A/N: Content warning - sex in front of mirror, thighfucking, fingering, hints on someone's breeding kink, lmao. Also, slight mentions of eating disorder just in two first paragraphs. 

«How can they expect the past to be forgiven so easily, when the wound is open, no apologies said, and the laughter still rings in his head, clear as the day? What two-faced, egoistical kids they are. But why am I surprised? It is Targaryens we talk about. The one thing they are famous for, besides their dragons and madness, is hypocrisy. And shall I shove this hypocrisy of theirs down their throats, and–»

— From Drusilla Tyrell's diary.

• 

Never in her life Drusilla Tyrell had ever felt insecure about her body.

She is a lucky owner of a lean, quite petite structure, for some even too bony. A great figure, if you ask her opinion, but the lack of weight makes it look too... Too fragile. And though Drusilla despises the idea of her being so easy to break—she wonders about it all the time; her mind can be greater than of the most, but they can easily break her spine, and then what?—men adore it.

So, Drusilla never complains about the way she looks.

But it wasn't the same with Irellea.

She was—is, though it is not something Drusilla remembers nowadays—older than Drusilla and Aemond by two years, but she never looked like one. Instead, she seemed even smaller; her height was too short, skin quite transparent, showing quite graphically her veins and bones. Most could say she had never seen real food, and they would be correct.

Servants rarely eat well. Feasts was something they could only see afar, admiring and helping to serve, but not touching it; never touching. They mostly ate old bread, potatoes, and if they were lucky, some leftover meat.

So it is thanks to her Drusilla now has so... So terribly weak body. And such an unstoppable appetite. Because she eats, and eats, and eats, and it is never enough. Because she has an urge to consume food, even when she is not hungry, and sometimes—

But in this exact moment, as she stands in front of the mirror, hearing and seeing how Aemond's breath hitches, Drusilla knows: she is perfect.

'Hello, wife,' he answers after a long pause, steps so slow as if he hardly remembers how to walk.

She doesn't turn to face him. Instead, she waits for him to come closer.

The fabric of his clothes touches her bare back, and Drusilla leans closer, throwing her head back. Aemond locks arms around her waist, and with a little smile on face, croons his neck to kiss her.

It is... Sweet.

Not so rough and wet as they kissed before.

'The goddess of my dreams,' he whispers softly in her lips. 'My love and heart.'

Ah, Aemond always is so gentle with his words, when he loves truly. She still remembers poems he wrote to her when they were kids. Such a talented man he always was.

'My husband. My dawn and dusk,' Drusilla mumbles back, slowly melting from the way his hands start to trace her body, up and down, from hips to abdomen, making their way to her chest. 'How joyful it is, to know that the ceremony of consummation was successfully cancelled. I would hate for others to see me like this.'

His cold lips brush her neck, stopping right on the jugular wreath. Drusilla can say from the reflection of the mirror that he furrows.

'Do you really think I would allow them to do that?' He says, voice low. 'Do you really think that I would allow anyone to see you like this?'

She partly waits for his teeth to sink in her skin, drawing little droplets of blood. But it doesn't happen. Instead, his touch is gentle and tender. Aemond sucks on her skin so lightly that she melts, again.

'Oh, of course, you will not... Oh!' With the touch of skilful fingers on her hardened nipples, she gives him her first moan. 'I...'

How sensitive her skin is.

How sensitive she is.

Rarely touched, always hidden in the layers of clothes...

It is the first time she is so exposed before someone, who is not Kasia. And even she doesn't touch her like this.

'My wife, the one to be mine completely as I am always under your spell. I am the only one to touch you. To see. To even dream of,' he hisses fiercely, thumbs playing with her breasts; touching, teasing and squeezing. 'Had any of your former grooms had seen you like this? And your brother?'

The mention of Augustus for a minute makes her laugh, but this laugh brokes somewhere in the middle, when Aemond unceremoniously shoves his leg between hers, making her whimper from the sudden, absolutely unknown sensation.

'No... No one.' Drusilla desperately raises her hands, not knowing where to put them. One catches the tips of white hair, gripping it lightly, and the second one ends up being put on Aemond's. 'I was loyal to you all these years. With my soul and body.'

There is a low groan coming from Aemond, and then he very reluctantly moves his leg back and forth, making her gasp.

'O-Oh. More. I want this more.'

But then Drusilla, ever impatient, moves her hips, rooting against the fabric of his pants, muttering little oh gods as her chest feels tighter and hotter.

Seconds pass when she realises that Aemond, by silently kneading her breasts, only stares at her through the mirror, hungrily. It makes her stop for a second, almost embarrassed of her own actions.

'Continue, my love.'

She does.

And then, his hand moves down, where the fire grows stronger, and touches between her legs with the tip of his fingers.

'Fuck!'

'Louder, wife. Could you be louder for your lowly follower? Could you allow me to be blessed by the musical sounds your voice makes? I am begging you.'

'Oh, Aemond. Oh, Aemond!'

She doesn't know what he is doing—rubbing, touching, playing and sometimes just running down and up—but it feels good. It feels so good that her legs start trembling, and she leans forward, almost laying on the mirror, elbows slightly gliding on the glass.

'Do more,' Drusilla asks, voice hoarse. 'Something.'

He does.

With a very, very slow movement he starts to put his finger inside.

'Sh-h,' he kisses her on the temple, noticing the slight furrow on her sweaty face. 'It's okay.'

It feels a little bit.

Not painful, no. Just... Just, well, strange.

But then, he presses it slightly firmer, and she screams.

'Again, do that again, please!'

It is such a short feeling, that she can't genuinely say or remember how it felt. But it is pleasant one, and she wants more, more–

Drusilla almost loses herself.

When she comes for some consciousness, there are already three fingers inside her cunt, and she clutches around them desperately, trying to shove them deeper and deeper.

Aemond kisses her all over—her chin, her lips, her shoulders and collars—and now they are somehow facing each other, her back pressed to the cold mirror. As she realises it, she instantly lurches forward, starting to leave fleeting kisses all over his open neck, biting and licking every reddish mark. And, gods, how beautifully he groans.

'Fuck me properly,' she pleads, gripping his shoulders. 'Aemond, I want you inside–'

'I can't,' he roars in her shoulder, the pace of his fingers becoming wilder and wilder. 'You said it yourself, didn't you?'

Drusilla hisses in return.

She told him—and made it clear—that she will bear his child only when the question with the throne will be resolved. Not because she wishes to carry kids of the King, but only because she is afraid. Of possible war. Because no matter how sure she is in herself, there are always possibilities. And giving birth in the world, where everything can go wrong is not something Drusilla will do.

'Just put it inside, and then–'

'Irellea, if I will fuck into you, I will not be able to hold myself back. I will not stop until I leave your belly swollen, full of my seed. Do you understand?' He says, voice almost desperate, and face so wild that Drusilla can't help but moan, hitting the back of her head in the mirror's surface.

She can easily imagine how rough it could be.

'Do something, then,' she answers, no less desperate. 'I want to feel you coming between my legs, dripping with—'

He shuts her down with a kiss.

And just always, he obeys to her whims.

When he pulls his fingers out of her, Drusilla only groans, dissatisfied. But then he finally releasing himself from pants and trousers, slotting his cock between her legs.

'Squeeze it tighter.' He commands.

She doesn't even understand why or how, but willingly brings her inner sides of hips as close as possible.

Aemond... Moans. Right in her neck.

And starts to move.

'Aemond!'

She can only call for him helplessly, because it feels unreal. It feels amazing. And with each thrust, with each moment she hits her back against the slippery mirror as Aemond leaves more and more open-mouthed kisses, Drusilla becomes nothing but a sobbing mess.

'You bewitched me completely,' he says through harsh pants, one hand carding through her dark locks, pulling her close as if there was even a space between them to begin with. 'Ask me for anything and I shall receive. My special wreath of victory. My rose, and my thorns.'

Drusilla is not remembering cumming, but when she returns to her senses, already down on the bed, with Aemond by her side, she is breathless and there is something hot and sticky between her legs/

'Are you okay, wife?'

And this question is so genuine, so sweet, that Drusilla can't help but bring their lips together again, pulling him closer, simultaneously throwing away his eyepatch.

'Wife...'

When she pushes Aemond back, on the bed, sitting atop of him, he looks absolutely startled. His skin is red, face surprised, and the only eye widening either from excitement or astonishment. And no matter the answer, Drusilla knows: Aemond is ready to take whatever she will give him.

So she kisses him again, teeth clashing.

'Allow me to take care of you,' she whispers. 'Would you?'

And he surrenders.

Completely.

•

Daemon understands that this family dinner will be no less grotesque than their other's meeting after his brother's new marriage, when the stars of yesterday's feast are late, both looking as if they had some better activities than sleeping, though it is already a late evening. And dresses with the highest collars really tell a lot.

Well, at once he understands - he and Rhaenyra weren't leaving their bedroom for two days; if not for Jacaerys knocking, maybe they could do it even three days...

'It is a great thing for us all... Gathered here today...' His brother hardly croaks. 'A great... Thing. Family should stick together.'

It is a torture, to see Viserys like this.

His favourite elder brother, once the only family he had left, now slowly becoming a shadow, the shadow that threatens to crumble.

He wonders would be it any different if he stayed here, with him?

Do they even take good care of him?

'Let's drink for all being gathered as one.'

At first, everything seems quite... Normal. They cheer, they talk, and even Helaena's offhand comment about her husband—it was funny, that Daemon admits willingly—didn't ruin anything. So, yes, they speak and smile to each other, dancing around as if nothing happened; as if there is no blind hatred between all of them.

A surprisingly normal night.

At least, until his brother doesn't leave the table, weakened and tired. That is where everything goes down, just as Daemon expected to be.

Admittedly, he misses the beginning of it; he is too busy with feeding Rhaenyra, laughing with her on the stupidest joke. But then his nephew, the one named Aemond—at least, Daemon thinks it is his name—stands up with a loud grunt, an eye narrowing.

It is enough to spot the pig on the table, and how Lucerys laughs to understand what triggered it.

Ah, perhaps, his wife is right: he is an absolutely terrible influence on their sons.

'I want to raise a toast,' Aemond starts, and there is something raging in a way he smiles.

But before he does anything at all, Drusilla, his wife, shyly tugs his sleeve. A dark expression on his face melts, when he looks at her.

'Husband, may I?'

Alicent Hightower sighs in relief.

Daemon scoffs.

He doesn't know a lot about Drusilla Tyrell, but staring at her through the whole ceremony made him understand what kind of woman she is. Usually, he grows tired of such a company too quickly. But everyone in there is so charmed by her, that it is alarming. Even Rhaenyra pities her, calling her a little girl, who got sold in the wrong family.

Perhaps, she is right. But still, Daemon finds himself being disturbed by her smiles and empty laugh.

'Of course,' Aemond agrees, sitting back without any resistance.

How cute. The dog is on the leash now.

Drusilla stands from her place, fixing the yellowish dress, a cup of wine in her hand.

'I want to raise a toast for my new family,' she starts, smiling widely at them, slowly tracing everyone with her doe eyes. 'Some of you I have known for a long time, and others I have met only two or three times, but I am glad to become a part of this family nevertheless.'

Daemon snickers viciously.

Oh, sweet child, not for so long you will be happy here. Wait until their hugs will turn into suffocating ones, and hold on a hand will start to leave bruises. It is sad, of course, but Daemon can't help but wonder how good it will be - to let Augustus Tyrell know how his sister is treated. Because, oh, the young lord loves his sister. It will be a matter of time; eventually, he will choose Rhaenyra's side.

'I am thanking everyone for having me,' Drusilla continues. 'There were so many good toasts raised, for almost everyone. For our King and the Queen mother, and for the future one as well. For my husband, brother and sister in law. For amazing Baela and Rhaena. But I think we missed someone. Jacaerys and Lucerys. I want to drink for both of you.'

To some extent, despite the understanding how useful Tyrells' money would be, Daemon is glad that Drusilla and Jacaerys never become a real thing. Not only because his daughter is the only one who suits this role in his opinion, but also because... He can hardly picture this girl as part of their family. Even among greens, she looks absolutely unsettled, out of place.

'I knew both of you for not so long. But you showed me such hospitality that week we spent together. Such kindness. A true family spirit,' Daemon rolls his eyes, noticing little blushes on Lucerys's cheeks.

He wasn't around when Drusilla Tyrell spent a week in Dragonstone, busy with some work, but coming from Rhaenyra, Lucerys just adored her company; like a sister and brother they were, she said. Jacaerys from the other side, seemed quite shy in her company, but didn't complain. So, she had some interesting effects on the younger generation.

'I would never forget how kind both of you were. How you, Jace, carried me back to the castle, when I sprained my leg,' Aemond shifts on his chair uncomfortably. 'Or the last gift you gave me, Luc. I still keep it. It is a very precious memory. And little Joffrey is not here, but, oh, he was the most charming thing in the world. So, if no one minds, I want to drink for these three boys.'

Rhaenyra smiles at these words, immediately raising her cup in the air, as Daemon follows her. Helaena and Aegon do the same, waiting for the next words.

'I wish you so many good things that it is hard to put it all into words. So, if you allow me, I will just quote my family and all my ancestors. Something, we Tyrells, consider to be the most important thing, and something my mother used to wish me upon every birthday. I am wishing you to grow strong.'

The silence falls on the room almost immediately.

The dead one.

Alicent gasps, hiding her face in hands.

Rhaenyra freezes, and so do boys. But the strangest part, even Aemond himself is so startled by this statement that he almost knocks a wine on himself, turning to Drusilla in the silent question.

Helaena starts clapping, always oblivious when it comes to argument, and Aegon bursts into laughter.

Daemon furrows.

Growing strong. An ancient motto that comes from the first Tyrell, the most memorable quote that usually writes down in the centre of their castle. Everyone knows that. So, if it was the usual family, these words would mean nothing. But how high are chances that it was intentional? Because Daemon can say, it is not dictated: even that goddamn Otto Hightower is absolutely lost after hearing this.

So is that really just a misunderstanding?

Despite her absolutely stupidness, Drusilla notices the change in the air.

'I... I apologise, did I say something wrong?' She asks, rather anxious. She quickly glances at her husband. 'Did I make some mistake...? I am not sure what is wrong, but if I need to apologise—'

Aegon finally stops wheezing, and weeping off the tears, he calms her down:

'No, no, Silla. It is okay. Right, boys?'

Jacaerys tries to smile at her, the gentleman he is.

'Don't worry, lady Tyrell...'

'Lady Tyrell-Targaryen,' Aemond bristles, instantly standing up.

Ah, right. Allowing Drusilla to keep her maiden surname is one of the most important agreements, when you ask for her hand in marriage. Daemon knew that—Augustus Tyrell insists that since his sister is in fact, the Heart of the Reach, the Golden Princess she shouldn't be stripped from her legacy—but it still sounds quite strange when he hears it.

'It is okay, wife,' Aemond reassures her.

Eventually, Drusilla sits down, blinking owlishly. Daemon spots her turning to face Otto—he is the closest to her—asking something.

'Just as my wife said, and I believe she is always right... Let's empty our cup for this strong boys.'

So maybe Drusilla doesn't mean harm, but this surely is a hidden mockery.

'I dare you to say that again!'

'Why? It is only a compliment. You don't consider yourself to be strong?'

In one minute, Aemond and Jacaerys both rush to each other, and then there are sounds of chairs, wheezing: Aegon stands up to catch Lucerys, and Drusilla rushes to her husband's side.

Internally, Daemon is already prepared to witness another fight between these kids—maybe, Lucerys will take the second eye of that beast, if they are lucky enough—but when Jacaerys aims to hit his uncle, something that no one expects to happen, in fact, does happen.

Drusilla, this idiotic girl, obscures her husband away.

And the hit lands right on her face with a loud sound.

Only with that Alicent Hightower raises, knocking up her chair. Others, understanding what happened, stop too: Aegon releases his nephew from his chokehold, and Rhaenyra claps a hand on her mouth, either shocked or terrified of consequences. Because hitting and fighting with Aemond is one thing—at this point, even a tradition of their meetings—but the girl, who is not the part of their family fully? The girl that is adored by everyone? That is another thing.

Realisation of what happened reaches Jacaerys as well, as he steps back, shocked.

'I... I am so sorry... I wasn't...'

Drusilla's head hangs low as she grips her cheek, eyes squeezed. Aemond shoves her behind himself, and then, there is a loud hiss; the first sound for a