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huramuna · 6 months

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the calico bastard - chapter 2.

aemond targaryen x strong bastard oc (series) previous part | next part

summary: After his takeover of Harrenhal, Aemond encounters a dreamy-eyed, wistful bastard of House Strong, who piques his interest and changes the course of Westerosi history.

warnings: smut (eventually), angst, canon typical violence, canon typical misogyny. will add more as I go through each chapter.

wordcount: 2.3k

a/n: alys rivers doesn’t exist in this universe, alysanne takes her place somewhat. a/n 2: this is my first fic, i got the courage to post it -- please be nice n' leave a like if this interests you!

wuthering heights - kate bush • leave me for dead - GAYLE

Ser Daunton knocked on the door, “Your grace, your… serving girl is ready.”

Alysanne shuffled next to him, settling down the errant puff of her dress. Once, twice, thrice.

“Enter,” Aemond’s voice rang out from behind the chamber door, “Only her— thank you, Ser Daunton.”

The grizzled soldier gave an almost imperceptible sigh, looking at Alysanne. “Good luck, lass.” he spoke quietly, the corners of his eyes crinkling in almost an apology.

She took a deep inhale of air, nodding her head. She pushed in the heavy oak door, struggling slightly. The old hinges shrieked, begging to be oiled or tended to— it's how most things in Harrenhal fared. Screaming for care, for more than desolation and decay.

But that was a part of the curse of the castle, wasn’t it?

She closed it behind her, not daring yet to look in the room. It was warm, the soft crackling of a fire were the only sounds in the room— besides a tapping. An errant drumming, as if in impatience.

It was Aemond, knocking his forefinger and middle on the wooden arm of the chair facing the fire. The taps seemed to time with the rising beat of Alysanne’s heart.

“Well? Are you going to stand there all eve, girl? Or mayhaps, do your job.” he said, a tinge of agitation.

She hummed a nervous agreement, walking to the armoire, where she grabbed a decanter of wine and a goblet.

The red liquid poured and poured until it reached the rim of the goblet, to which she presented to Aemond. She didn’t dare look at his face, her eyes downcast at some imperceptible point, wide and unfocused.

Despite her best efforts to not look directly at him, she saw the corners of his mouth, which usually rested in a smug grin— not out of happiness or glee, but perhaps superiority— twist into something of amusement.

Amusement— amusement? Why was he amused? Surely nothing was funny. Mayhaps she looked humorous to him.

“Have you ever poured wine before?” he asked then, taking the goblet from her with one swift movement, sipping from it.

She shook her head, looking at the cup— it was practically overflowing. “No.” she answered, squeezing her hands together, the nail of her thumb sinking into the soft flesh of her palm.

“That is quite obvious— you should never fill it to the top,” he said, perking a brow, “Unless, you’re my brother, of course.” he added, almost as an afterthought. Something that earned a half-hearted sniff from him, as if he couldn’t even laugh at his own joke.

Alysanne’s eyes came up further now, landing on the soft curve of his lips and the cleft of his chin— she didn’t make eye contact, but was coming increasingly closer to doing so.

“I will keep that in mind, my grace,” she murmured.

He stopped, putting the goblet aside, “It's ‘your grace’,” he corrected.

“… your grace,” she parroted, sinking her nails deeper into her palm. She felt her chest heat up in a familiar feeling— embarrassment.

“I can’t fault you— your father must’ve not taught you a thing,” he continued, leaning back in the chair, “Do you even know how to read, hm?”

She puffed out her lip indignantly, “Yes— I know how to read,” her voice taking a dangerous edge. She caught herself, biting down on her cheek, “your grace.”

Aemond shifted, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, “Look at me.” he asked, commanded, rather.

Alysanne bit into her cheek until she tasted blood, lifting her head shakily. She hated looking people in the eyes— it was too vulnerable, as if she were a sheep showing the soft of their belly to a wolf. It felt as if they could read her thoughts and use them against her, as if her own sight was weaponized against her.

Their gazes finally met, violet eye to violet eye— Alysanne felt her heart stop, clenching as if an icy fist was closing around it. But then it stopped, her chest stilling as she zeroed in on his lone eye– she thought it quite curious, they had the same shade of violet. It was the color of a sun bleached lavender flower, piercing.

He had put his eyepatch back on, as well, his sapphire gem eye no longer on display like it had been in the courtyard. Her eyes glazed over the jagged scar jutting above and down his otherwise smooth face. She felt her eyebrows knit in a slight confusion.

“I don’t wish to scare you— or any lady, for that matter,” he said then, his voice taking on a softer tone– a soft voiced dragon is still a dragon, the fire quelled to ashes for a moment or two– the right corner of his mouth twitching slightly.

She caught that, too. People may think her to be simpleminded and dimwitted, and mayhaps she was in some ways, but she noticed things that other people did not. She knew when to watch without being watched herself.

“You shan’t scare me,” she replied, her hands finally unclasping, “I’ve seen much and more horrid things than a sapphire eye.”

Another twitch of his mouth, and an impalpable, brief knit of his brow, “Hm.” he hummed, taking another sip of the overfilled wine glass with one hand, his other resuming its tapping on the arm of the chair.

She looked away for a moment, taking in the decor and surroundings of the room– this was Lord Simon’s room previously– but his things had been cleared out quickly. But she still felt his ghost, wheezing and coughing as he usually did.

When she turned back to Aemond, his hand was extended– he was offering her… the wine glass? Her brow furrowed.

“I won’t drink this by myself, you poured enough for two people– so you shall reap the consequences of your mistake, hm?” he hummed again, “It isn’t bad wine, I will give the Strong lord that much.”

She stepped backwards, as if remembering that she was too close. “I don’t drink wine– it's an unfit… privilege for someone like me,” she grumbled, giving a half-hearted excuse. The truth was, she had never had even a drop before. As far as vices went, she was more inclined to consume sugary treats rather than alcohol, which to her experience, made people act like moldering fools.

“Come, drink. Drink to the health of the King, or mayhaps the memory of Ser Simon, your kin, was he not?”

Alysanne ground her teeth together, staring an indignant stare right into Aemond’s remaining eye. She took the goblet, moreso, snatched it– and took a sip, a rather big one. She had expected it to taste like the juice of sweet fruits, perhaps like the runny filling of a cherry pie, or a compote of blueberry and raspberry. She regret her choice right away, her body screaming at her to expel the disgustingly tart and acrid liquid.

This seemed to amuse the prince, the corner of his eye crinkling in mirth, “You want to spit it out, don’t you?”

She nodded vehemently, begging for silent permission to retch the imbibement from her mouth.

“Swallow.” was all he said.

She glared at him, feeling as if her eyes were bulging out of her head, her throat was burning from keeping it in her mouth, the sting of the alcohol worming its way into any nook and crevice it could find. She shook her head in disagreement.

“Swallow.” he said again, standing up now. His form towered over her, even more so than before, their difference in height about a foot.

Reluctantly, she did so– the soft of her throat bobbing as she swallowed the wine. She felt sick to her stomach, backing up farther away from him. “Y-you suffocate me, too close, too close,” she grumbled under her breath, inhaling and exhaling to try to quell the unease rising in her body.

And yet, he didn’t relent– he stepped closer, until her heels were being warmed by the flames in the hearth, her back pressed to the chiseled stone. He loomed over her like an oppressive force, stealing the oxygen from her lungs, growing his own fire by stamping hers out. “Do I scare you, bastard?” he asked then, his breath warm and tinged with the scent of the wine, as was hers. His arms boxed her in against the fireplace.

“You’re too close, dragon– do not touch me,” she hissed, “Why do you insist on snuffing out my flame?”

Then, his hand went to her face, encapsulating her chin and jaw with just one palm. He was speaking– something garbled and unintelligible. Her eyes glazed over as the sounds of the fire faded, the blood rushing to her ears. The sides of her vision blackened for a few moments– before flashing images came over her.

“You’ve lived too long, uncle.” Aemond spoke, mounting Vhagar with practiced ease.

“On that, we agree.” Daemon responded, already saddled on his bloodwyrm, the ancestral sword Dark Sister strapped at his side.

It was all gnashing teeth and flames spewing, the cries of dragon, both human and not, echoing. They were in the sky, over the expanse of the God’s Eye, locked in a battle of claws and scales.

The straps, the straps– Aemond, Aemond, the straps– Alysanne felt herself screaming– why was she screaming? Why was she here? Why did she care about their fate? Why– Aemond, unstrap yourself–

Her cries felt like wails into the void, like shrieking underwater and not hearing a thing– Daemon was already unstrapped from the saddle, he was ready, positioning himself for a strike.

Aemond saw what Alysanne saw, too late– he was fumbling with his own rigging, undoing the leather bindings of the saddle, and when realizing that wouldn’t work, he reached for his sword– too late. Too late.

Dark Sister plunged through his eye– his sapphire eye, the sharp tip of the blade coming out of the back of his head, his sickly screams snapping to an end, in a synchronization with his dragon, the mighty and ancient Vhagar, named after a God– all four of them plunged into the depths of the God’s Eye, sinking down, down…

Alysanne closed her eyes, opening them in succession once more, blinking once, twice, thrice– she was back in Harrenhal, back against the hearth. Aemond, who was still very much alive and not skewered through the head, was looking at her, or through her– his brow furrowed in concern. Concern? Yes, surely, concern– and not the concern of a dragon– but mayhaps a person.

A person who had seen something before like this. He was murmuring something, not realizing that she had regained consciousness.

“Helaena… Helaena…” he whispered, “I’m sorry, Helaena.”

Helaena? His queen sister, Helaena? Alysanne had heard of her before– of course, how could she not– The eccentric and odd queen, a fascination with bugs– now grief stricken and unresponsive after witnessing the murder of her son, Jaehaerys. They say that Helaena always muttered to herself, incomprehensible rhythms, poems– it did sound quite familiar, didn’t it?

Alysanne forced herself to let out an audible sigh, as if to snap out the prince from his reverie– to act as if she had just woken up. She felt like she had witnessed something she shouldn’t have– a moment of vulnerability from him when he thought no one was looking.

She felt his posture go stiff and rigid, his breath blowing atop her head through flared nostrils. “Can you stand?” he asked, his steelheart grip on her not relenting just yet.

“... think so,” she murmured, looking to that far-off point once again, trying to detach herself from the situation.

He then let her go, slowly, steadying her for a moment to make sure she wouldn’t fall over like a broken doll– before stepping back, back, back to the far end of the room.

His hand was at his chin, the other at the side of his head, the scarred side. His fingers were looped under the strap of his eyepatch. His jaw was set in a rigid line, his knuckles turning white from exertion, a vein popping at the side of his head– the unmistakable image of pain.

Not just an emotional pain, but a physical pain.

“... you’re in pain.” Alysanne murmured, forgetting herself, forgetting the situation– forgetting who she was– all she could see was his pain, not just now, but in her vision– or mayhaps, her delusion– the heartwrenching, stomach churning wail of Aemond as Dark Sister pierced his skull–

A small fraction of that affliction haunted him now. At her voice, he turned to her, his lip twitching more, just like before. He looked like the cornered animal now– even though she wasn’t in closer proximity– his violet eye narrowed to what looked like a slit. He was the very image of an animal with a broken leg, snapping and gnashing at those who got close.

“Leave. Now.” he grit out, his hand now clawing at his eyepatch to take it off, “LEAVE.”

Alysanne didn’t wish to test him any longer– a cornered animal would bite, and he was on that verge. She picked up her skirts and promptly left, bursting through the heavy wooden door and slamming it behind her, most likely waking the ghosts that flitted through the halls.

Only when she reached her room– her closet– she took a breath, ripping the corset and kirtle from her body, leaving her in the silken shift. Her hands worked doubletime to unbraid her hair and let it flow down in waves before her fingers sank into the tresses at her scalp, gripping tightly, attempting to ground herself in reality and not spin out of control.

What had just happened? What exactly did she see? When would this happen?

And what could she do to stop it?

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