifting slightly, a sleepy sigh ghosting past his lips, Aemond was undone all over again.

Perhaps he was a fool. Perhaps he had lost his wits entirely.

But in that moment, with the morning light gilding Lucerys Velaryon’s sleeping form like something sacred, Aemond found that he no longer cared. He wouldn’t until he left.

Until, yes, this was all left behind.

Maybe a gift from the Gods. A look-alike to heal his mental stature once and for all before his wedding. He had done right by the heavens, by House Green, and this was his reward. He was his reward.

Slowly, deliberately, Aemond reached for the sheet. It was a whisper of silk against his fingertips, and with a careful pull, it slid away, pooling at Lioro’s sides and leaving nothing hidden from his view.

Aemond exhaled, deep and slow.

Gods, he was magnificent.

Every inch of him was bathed in the warm glow of dawn, a golden-bronze canvas marked with the faintest traces of the night before. Aemond’s touches, his kisses, the possessive imprint of his hands—evidence that this body, this creature, had been his for hours stolen from time itself.

Lioro lay sprawled in utter, careless beauty. His limbs long and elegant, his waist tapering in a way that begged to be grasped, his skin unmarred save for the soft indentations of teeth along his throat, a bruise or two where Aemond’s grip had been unforgiving. He had always imagined Lucerys to be slight, fragile—but no, there was strength here, subtle and lean, muscle hidden beneath supple flesh.

Aemond’s gaze roved lower, drinking him in like a man starved.

The sharp lines of his hips, the smooth plane of his stomach rising and falling with each slow breath. His thighs, slightly parted, still lax with sleep, an invitation so unthinking it made Aemond’s jaw clench.

And then his face—serene in slumber, lips swollen from kissing, from moaning Aemond’s name. Those lashes dark against his cheeks, the faintest trace of violet still hidden beneath his lids. A dream made flesh, a ghost of the past now lying naked in his bed as though he had always belonged there.

Aemond reached out, fingers hovering just above the warmth of his skin.

Mine.

The thought was dangerous.

But as his hand ghosted over the ridges of Lioro’s ribs, down the dip of his stomach, his own need curling hot and possessive in his gut, Aemond allowed himself this illusion a little longer.

Aemond let his fingertips trace lower, featherlight over the curve of Lioro’s waist, the dip of his hip bone, the place where skin turned impossibly soft. He watched, his breath held captive in his chest, as Lioro stirred beneath him.

A shift of muscle, a slow inhale, the faintest crease in his brow.

Aemond dragged his fingers up again, his touch barely there—just enough to tease the nerves awake, to call Lioro back from sleep in the gentlest way possible. His knuckles skimmed along the side of his throat, feeling the ghost of a pulse beneath the surface, then lower again, dipping into the shallow indent between his ribs.

Lioro’s lashes fluttered. His lips parted, a quiet sigh slipping free, and gods—Aemond felt that sound more than he heard it, a soft, helpless thing that curled around his spine.

He wasn’t fully awake, not yet.

But he was responding.

Aemond let his palm settle over the curve of his stomach, feeling the warmth of him, the steady rise and fall of his breaths. So beautiful, he thought, his chest tight, his own body wound taut with something dangerous. Too beautiful.

Then Lioro shifted again, stretching ever so slightly, his body arching just enough that Aemond felt the heat radiating from him, saw the way his lips parted further—saw how his brows knitted, as if his dreams had begun to take on a more familiar shape.

Aemond stilled, watching, waiting.

Would he wake, eyes lidded with sleep, still pliant from the night before?

Would he remember how he had begged for Aemond’s touch?

Would he look at him the way Lucerys had once looked at him in his dreams—something soft and wanting, something that shattered Aemond from the inside out?

Lioro’s lashes fluttered again, and this time, they stayed half-lidded.

Violet.

Aemond swallowed.

The illusion did not break.

Aemond’s throat felt tight, his own pulse a drumbeat in his ears as he gazed down at Lioro—at him.
His mind waged war against itself.

It isn’t him.

But he looked just the same, sprawled beneath him, the sheets barely clinging to his form, his limbs lax with sleep. His skin still bore the marks Aemond had left the night before, the faintest bruising along his hips, the imprint of teeth at the base of his throat.

Aemond had taken him. Possessed him.

And yet, it did not feel like enough.

It isn’t him.

But the soft hitch in Lioro’s breath as Aemond’s fingers trailed lower, just barely skimming his navel, was the same sound that had haunted him for years—muffled and strained, caught between his lips as he tried to be quiet, as if silence could save him from the inevitable.

Aemond grit his teeth.

This was a mockery. A cruel jest played by the gods, dangling what he had lost before him like a phantom just out of reach.

But he was within reach.

Aemond’s touch grew bolder, his hand sliding lower, mapping the familiar planes of this body, this flesh that was both his ruin and his salvation.

A soft noise—closer to a sigh than a moan—slipped from Lioro’s lips, his lashes fluttering but not quite opening.

Aemond’s hand stilled.

He could take. He could own. He could have this beautiful, broken thing beneath him, pliant and warm, just as he had the night before.

‘He is not yours,’ something whispered.

But he was. He had paid for him.

He should be yours.

He should have been his from the very beginning.

Aemond’s jaw clenched, his breath coming slow and sharp through his nose. He had never known such torment, such divine cruelty, as having this before him but knowing it did not belong to him.

Not yet.

His fingers curled against Lioro’s skin.

How he begged to be yours just a mere few hours before. Round after round, torment after torment.

His eyes cascade down to his thin stomach, wishing to see it …. Full. That would make it, him, his permanently.

He had done at least six loads inside him.

His fingers dance down between his thighs, curious, hardly there. Past his hardening cock —- was it these touches or even worser dreams doing this to poor Lucerys?

Then he found it.

“Fuck,” He swears out loud, his own voice hoarse with sleep.

His hole. Still sloppy with cum, but tight after rest. He dancing his finger tops across it and feels it pucker with nerves.

Quickly, his eyes dart up to his face again.

Eyes remain closed. Mouth, ever so slight open as he breaths.

If Aemond was wiser he would start there. Between those pouty lips, force his hard cock between them. Wake him up to a cruel face fucking. To have him choke and gag, and wiggle beneath him as he begs to breath.

But this end of him is so much more alluring.

He gathers two of his fingers, and presses them in knuckle-deep. The wet warmth —- like a needy cunt that’s been well abused.

“Seven hells,” He whispers, watching, pushing the two digits all the way in.

Aemond studied him, waiting—waiting for recognition, for a flicker of something real, something true.
But there was nothing.

No alarm. No hatred. No whispered curse of kinslayer.
Lioro was still lost in sleep, lost in the dreamlike haze of pleasure and exhaustion, unaware that the man beside him was memorizing every inch of him, searching for ghosts in his skin. Inside him, even.

Aemond’s grip tightened on the sheets to keep himself at bay.

Lioro shifted again, rolling onto his side, reaching blindly for warmth. His body curled toward Aemond’s own, seeking heat, seeking him.

Aemond stilled.

Lioro’s breath ghosted against his bare chest. Tucking his head under Aemond’s chin. The moment was agonizing.

The familiarity of it, the sweetness laced with cruelty. He fit so nicely along the crescent of Aemond’s naked form. He’s so fucking perfect.

He’s so perfect.

Aemond begins to fuck him on his fingers.

Slow, tender, deep. The smacking sounds of fluids as he exits and pushes back in. Rubbing against his meaty walls inside him. His cock hardens as he recalls being buried and safe inside there.

Lucerys makes a crude sound as he stirs more into reality, another whimper, louder than before. Moving one of his legs over Aemond’s, so his hand can get deeper inside. Latching onto him like an animal, hips cautiously grinding down.

Aemond’s violet eyes stare down at his burrowed face with amusement. Watching his eyes open slowly. Feeling his lashes flicker against his chest with each confused blink. Until they open — and look down.
And realize this was real.

“Ah,” His voice cracks first. He upper half tries to pull away but his lower is still grinding against his fingers like a bitch in heat. “W-wait,”

Aemond doesn’t wait. He adds a third.

“Fuck!” The courtesan yells out. His curls a mess from sex and sleep and only worsening it as he buries his head back against the strewed across pillows.

Usually, he would hate to be woken this way. Customers get so desperate to sleep with you —- he charges them nearly thrice for an hour rate for a few hours of sleep. He doesn’t like to be unconscious near lustful men.

But currently, in some form of magic, he feels like he’s on fire. Like this Prince knows his body better than he knows it himself. Brushing against every nerve ending until his knees are week. Shoving cum inside him deep, deep, deep. Like he intends to keep it all the way inside.

“Aemond,” he swears as the Prince Regents eyes darken at the sound.

Hammering his long, pale fingers inside him.
“Say it again,”

They make eye contact. Both eyes open now, with both lust and reality. He does his part, what he’s trained well to do. And gives the most sultry, pathetic. “Aemond.”

“Again.” His eyes are on his lips. His fingers brushing against that one spot that turns all men to absolute weaklings.

“Aemond!” Lioro means it this time. Closing his eyes because he can’t take it anymore. “I’m g’nna cum!”

A slow shake of the head and a laugh that suggests otherwise. “You won’t until I allow you,”

The courtesan is a shaking mess at this point. Sobs loud enough to alert his fellow workers what exactly he’s already doing at this forsaken hour. Aemond relishes in it.

“P-please.” He begs, eyes open now, and fully violet.
Aemond growls at this. “Say your name instead of mine,”

He grows confused by this but doesn’t spare it much mind once the Targaryen rams against his prostate again and he yells out;

“Lioro!” He cries, but it doesn’t appease his customer.

There’s a hand around his throat now. They’re shifting in a blink of an eye, his open wide and alert. One of his legs is still wrapped around the side of Aemond, but his entire body is flush to the bed. The man angled on top of him, his knees pinning him down. His white hair falling around them both like a curtain.

“Again,” he demands. His pace is cruel against his soft spots.

“Lioro,” He says slower this time. Unsure if this is what his customer wants.

“Take my patch off,” Aemond says, not a hand to do it. One around the younger’s throat as he steadies his weight there. The other inside him —-

“What?” Lioro blinks, feeling tears stream down his face at this point. Hearing his request but feeling like it’s a forbidden thing to ever act upon.

Aemond adds a fourth finger and it stings so bad — the Lys prostitute doesn’t care anymore. His hand, quick yet shaky, reaches up and peels it off with no precision.

Lucerys watches, transfixed, revealing the hollow, scarred socket beneath. But it’s not the wound that catches his attention—it’s the jewel. The deep violet sapphire that sits there, as cold and sharp as the fury simmering beneath Aemond’s skin.

At first glance, the stone seems almost… unnatural. Its edges are angular, like something forged in the depths of shadow, and as the light catches it, the jewel seems to shimmer with an eerie, otherworldly glow. It's like nothing Lucerys has ever seen before—an eye, in the truest sense, but so much more. It’s beautiful in its cruelty, a perfect reflection of the man before him, and he feels a strange pull toward it, as if the stone holds secrets, or promises, that he isn’t quite ready to understand.

The violet hue shifts with every flicker of movement, dancing between darkness and light, and in that moment, the courtesan realizes that it is Aemond’s eye—his gaze trapped forever in a gem that mimics the brilliance of the one he lost. The sapphire seems to leer at him, cold and unforgiving, but Lucerys can’t look away. The sharpness of it stirs something deep inside him, something fierce and aching, a want he can’t quite name.

His fingers twitch, almost yearning to touch it, to trace the lines of the stone. But he doesn’t. Instead, he watches Aemond’s every breath, every glimmer in that unnatural eye, feeling the weight of what’s been lost, what’s been claimed, and the quiet, burning fire that keeps them both bound together in this vicious dance.
“Say your name again,” Aemond grits out.

He panics —- he wants to cum under his gaze. Under that watchful eye, feeling like this moment was more intimate than the entire night he spent inside him.
He wants me to say something here. His customer has a request he isn’t communicating right out loud. Racking his brain to please him — for this torture to end.

He looks down between their frames. His smaller, weak one, being brought up and down on what’s nearly the Groom-to-Be’s whole entire fist. But not quite. Four, long, angled fingers, drenched in mixed cum as it exits and enters his frame. Stretching him so recklessly.

“Tell me your name!” He yells out, a hard slam inside. Right against his prostate.

Milking him dry.

He recalls the name from the night before. Slipped out and murmured and cursed. With every hickey he made. Bit into his skin.

The courtesan cums with a cry, with a hand around Aemond’s abusing hand, with a lie loud on his tongue.

“Lucerys!” He yells out, painting both of their chests in sticky white fluid.

What a way to be woken up.
His breath mimics the man ontop of him — uneven and unsure.

Hoping he pleases him, hoping he did right.

There’s a wet pop as Aemond’s hand leaves from inside him. The room — the building — so quiet as if the entirety of Lys was holding its breath.

Aemond moves first, as he usually does in their encounters. Pulling Lucerys’ leg off his hip, as he leans down and cleans up the boys mess. Pink tongue warm — licking up every drop of his cum as if he doesn’t want to spare any.

Lucerys hisses and whimpers. Eyes closed with a relieved sigh. He’s done what he’s wanted.

But suddenly he’s touchless. There’s a creek — a shift on the bed. A sudden loss of weight.

He opens his eyes to see the Targaryen up and dressing. He sits up right.

Usually, he lets them leave without a word. But he doesn’t what that to happen here. Instead he just asks.

“Don’t you want to get off?” Lucerys asks, voice hoarse as he sees Aemond tuck his hardened cock back into his trousers as he rolls them up and tightens them closed.

“I can’t waste anymore-,”

He wants to see it. He wants to please him. He needs to please him. “It’ll be free of charge!” He inputs.

A glare is set upon him suddenly. He feels cold and wrong. He wants to apologize … he doesn’t know what for.

The rest of Aemond’s changing is silent. Quick.
Lucerys would move to his feet, stand infront of him as he had done yesterday, entice him. But for what? Customers always left. You can’t make them stay, really. That’s the job.

“Aemond-,” he says quietly but is silenced when a bag of gold is tossed onto the bed. More than what his interaction costs, for sure.

Yet it feels wrong.

And as Aemond storms out, Lucerys pulls the sheets to his body. Feeling cold and empty and uncertain.