𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 | 𝐚𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧.

𝐗𝐈𝐕. 𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄

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?'