Chapter 4: The Storm Within

by: DoublingDownOnRed

Aemond paced his chambers like a caged animal, the aftermath of Ser Jaron's blood still fresh in his mind. His fingers twitched as if they could still feel the hilt of his sword, the weight of his decision heavy on his chest. It hadn't been enough—killing the man had only momentarily stilled the rage within him. It was Lyra who had ignited this inferno, and it was Lyra who needed to be dealt with.

The memory of her face, calm and composed as she handed that gift to Jaron, grated at his soul. She had known exactly what she was doing. She had provoked him, taunted him with her silence. The woman had been playing a dangerous game, one that would end soon. He would see to that.

"Aemond," a voice interrupted his thoughts. Queen Alicent stood at the doorway, her expression concerned as she watched her son. "What happened today? I've heard troubling whispers."

He didn't turn to look at her. His eye was fixed on the city beyond his window, on the streets where Lyra moved like a ghost, slipping between shadows, eluding his grasp. "I took care of a problem," he replied curtly.

"By killing a man in broad daylight?" Alicent's voice was sharp, the edge of a reprimand in her tone. "Aemond, you can't let your anger control you like this. The court is already uneasy."

Aemond finally turned to face her, his single eye burning with the intensity of a dragon's fire. "That man was a traitor. He accepted gifts from a woman who has been meddling in affairs that are none of her concern."

Alicent frowned, her brows furrowing as she took a cautious step forward. "What woman? Who do you speak of?"

"Lyra," he growled, the name slipping from his lips like a curse. "She was there, playing her little games, thinking she could manipulate me. But I will not be manipulated, mother. Not by her, not by anyone."

Alicent's eyes widened, and a flicker of something—perhaps fear, perhaps concern—crossed her features. "Lyra? The woman from the brothel?"

"Yes," Aemond snarled. "The very same. She thinks she knows me. Thinks she can control me."

Alicent's hand fluttered to her chest, her fingers clutching the fabric of her gown. "Aemond, this is dangerous. If she's truly involved in something more sinister—"

"I'll handle it," he snapped, cutting her off. His tone brooked no argument. He would deal with Lyra, one way or another. "She's been playing a game, but she doesn't realize she's playing with a dragon. And dragons don't lose."

Alicent studied him for a moment, her expression softening with the weight of maternal worry. "Just…be careful, Aemond. You cannot allow your anger to cloud your judgment. You're better than this."

He said nothing, merely nodding as his mother left him alone in his chambers. The silence that followed was oppressive, pressing in on him as his thoughts circled back to Lyra. She was a problem he needed to solve, a fire he needed to extinguish before it consumed him entirely.

With a sharp exhale, Aemond donned his cloak and made his way out of the Red Keep. His steps were quick, his purpose clear. He knew where to find her. And when he did, she would know exactly what it meant to cross a Targaryen.

Later

The streets of King's Landing were alive with their usual chaos—merchants haggling, drunkards stumbling from tavern to tavern, and beggars pleading for spare coins. But Aemond Targaryen was blind to it all. His every step was fueled by a singular purpose: to confront Lyra. His rage simmered beneath the surface, a storm held at bay only by the rigid control he fought to maintain. His jaw was clenched, his fingers flexing as if already imagining them closing around her slender throat.

The familiar scent of incense and cheap wine greeted him as he approached the brothel. It wasn't the first time he'd entered this place, but tonight, it felt different. The tension coiled within him tighter with every step. The memories of their last encounter—the way she had disarmed him with her tenderness—gnawed at his pride. He had let her get too close, let her see a side of him no one should see. She had touched something raw in him, and now, he was determined to burn that vulnerability to ash.

Aemond pushed through the door with more force than necessary, the wood groaning under his hand. The familiar, dimly lit room opened before him, bathed in a flickering orange glow. The scent of sweat, smoke, and something floral clung to the air. As he entered, the soft murmur of voices and laughter faded. The patrons fell silent, eyes flicking toward him, recognizing the power and danger that radiated from his presence. No one dared meet his gaze for more than a fleeting moment.

He scanned the room, his eye narrowing as he searched for her. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, a steady drum of fury and anticipation. He wasn't here to lose himself in another meaningless encounter. He was here for her. Only her.

His mood shifted as the moments dragged on, and he

His mood shifted as the moments dragged on, and he found no trace of her among the women who lounged on velvet cushions, their eyes glittering with curiosity and caution. The longer he stood in the center of the room, the angrier he became. Each passing second felt like an affront to his control, to his authority.

She's hiding from me.

That thought stoked the fire of his fury. The notion that she would dare avoid him after everything they had shared, after she had unraveled him piece by piece, was unbearable. His chest tightened, his breath coming faster as the emotions that had been tightly wound inside him began to unravel.

A woman approached him, her steps hesitant, her eyes casting downward in deference. She was pretty enough—golden-haired and slender, dressed in a revealing gown of emerald silk—but she was not who he wanted. She spoke quietly, her voice tentative, as if sensing the storm that raged beneath his cold exterior. "My lord… how may I serve you tonight?"

Aemond's gaze snapped to her, his eye blazing with barely restrained rage. "I'm not here for you," he hissed through clenched teeth.

The woman recoiled slightly, a flicker of fear crossing her face before she quickly backed away. The other women, seeing the rejection, remained where they were, their smiles fading as they watched him with wary eyes.

His patience was gone. Without a word, Aemond stormed toward the back of the room, where a narrow staircase led to the private chambers above. His boots echoed ominously on the wooden steps, the sound a steady reminder of his intent. Each step felt heavier than the last, weighted by the fury that burned hotter with every breath he took. The walls seemed to close in around him as he ascended, the darkness thick and suffocating.

He reached the top, and there, standing at the end of the hallway, was Mysaria—the White Worm, as she was called by some. Her pale skin gleamed in the dim light, and her calculating eyes assessed him with cool detachment. She was a fixture in King's Landing's underworld, and she knew more than most about the secrets that could ruin the highborn and the lowborn alike. Aemond did not care for her games, not tonight.

"My prince," she greeted him, her voice smooth and unreadable. "To what do I owe this unexpected visit?"

Aemond didn't answer right away. His gaze bore into hers, the fire in his chest begging to be unleashed. "Where is she?" he demanded, his voice low and dangerous.

Mysaria's lips curled into a faint smile, her head tilting ever so slightly. "I assume you are speaking of Lyra. She's resting. Shall I fetch her for you?"

The nonchalance in her tone only served to fuel his rage. He stepped closer, his fingers twitching toward the hilt of his sword, though he refrained from drawing it. "Now," he growled.

Mysaria's smile never wavered as she inclined her head. "As you wish, my prince."

She disappeared into one of the shadowed doorways, leaving Aemond standing alone in the narrow hallway. His chest rose and fell with uneven breaths as he waited. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms. The memories of their last encounter, of the way her hands had soothed him, the way her eyes had seen too much, returned with a vengeance. He hated her for making him feel exposed, for making him question his control. But more than that, he hated himself for needing her touch, for craving the calm she had offered even as he fought against it.

The door creaked open behind him, and Aemond turned, his body tense with anticipation. Lyra stepped into the hallway, her expression unreadable. She was dressed simply, her hair loose around her shoulders, her violet eyes meeting his without flinching. The calm acceptance in her gaze was the same as it had been that night, and it grated on him, made him feel raw and exposed.

"Aemond," she said quietly, her voice soft but steady. She didn't bow, didn't offer the same deference the others did. She simply stood before him, her presence quiet and unyielding.

For a moment, he couldn't speak. The anger that had driven him here, the fire that had consumed him, faltered in the face of her calm. But then he remembered Aegon's mocking voice, the way his brother had taunted him about her, and the fury reignited.

"Do you think you can toy with me?" he growled, taking a step toward her. His hand shot out, grabbing her wrist with a force that would have made another woman cry out, but Lyra remained silent, her eyes locked on his.

"You taunted me with Ser Jaron, and now you avoid me. Do you think you can hide?" His voice was thick with anger, but beneath it, there was something else—something darker, more dangerous.

Lyra's gaze never wavered. "I'm not hiding, Aemond," she replied softly. "You know where to find me."

Her words struck something deep within him, igniting the storm he had been barely holding back. With a growl, he pulled her closer, his hand still tight around her wrist as he pushed her back against the wall. The tension between them crackled like lightning, the air thick with the weight of unspoken emotions. He could feel her warmth against him, her breath steady and even despite the intensity of the moment.

"Do you think you understand me?" he hissed, his voice low and dangerous. "You think you can see me?"

Lyra didn't flinch. "I see you," she said quietly, her voice unwavering. "More than you realize."

Aemond's grip tightened for a moment, his fingers digging into her skin, but then, without warning, he released her. His hand fell to his side, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he exhaled. His breath came in ragged bursts, the anger that had fueled him slowly ebbing away, leaving behind something raw and painful.

He hated her for seeing him. But more than that, he hated himself for needing her to.

Aemond stood still, his chest heaving with the effort to contain the storm within him. His gaze remained locked on Lyra, the fire in his eye not yet extinguished. The closeness of her body, the soft rise and fall of her breath, only stoked the heat building between them. Her calm presence was maddening, as if she had seen right through him—past the rage, past the power—to the vulnerable parts of himself that he kept hidden.

Lyra didn't move, her back still pressed against the wall where he had pinned her. But there was no fear in her eyes, only a quiet understanding that cut through him like a blade. She watched him closely, her violet eyes never wavering, her lips slightly parted as if she, too, was waiting for what came next.

The air between them was thick with tension, but it wasn't just the anger that hung in the balance now. Something else was there too—something darker, more primal. Aemond could feel it building inside him, a need that went beyond control, beyond dominance. It was a hunger that had been simmering beneath the surface ever since that night.

Without a word, he reached for her again, his hand wrapping around her neck—not to hurt, but to hold her there, to make sure she didn't escape. His fingers pressed against her pulse, feeling the steady rhythm of her heartbeat beneath his thumb. His touch was rough, possessive, but there was a softness in the way his thumb brushed the delicate skin of her throat, as if testing the boundaries between dominance and tenderness.

Lyra's breath hitched, but she didn't pull away. Instead, she tilted her head ever so slightly, offering him more of her neck, a gesture that was both submissive and challenging. Her body was still, her gaze unwavering as she watched him, waiting for his next move. Aemond could see the heat in her eyes now, could feel the tension rising between them like a flame being fanned.

"You think you know me?" Aemond growled, his voice low and thick with the weight of everything he was holding back. "You think you can control me?"

Her lips parted slightly, her breath coming in soft, shallow bursts. "No, Aemond," she whispered, her voice steady despite the intensity of the moment. His name held a faint accent when she said it. Something foreign that had been bred out of her in the beds of her clients. "I don't want to control you."

The admission sent a jolt of something hot and dangerous through him, and before he could stop himself, Aemond closed the distance between them. His lips crashed against hers with a force that left no room for hesitation. The kiss was rough, hungry, a clash of power and need that had been building for far too long. His hand tightened around her neck, pulling her closer, and he could feel the heat of her body pressed against his.

Lyra responded in kind, her hands sliding up his chest to grip the fabric of his tunic as she kissed him back just as fiercely. Her mouth moved against his with a desperation that matched his own, and Aemond could feel the control he had been clinging to slipping away with every passing second. He deepened the kiss, his tongue parting her lips as he claimed her mouth with a need that bordered on feral.

His free hand moved to her waist, fingers digging into her soft flesh as he pulled her tighter against him. The feel of her body beneath his touch, the heat radiating from her skin, sent a rush of desire through him that he could no longer ignore.

He wanted her—no, he needed her.

He needed to lose himself in her, to drown out the chaos in his mind with the feel of her skin, the taste of her lips, the heat of her body.

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Aemond leaned in close, his lips brushing against her ear as he whispered, "You're mine."

Before she could respond, he thrust into her, hard and deep, and Lyra cried out, her hands bracing against the wall as her body rocked with the force of his movement. The sound of her moan, the way her body responded to his, drove him to the edge. He set a punishing pace, each thrust harder and deeper than the last, the need to claim her, to lose himself in her, overwhelming everything else.

The room was filled with the sound of their bodies moving together, the harsh rhythm of their breaths, the soft, breathy moans that escaped her lips. Aemond's hands tightened on her hips, his grip almost bruising as he drove into her with a relentless, desperate rhythm. He could feel the heat building inside him, the fire that had been burning so hot now reaching its peak.

Lyra's body trembled beneath him, her moans growing louder, more frantic. Her hips moved against his in perfect sync, meeting each of his thrusts with equal fervor. Aemond could feel her getting closer, could hear it in the way her breath hitched, in the way her moans turned into cries of pleasure.

He was close too—so close. His movements became more erratic, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he felt the tension inside him build to an unbearable level. He leaned in, pressing his lips to her ear once more, his voice low and rough. "Come for me," he growled, his hand slipping between her legs again, teasing her sensitive spot as he drove her over the edge.