winterstellars - Tumblr blog

winterstellars · 8 months

Text

no bc this fic has me giggling blushing kicking my feet in the air at 9 in the morning, this truly is my girl breakfast 🤭😏

Sour Switchblade

No sooner has she landed in the courtyard of Storm’s End, she knows her mission is doomed // Main Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen x nameless female character (daughter of Rhaenyra)

Warnings: 18+, smut, childhood friends to enemies to lovers, Targcest (uncle and neice), threats of violence, bit of blood, dub-con, breeding kink

Words: 4100

A/n: Also available on AO3. Inspired by my current obsession with this song.

She knows where she is the moment she reaches the skies above the Stormlands; this part of the world was not named in irony.

She clutches tightly to Silverwing’s reigns, dragon and rider fighting through the fierce winds and heavy rain that stings the skin of her cheeks.

Lucerys and Arrax would have never made the journey. They are both too small, too young to take on such a burden as messengers on the eve of war. Jacaerys should have the more arduous task ahead of him, to fly to the Eyrie and then to Winterfell, to earn the support of the Arryns and the Starks to their mother’s cause.

She has one destination, one objective, one Lord to win over. But no sooner has she landed in the courtyard of Storm’s End, she knows her mission is doomed.

She hears Vhagar’s call, or rather feels it reverberate in her chest, before she sees her. She is a monstrously large dragon, the oldest of her kind. Only her head and neck loom over the battlements, but it is enough to terrify the Princess.

Because with Vhagar comes Aemond.

He had hardly spoken so much as a word to her during the petitions for Driftmark, but his eye never left her.

She pushes aside any childish ideas of hope for a civil encounter with her uncle. Any love between them was severed the night he claimed his dragon and Lucerys claimed his eye in the tunnels below Hightide.

Her name is announced to the Round Hall as she trails in behind an escort of guards. Rain drips from her soaked leathers and hair, the braid she wore long blown apart by the wind. She clenches her jaw, determined not to shiver in the presence of the Lord of Storm’s End, or the one eyed Prince who lurks at the edge of the room.

Aemond stands with his hands clasped behind his back. For a moment she sees surprise in his gaze, but it soon settles into a smug smile, his single eye positively gleaming through the miserable light of the hall.

Beside him is a young woman, dressed in all the finery of a Baratheon Lady. Her suspicions are confirmed when Lord Borros mentions a marriage pact.

She can’t stop herself. She looks to Aemond, knowing full well she is doing nothing to hide the fury in her face. And he stares back, like a hunter stalking prey.

She has nothing to offer Lord Borros, nothing that could compete with such a match. Her brothers are either betrothed or too young.

But she cannot fail, not when Rhaenyra has lost so much already these past few days.

Aemond’s eye remains fixed on her, vaguely amused, but still alert and intent. Perhaps he believes he has found a weakness, perhaps the shark smells blood.

If memory serves correctly, Lord Borros’ wife passed some years ago.

“I offer my hand to you, my Lord,” she says. “Pledge your banners to the true Queen, and your sons will be Princes.”

Lord Borros brings his fingers to his beard, muttering into the ear of his Maester and nervously glancing towards his other royal guest.

The amusement has faded from Aemond’s face, his moment of triumph snatched from him. Even the mere consideration of her proposal undermines him.

His chin is tilted down now, his eye dark and lips pressing together to withhold a sneer. She revels in it, taking a breath to stop herself from smiling.

“I will need time to consider,” Lord Borros says. “I will make my decision known on the morrow.”

Aemond takes one step towards her before she is whisked away by the eldest of the Baratheon sisters, Cassandra, and no less than four guards. Cassandra takes her arm in hers and leads her through the castle to a guest chamber, in a tower that overlooks the courtyard and Shipbreaker Bay beyond that.

A bath is drawn for her and a gown of black with gold embroidery laid out of her to change into. It seems unusual to see herself in these colours, but then again, her grandmother, Rhaenys, is half Baratheon.

Dressed in her gown and with her hair newly done, she watches Silverwing seek shelter from the Storm under the battlements. Vhagar is apparently sleeping, with her wings cradled over her body to keep out the rain.

Silverwing would be miserable here, she thinks. A dragon needs clear skies, they cannot always fight against the wind and rain.

It’s hard to tell exactly when the sun sets. There are no warm colours in the sky, no streaks of orange or gold. The sky beyond the storm clouds fades from grey, to indigo, and then to black.

Lady Cassandra escorts her to the Round Hall for supper. It is a modest affair. Lord Borros’ advisors and bannermen sit at tables in the heart of the hall, while a high table is set before the Stone Throne. Lord Borros sits at the centre, with two empty spaces either side of him. She might guess who they are for.

She sits between Lord Borros and Cassandra, and finds just enough time to steady her nerves with a sip of wine when Lady Floris enters with Aemond on her arm.

She swallows her mouthful wine thickly, meeting her uncle’s gaze for only a moment out of courtesy.

He takes his place beside Lord Borros and the meal commences. Servants bring out whole roasted boars, and given Aemond’s reaction to the suckling pig at dinner in the Red Keep, she refrains from moving her mouth or looking in his direction. In fact she hardly has an appetite at all. She sits with a stiff spine, glancing down at the plate of potatoes and greens placed in front of her.

Lord Borros asks her a question which immediately slips her mind. It occurs to her she’s supposed to be winning him over, to prove to him that she will be a good and dutiful wife. A better wife than Aemond will be a husband for Floris anyhow.

The thought churns her stomach and leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.

She allows herself another glance to Lord Borros’ other side. Aemond’s head is close to Floris’. The light from a candle on the table flickers over his chin, his jaw, the top of his neck underneath his collar. He leans in closer to mutter something in her ear.

He was always so softly spoken as a boy, subdued, even in moments of frustration. He still seems subtle, but in a different way now, a quiet kind of arrogance, a silent threat with the smallest of gestures. The few words he had spoken at that dinner, though aimed as insults towards her brothers, had ignited a thrilling sort of intrigue within her.

And now Floris gets to sit beside him, gets to feel his breath on her ear as he whispers in that low, chilling voice–

“Princess?”

“Y-yes?” she stutters, turning her eyes back to Lord Borros.

Only she seems to have caught the attention of Aemond and the other Baratheon girls now.

“I said our union should be a plentiful one, if your mother’s talent for producing sons is anything to go by.”

The only thing that stops her from reaching for her knife and jamming it into Lord Borros’ neck is the quiet huff of a laugh coming from Aemond.

She shoots him a deadly glare but his cruel smile does not waver.

“The man who eventually claims my niece’s hand will have Strong sons, there’s no doubt about that,” he says, reaching for his cup.

She watches him drink, the way he pouts his lips, how his throat bobs as he swallows.

“What a kind compliment, uncle,” she says, “though not one I could extend to you.”

Aemond sets his cup down gently. “Meaning?” he asks, not looking at her.

“It took you a decade to claim a dragon, did it not?”

His head snaps towards her. “Yes, and I claimed the largest dragon in the world.”

“An impressive feat,” she says, “one your father was proud of, I’m sure.”

He wants to lash out, she can see it, his fist clenching on top of the table, his lips pursing together, his eye going wide, his nostrils flaring as he takes a few breaths to compose himself.

The rest of the table has fallen to an uneasy quiet. She simply reaches for her wine and takes a generous sip that slips over her tongue with a delightful burn.

Lord Borros calls for music, and his daughters, Cassandra and Ellyn find partners to dance with. Maris remains seated, with her arms folded over her chest and a sour look on her face.

Floris seems hopeful, sitting up and trying to catch Aemond’s eye from his blind side. It is a hope he will not entertain. He keeps one hand on the table, tapping a long, slender finger against the wood.

“You will forgive me,” Lord Borros says to her, “I am too old to dance now.”

She tries to smile to hide her repulsion. What an endearing match she’s managed to find for herself. But this is for her mother– her Queen, so that the throne might pass to the rightful heir and not a usurper.

In the corner of her eye she sees Aemond is watching her, and she does not shy away from his gaze. His lips curl into a smirk but she can see the calculations and strategising behind that piercing, violet eye.

What lurks on the other side, she wonders, underneath the leather eyepatch and the scar slicing down his face?

A bloody mess of flesh flashes before her eyes. She remembers how he cried out in pain, how he clutched his hand to his face, how the thick, dark blood seeped from between his fingers and spilled onto the floor as he fell. She had only watched dumbfounded, as Lucerys dropped the blade, as she and the other children were ushered into the Hall of Nine, as the gash in Aemond’s socket was sewn and their mothers both called for justice.

Could she have stopped her cousins from confronting him? Could she have defended him from her brothers? Would he have at least felt some of her sorrow if she had gone to him that night or wrote to him in the years that separated them?

Those possibilities mean nothing now. Aemond looks at her with no warmth, no fond memories of their shared youth.

He’d be handsome without the scar– he still is, but it is a severe kind of beauty.

The moment she manages to finish the food on her plate, she excuses herself, declaring that she is tired from her journey and will need to recover before Lord Borros makes his decision in the morning.

Lord Borros presses a kiss to her hand, and she winces at the way his beard feels against her skin. When she looks to Aemond, he is suppressing a smile by bringing a cup of wine to his lips.

She walks quickly through the halls, towards the guest chamber, already taking off the heavy gold earrings and necklace she had been adorned with, and sighs at the relief of their weight. The sooner she can get to sleep, the sooner the morning will come, then the sooner she can finally leave, either a success or a failure, but she will be free of him. Free of the tight, restless feeling in her chest.

The enduring storm does not help her nerves, the rain beating down and the wind howling against the castle walls. Her heart leaps at every irregular noise, anything that might be mistaken for a voice, a breath, a footstep. She glances over her shoulder repeatedly, but all she sees are the empty hallways she leaves behind.

Two guards wait outside her chambers. They do not move to open the door for her, as they would on Dragonstone. She huffs and pushes it open herself, falling against the door once it is closed.

Borros Baratheon is hardly a man of principle. He has no love for Rhaenyra, and is only considering offering his support out if pride. She has no friends here.

She quietly turns the lock on the door.

She heads to the vanity to set down the jewellery and release the pins from her hair, watching it fall around her shoulders.

Outside the window, she hears Silverwing’s lamenting coos through the clashes of thunder. She reaches behind her back to undo the laces of her gown as she goes to the window, but she cannot spot her dragon through the dark and the heavy rain.

“We’ll be home soon,” she whispers into the night.

She nearly screams when she hears the door rattle.

The wood clashes against its frame, but the handle does not budge, for now.

She barely has a few moments to run to the vanity, hand outstretched and eyes fixed on a long, sharp hair pin when she hears the door burst open. It slams and heavy footsteps thud against the floor, towards her.

A hand clasps over her mouth before she can make a sound. An arm wraps tightly around her waist, keeping her arms by her sides, before she can reach the closest thing she has to a weapon.

She thrashes, squirms, tries to call for help or graze her teeth against the intruder’s flesh but nothing deters him.

She looks down at the arm around her waist. She recognises the black leather sleeve of his jerkin, the wide palm pressing down on her stomach, veins and tendons running underneath pale skin.

He rests his chin on her shoulder, so his long, silver hair falls around her face. He smells of smoke and lavender.

He lets out a frustrated huff as she unsuccessfully tries to jerk her elbow into his side. “Did you really think that you could just fly about the realm, trying to steal my brother’s throne at no cost?” he hisses against her ear.

She squeals in fury against his palm, trying to twist her way out of his grip. She manages to drag him with her until their sides collide with the vanity. Pieces of priceless jewellery and bottles of perfume fall to the floor, and shatter.

She has a mere second to wrench herself from his grip, only for him to grab her again, turning her to face him as he pulls her into his chest.

Aemond’s expression is deadly, his eye wide, lips pressed together in a scarcely contained rage.

“The throne belongs to my mother,” she says through the drumming in her chest, with all the defiance she can muster. “She is the one true heir. King Viserys–”

“Viserys is dead!” Aemond bellows, pushing her back against the vanity. “His word means nothing now that he can no longer enforce it.”

With her hands suddenly free she attempts to strike him, but he sees her intention before she even moves, pinning her wrists to the wood, keeping her body in place with his own.

She clenches her fists, only able to dig her nails into her palms. “What is it that you want from me?”

Lightning ignites the sky behind her. The white light dances over his scar and the shape of his mouth. His expression is softer now, lips slightly parted.

“I will have what I am owed,” he says.

Her eyes flicker to the eyepatch and the edges of the scar it cannot conceal.

Aemond hums a small laugh at her presumption. “Fear not, dear niece, that is not your debt to pay.”

His gaze trails over her face, then lower, to her lips, along her neck, to the gown slipping from her shoulders and the bare skin at the top of her chest.

“Do you remember what you said to me, the day you left?” he says softly.

The children they were are almost half a lifetime away.

She remembers standing under the weirwood tree in the Godswood of the Red Keep, a warm breeze rustling the red leaves above their heads, the sun shining through the branches.

She remembers holding Aemond’s face in her hands, wiping away the bitter tears as they fell from his eyes.

He had begged her not to leave, but they were powerless then.

He is the one to bring his hand to her face now, running his thumb over the lone tear that spills from her eye.

“I said I loved you,” she utters. “I said my heart was yours, and it always would be.”

Aemond hums softly. “You made a promise to me,” he says. “Do you intend to keep that promise?”

How can she? She would have to forsake her mother, her Queen, her brothers, the realm, her own dignity.

“It was a childish infatuation,” she says.

“Not to me,” he says, fury creeping into his voice once more, his grip on her hand tightening.

She pushes her one free hand against his chest but he does not budge. “Aemond, please, you’re hurting me…”

He presses his body into her, forcing her further against the vanity– a warning, a command for obedience. He trails his thumb over her cheek, to her lower lip, taking her chin in his fingers. When she tries to look away he brings her eyes back to him.

He leans in gradually, pressing his forehead and his nose against hers, before he takes a steady breath and captures her lips in his. His kiss is starved but slow, bruising, deep and desperate. The hand that was on her chin comes to her neck, angling her head precisely where he wants her.

His hands trace down the back of her neck, between her shoulders, to pull at the laces of her gown. They fall apart between his fingers and, barely breaking away from her, he tugs it down until the black and gold fabric falls to her ankles. He lifts her out of it, seating her on the vanity, raking the hem of her shift up to her thighs so he can place himself between them as he continues to kiss her.

A dazed sort of warmth pools within her. She can feel her senses and her sanity slipping.

But he cannot best her, not after everything that has happened in the days since the King’s death.

She grazes his lip with her teeth, and when he seems to welcome it, she clenches her jaw as hard as she can.

He tears himself away from her and staggers back, bright blood dripping from his mouth. She can taste it on her tongue.

“Little cunt,” he hisses.

She slips the hairpin into her hand and runs for the door. Aemond catches her in a few strides but she’s ready for that, turning to drive it into his blindside.

Even then he misses nothing, holding her wrists behind her back with one hand and snatching the pin from her grasp. She hears it clatter to the ground as Aemond drives her forwards, towards the bed.

She lands face down and tries to lift herself up, only to feel his forearm pressing into her neck to keep her down.

“You were always stubborn,” he says, planting a delicate kiss to her shoulder, “and as exciting as that is, I want you to be good for me, dōna riña.”

The iciness in his voice sends a shudder down her spine.

“Say it, say you’ll be good.”

Hit tears prickle in her eyes. She shifts underneath his hold, but her urge to fight is already fading. “I’ll be good, qȳbos,” she whispers.

Aemond’s chest hums with a groan. At last he relents, releasing her neck and her hands. But no sooner is she free, he turns her onto her back and slides his hands up her thighs, hooking his fingers over her smallclothes and bringing them down her legs.

“Up,” he says, dragging her by her hands to sit, so that he can pull her shift over her head.

She cannot be sure why she’s shivering, the cold air, the noise of the storm, or the hungry look in Aemond’s eye at the sight of her bare body.

She keeps her hands on his shoulders as he lays her down and trails his fingertips down her stomach, to the obvious arousal at her core.

With a lingering kiss to her cheek he presses a single finger inside her. She gasps at the sudden sting of it, digging her nails into his skin.

But he reaches deeper than she’s ever been able to, stroking against the flesh within her, until she starts to melt. He edges her closer and closer to bliss until she comes undone around him with a whimper.

“Sȳz riña,” he coos against her cheek. “That’s it…”

She tries to cling onto him as he moves away, but he is not gone for long. He swiftly undoes the buckles of his jerkin, followed by his shirt, boots and breeches. His body is lithe and lean, harsh angles and soft skin.

She glances at his eyepatch again.

Aemond lets out a low, irritable “hmm,” as he looms over her. His hair falls around his face, tickling the skin of her collar. He leans on one palm placed by her head, as he drags the tip of his cock through her folds, teasing between her bundle of nerves and her entrance. The sensation burns brightly and has her hips bucking, but it’s not enough.

“Beg me for it,” he utters.

“Please,” she whispers, cupping his face in her hands, feeling her thumbs along the sharp edges of his cheeks. “Please…”

He pushes into her with a single stroke, filling her to the hilt with a soft sound of skin against skin.

She winces at the stretch, throwing her head back against the bed and trying to steady her breath as he rocks into her.

He’s gentle at first, but before long he is restless.

“I knew you fucking wanted this,” he pants, gripping at her waist to pull her in with every snap of his hips. “You little whore, I can feel you getting wetter.”

She should hate him for it. There is so much she should hate him for, but she cannot think past the pleasure tightening and rising within her, the sound of Aemond’s laboured breaths or the lewd, wet sounds of their coupling.

His hands grab at her legs, positioning them against her chest so he can fuck her harder and deeper.

“Oh gods,” she whines as he pushes against a spot that makes her feel weightless.

“Take it bastard,” he hisses, pressing his forehead against hers and wrapping a hand around her neck. It’s not enough to hurt, but it’s enough to know it could. “Fucking take it.”

She is sure it’s too much, his hold on her neck, his breath over her lips, his body pressing against hers as he pounds into her without mercy.

“I’m going to fill you up,” Aemond rasps, “return you to King’s Landing with a Prince in your belly.”

His promise sparks a new feeling entirely, her cunt clenching around him as her voice becomes a slur of desperate, wanton moans.

“Oh you’d like that, wouldn’t you, ilībõños? Want your uncle to give you a silver-haired babe?”

“Please,” she mewls, placing her hand over his, “please, qȳbos,”

With a few sharp, brutal thrusts, her body erupts with her climax, until she is a moaning, quivering mess.

Aemond’s jaw hangs open as he fucks into her through his own release, until every last drop of his seed is buried within her.

He keeps himself nestled within her, positioning them properly on the bed, hooking her leg around his hips, keeping her body and her head close to his chest.

Her eyes flutter closed, lulled by the soft sound of his breath and the gentle thud of his heartbeat.

But the pleasant glow of her peak cannot last forever.

“I can’t go back to King’s Landing,” she whispers against his skin. Not now that Aegon has claimed the throne, not now that her mother is amassing her banners and the Greens are doing the same.

Aemond takes her chin his fingers, forcing her gaze to meet his. “Did you think I’d ever let you go? You’re mine now, dōna riña. That is what you've always wanted, is it not?”

She helplessly traces her fingers along the muscles of his arm, held tightly around her.

Perhaps she did want that, once.

“What of the Stormlands? What of our duties to our families? What of the war?”

Aemond silences her with a delicate kiss to her lips. She lets it soothe her, for the sake of a love once lost, for a moment of bliss in a world unfurling into chaos and bloodshed.

“Lord Borros will pledge his banners to Aegon or I will burn Storm’s End to the ground,” Aemond mutters between their kisses. She can already feel his cock beginning to harden once more inside her. “And no one will keep you from me, my sweet, strong girl.”

Tags (comment to be added)

General taglist: @randomdragonfires @jamespotterismydaddy @theoneeyedprince @tsujifreya

#aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #fic recs #aemond “feminist manifesto” targaryen says i can excuse murder but i draw the line at my hot niece marrying an ugly old guy #AND HE'S HOT FOR THAT

660 notes · View notes

winterstellars · 1 year

Text

SUCH a great start to a series! aemond & reader’s relationship is tantalizingly well-written. i’m so anxious for reader and her father going forward, but that just speaks to how captivating this fic is. highly recommend, the style of the prose is truly gorgeous (& thank you for tagging me!).

delicate edges // chapter 1

summary: beneath disdain, there is admiration. beyond betrayal, there is devotion. underneath loathing, there is adoration. even the coldest- most closed-off hearts- are protected by delicate edges of temptation, forgiveness, and absolution. an exiled heart longs for embrace, but desire threatens ruination. will true love become your savior or your greatest sin?

pairing: aemond targaryen x fem!reader

warnings: graphic depictions of an infected wound (blood, seepage, pain) nerve damage, period-typical misogynism and gender roles

word count: 10,316

series masterlist

Judgments are insufferable. Yet, they are felt by all and tolerated by most. No class, nor title, is immune to shrewd whispers of appearance or character, just as no man nor woman- no lord nor lady- can evade pointed glares or upturned noses in passing. Judgments are inevitable. Even so, very few truly suffer under the weight of such scrutiny. Few drown beneath crushing waves of snide remarks, and even fewer find themselves trapped in an undertow of impertinent stares with no hope for a way out. Some have next to nothing to their names- no title nor land to boast about, and only the clothes on their backs to show for their wealthiest of possessions- but they have the luxury of obliviousness. To be unaware, even if only for moments at a time, of the fact that they are being ridiculed is a freedom granted to those with far more opulence than the richest men in the realm- for they are truly free from scorn, and the insufferable pain of judgment.

The moss is both soft and cold beneath your toes- a green cloud, of sorts, that cushions each step. Eclipsed by the sounds of drunken laughter and conversation, the gentle hum of strings is faint, but audible enough to follow along as you step in time with the melody. A sweet summer child- no more than six years of age- knows little of judgment. Beyond tales of humiliation and suffering, you have no experience to grasp onto or fear other than fables and hearsay. Despite this, there’s solace in the gardens. Surrounded by petals of dragon’s breath and poppies- amongst the vines of smokeberries and under the branches of a large oak tree- you’ve found refuge from various lords and ladies of the court. You may be a stranger to such casual cruelty, but you’ve learned to dread it all the same.

Whilst others seek to elude the pain of judgment, you’ve grown to fear the act itself. In a way that only a child would, you fear what you do not know- lacking the courage to discover and basking in the ignorance of what is unknown. Rather than confront judgment- before you even really know what it is- you’ve chosen to prolong the inevitable.

It is a choice that was stolen from him, along with the luxury of obliviousness- along with his eye.

Through a blur of tears, Aemond Targaryen winces. Each drop that falls past his lashes irritates the angry gash below, inflaming the marred skin that is still oozing with purulence. Another scab has formed over his wound, but just as the previous few have failed to seal and protect his injury, this one starts to crack and split, too- revealing more suppuration, blood, and white-hot agony. It’s torture. It’s as though his body refuses to heal, rejecting the idea altogether as he’s forced to brave unbearable agony each time his body betrays him. The maesters assure him that he is brave. They commend his vigor and praise his resilience. One even urged whilst redressing his injury that he was a “strong boy”. The innocent implication had stung like venom- like poison tainting his pure blood- and, perhaps, the words of a withering man had caused more damage than a blade in the hands of a child had.

Alas, his wound stretches and pulls whilst severed nerves pulse and tick against his will and he wonders if this inexplicable pain is penance from the seven above- a punishment for not seeking repentance for his actions. He claws at the scrap of leather that rests atop mangled skin, trying to untie the too-tight bindings that keep the patch secured. It was a gift from his mother in the days that followed the incident on Driftmark, and his father offered more words of warning about wearing the covering in the presence of others than he did when it came time to hold his bastard grandson responsible for the injury. Mayhaps, that is where the root of his suffering truly stems from- betrayal.

Nevertheless, Aemond is nearly blinded- completely- by pain. He stumbles past a few servants who keep their heads low and their gazes down, and though he can not see it, he can feel their judgment. Perhaps, it is because he’s a child- or, the fact that he’s disfigured- that the help doesn’t hold him in the same regard they once did. None harbor the desire to care for him. None seek to ease his painfully obvious suffering. Eyes that do not pierce with discernment, are forced away blindly- finding interest and amusement anywhere other than the boy in desperate need of aid. Whilst they refuse to look at him- depriving him of ridicule by finding sudden interest in stone chasms or the flickering flame of a nearby torch whenever he passes- they aren’t as gracious when it comes to holding their tongues. The fools forget that he is visually impaired, not deaf, and allow cruelness to pass in whispers that he is never able to evade- for they seep into the stone and haunt him in solitary, the same way shadows used to.

Aemond sinks his teeth into his tongue, biting down just hard enough to stop his lip from quivering. He won’t allow them the satisfaction of seeing him cry. With all the strength he can muster, he wanders past the gushing servants and into the gardens. Relying on the thick trunk of oak to keep him upright, he braces himself against the wood and yanks at the patch over his eye, over and over again until it unfastens. A brief moment of comfort is eclipsed by the searing pain that follows. He almost howls like a wounded animal- a cry out to anyone willing to listen- but even simple sounds are hard to make when the muscles in his face begin to pulsate involuntarily. It burns and it stings. It’s humiliating and degrading. Beyond anything else, it hurts.

Soft, panting breaths cause your footing to falter. Another step is left incomplete- another turn is stumbled through- and perhaps if you were performing in the stuffy hall you chose to abandoned, with a partner who would’ve only asked to dance to fulfill a duty, you might’ve been embarrassed about your missteps, but with only the stars for company- soft flickers of light that shine regardless of how many times you make a mistake- you’re greeted with solace, rather than affliction. The sound that comes from the other side of the oak is miserable- guttural and wretched and utterly broken. If you were any further, you wouldn’t have been able to hear it. Lively strings would’ve muted the croaked cries of desperation with a tune much more jovial. Alas, you’re neither devoted to your dance or the music, but tempted by what’s caught your ear, instead.

A child knows little about judgment, and even less about fear. Still malleable, and unshaped by the cruelties of life, you find yourself apprehensive of what you do not know- but not enough to let feelings of worry dampen your curiosity. With a cautious step forward, you peer around the thick trunk. A glimpse of silver shines bright beneath the moonlight, and another step closer reveals that the second son of King Viserys Targaryen and Queen Alicent Hightower is sobbing beneath the same branches you’ve sought comfort under.

His name is Aemond.

You’ve heard many whispers about him traveling through the walls of the Red Keep- and the most recent ones reference his tragedy. Rumors have oft been traded as a form of currency. Regardless of merit, tales of outrageous fantasy are passed amongst friends and foes until one is able to profit off of its value. You pay them no mind. He is nothing more to you than a name- a flicker of argent light lurking about the shadows, and often keeping to himself. In the few years that your father has occupied a seat upon his father’s council, you have never crossed paths with him. When he returned from Driftmark only a few months prior, it was without his eye, and whilst most account that the maimed boy is truly terrifying, you find it difficult to believe such lore when his muffled cries fill your ears and his shoulders shake forcefully. The boy before you is not frightful- he is scared.

“Forgive me, my prince,” Aemond startles when a timid voice interrupts his suffering. Through a blur of tears, he watches as you drop down to a pitiful curtsy- the gesture more a sign of respect than a display of coordination. He quickly brings a palm over his eye, concealing the infected socket from your view, and hisses when his flesh makes contact with the gaping wound. The legion is warm beneath his hand- another reminder of his body’s resistance to heal- and wet with pus and other seepage. He doesn’t remember the slice of the blade that took his eye, nor the pain of steel meeting flesh. It all happened too quickly for him to truly remember. But he has grown familiar with the pain of healing and longs for fresh blood to stain his pale skin- anything other than viscid, yellow discharge. Trembling fingertips graze the back of his leather patch, flipping it over to reveal that it has caused him more harm than good to don the disguise for the evening. A crusty layer of skin, blood, and drainage from his wound has already started to coagulate. Regardless, Aemond attempts to fasten the veil over his wound once more. He would rather torture himself than disobey his father’s wishes. With the way his fingers shake, it’s hard for him to attach the patch, so he opts to hold it in place- and with one hand over what remains of his eye, and the other wiping away his tears, he rises to his full height.

He has half a mind to order you away- confident, in nothing else beyond the fact that you would have to comply. To flex what little power he still has over a child, who wouldn’t dare defy him, won’t fill the void left within him- nor will being impolite compensate for the empty socket of torment. He will find retribution, elsewhere. Ire tastes sour on his tongue. Wrath burns his throat. Vexation is acidic. Beyond crooked teeth, he forces all that he’s feeling behind the quivering press of his lips, hoping that the foul words he’s attempting to shield you from won’t slip past the gaps where he’s missing teeth that haven’t yet grown back. You are not his foe- but you are not his friend, either.

“I thought I was alone.” Something about the confession stills his breath. It’s odd- something unexplainable and untellable- the sorrow he experiences upon your revelation of honesty. To feel like a stranger amongst servants and guards was one thing, to be ostracized and disregarded by his family was another thing completely, but to feel like he doesn’t belong- like he’s unworthy and unwanted amongst the company of a stranger, who doesn’t know anything about him beyond the fact that he is marred- is foreign. It’s accompanied by the taste of bile. “Though, it appears we both prefer the gardens in favor of the ballroom.” The sentiment you offer is warm- friendly, even- but Aemond has grown accustomed to frigidness. Numb to the heat of amiability, he doesn’t recognize the tenderness of your approach until you ask, “Would you like to dance with me?” The only indication that he’s heard you is the way he clenches his teeth, gritting them against one another whilst the muscle of his jaw tightens. “I’m not very good, and I would benefit greatly from a partner,”

Aemond awaits the sound of laughter. His skin prickles with the anticipation of it. Surely, you’re jesting with him. You do not wish to dance. With only one eye, angry tears streaking scarlet cheeks, and a wound that weeps beneath a thin scrap of leather and the palm of his shaking hand, he is not an ideal dancing partner. Even if he were the best dancer in the seven kingdoms, he would not be an ideal dance partner- not when he is missing pieces of himself, and feeling less than half of a whole. He is maimed. He is disfigured. He is ugly. No amount of talent nor charm will ever change the simple fact that he now knows is true- he is not worthy of anything other than pain and misery, condemned to a life of suffering. Laughter does not puncture the surrounding silence. He waits and waits, and waits, for a devious grin of crooked teeth that gnash with glee- like the same dagger that stole his eye- and howling hysterics, but you merely await his answer, silently and patiently- as if your sentiment had been genuine. Both eyes search violet for an answer, and he cowers away under such a daunting gaze. He is exposed. Forcing his pride, his ego, and stare elsewhere, he shuts his only good eye, forcing himself into complete and total darkness- somewhere safer, and much more welcoming than the warmth of your eyes as they bear into his sole. Socket, and remaining eye.

Only a few years younger than he is, he doubts you intend to take pity on him. You are a child, but so is he. He can not recall feeling the urge to ridicule when he was your age, but he remembers the relentless mockery from his elder brother and his nephews- a wound that has been ripped apart and left without sutures to bleed out until the day he meets his demise- and he’s reminded of the brutality of youth. Perhaps, you are a wolf clothed in lamb skin, proposing viciousness under the guise of innocence. In the nothingness that surrounds you, he wonders what’s more laughable- being asked to dance by a child, or being pitied by one?

When he opens his eye, you still stand before him- though, now you do not attempt to hold his gaze. Aemond is granted a brief relief, that’s shadowed by dread the moment he considers that his physical appearance may have simply been too much for you to bear, thus you’ve opted to avoid his plaguing stare at all costs. His chest tightens. When he opens his mouth, the words are stolen by a throbbing in the empty socket that matches the frenzied beat of his heart in his chest. The center of your forehead pinches with concern, but he does not notice, and when he finally finds his voice, it’s gruff.

“You will find one,” He assures, curtly. Despite his tone, you appear hopeful, and he grimaces whilst he elaborates, “Indoors.” At the mention of finding a participant in the ballroom you’ve deliberately evaded, you gulp- fearful that he might order you back to the very place you’ve tempted to escape. “Perhaps a cupbearer or squire could aid in the technique you lack.” Aemond offers without sentiment.

It is a mask- his cruelness- meant to shield his anguish. At least, you wish to believe it to be. The rumors of a wicked boy are not true. Whispers of a horrifying beast are not, in fact, certain. Though it is hard to deny the angry, inflamed skin beneath his palm, you are not afraid of him. His injury is not something to fear- not when it is responsible for causing him so much pain. You have not seen the extent of his trauma, but it does not frighten you. He may be maimed, but he is suffering a unique torment- one that very few living know the true agony of. He should not be shunned for feeling. With both eyes, or only one, he is still a prince, and you will treat him with the respect and kindness he deserves. Even if he held no title, you would offer the same gentleness- for it is not in your nature to be unkind.

“I have little interest in dancing with a cupbearer or a squire, my prince.” With a timid step towards him, he startles a step back, nearly tripping over a large root before regaining his footing. If possible, his cheeks flush deeper.

“Then why ask for a partner?” Aemond bites back, keeping his tongue cruel to deflect his embarrassment- and his pain.

“Some day, I will be forced to dance with lords and knights because it is what is expected of me.” He is vulnerable before you, laid bare whilst hiding behind a veil. Though his wound is covered, he is still before you, aching, in a way that is exposed and defenseless. If he wanted to, he could have turned you away or turned away himself. Yet, he stands before you, despite the pain he is in. If you can not offer him aid, you will offer him the truth- no matter how daunting it might be. “They will complain that I’ve stepped on their toes- or make mention of the fact that no matter how hard I try, I’m always a beat behind,” You shudder, at the thought of dishonoring your family and your house over something so trivial, but it is, perhaps, your most unnerving fear. “Until then, I much prefer the company of someone who won’t laugh at me because I misstep, but if you wish to be alone-“

He regards you carefully. For the sake of being sullen, he considers demanding evidence that he won’t laugh at you for the very same reasons you’ve shared, but he is not bitter. He is not rotten to his core. He is not a monster. He is simply grieving the loss of his boyhood and sight. Regardless, his resentment is not meant for you. The sharpness of his tongue is not meant to cause you pain. Unfortunately, for the both of you, you are the only one around to suffer his wrath. Still, his mother raised him to abide by manners and propriety- even whilst he aches with a numbness that is equal parts blazing and frigid. His jaw clenches tightly- muscles shifting to alleviate his pain- and he huffs a sigh.

“I wish to retire to my chambers.”

“Very well,” A timid smile disguises the humiliation of his rejection, and you bow before him once more. “Good evening, Prince Aemond.”

He does not say anything as he scurries past you, down the same path he came, and when you are left alone in the solidarity of the gardens where you once found peace, you find yourself whispering to the stars. With your hands clasped together, you beg the stars to carry your message to The Seven, and you urge The Seven to end Aemond Targaryen’s suffering.

10 years later

“The King grows weaker and weaker with each day,” Grand Maester Mellos’ voice wavers as he delivers the devastating news to those seated along the long slab of stone that acts as a table. Few show no emotion, whilst others struggle to contain theirs- a quivering lip, eyes wide in disbelief, fists clenched so tightly that knuckles turn white- and it pains him to further divulge, “It is only a matter of time before…”

The silence that fills the chamber is haunting. Not even the steady sound of breath rivals that of the bone-chilling nothingness that hangs in the air with words left unspoken. Fearful eyes flit back and forth, searching for answers- desperate for direction, and guidance- but never voicing their concern aloud. To speak their dread would make it real, and no one is prepared to confront what has always been inevitable. Demise has finally caught up to their King, who is now too weak to outrun it any further than he already has.

“Is there no hope for his recovery?” Tyland Lannister, Master of Ships, is the first to find his voice- albeit shaken, and unsure. He fidgets with his hands, clasping them together tightly to stop them from shaking, but it’s no use. His nerves are too rampant to quell.

“I’m afraid not, Lord Lannister“ Mellos huffs a heavy sigh. Somberness paints him ghostly. Grim with the knowledge he possesses- a curse and a burden more than it is esteemed- he delivers an eerie verdict. “He will not live to see the next sun cycle.” It is not a prediction- it is fact. “The gods are gracious, but they do not waste miracles upon men.” A pedestal has been shared between Gods of the Faith and Targaryens for years, with very little distinction between the two. To watch a once mighty man fall- a man so revered by all, he was oft mistaken for a deity- is harrowing. Even in the warmth of sunlight, the grand maester appears grey and cold. Both sullen and stoney. The day he has long dreaded has finally arrived. Regretfully, he advises, “It is time that we begin to prepare for…”

“I will do no such thing.” Outraged by such a suggestion, Lyman Beesbury- Mast of Coin- scoffs aloud. Overwhelmed by the sudden shift in demeanor, it’s difficult to tell if he is enraged, flustered, or deeply woeful. His face blotches red with color, his stare narrows and his brow lowers. The faint scrape of his chair against stone threatens to shriek, but he remains seated- albeit agitated. “He may not be well, but our king is alive.” He makes an argument plagued with denial. A glance around the table, one where no one meets his eye, confirms what he knows deep down to be true. Still, he revolts- challenging both mortality and veracity. “I will not consider the possibility of a reign without him at the helm until he has taken his last breath.”

There’s a finality in his tone that does not go unnoticed by the other members of the small council. Try as he might, Lord Beesbury’s chest heaves with each breath, despite his efforts to calm himself. He’s been shaken to his core, they’ve all been- except for Otto Hightower, Hand of the King, who remains calm and collected whilst the most wrenching threat looms overhead.

“With the utmost respect, Lord Beesbury, the dawn is nearly upon us.” Otto’s voice does not waver. His tone does not depict anything other than neutrality. His volume does not rise.“Time is of the essence,” He warns, “If we do not attempt to prepare for the inevitable, then we run the greater risk of being blindsided by not only the death of our king but the death of our nation.”

Mayhaps the only thoughts more ominous than the passing of their ruler are figments of the days after. Some see fire, others hear screeching, but all gathered around the table know that regardless of what happens next, there will be blood.

“I know I do not have to warn of the consequences the realm would face if it fell into Rhaenyra’s hands,” Pursed lips deliver the foreboding caveat, dripping with bitter honesty and evidence to back such a bold claim. “With Daemon as consort, exercising both tyrannical and licentious behaviors to a Queen who is not equipped to rule, our nation would crumble.” Insults fly freely against defenseless subjects, provoking those in attendance to consider how much truth is behind what’s been presented as an opinion. Slowly, looks of sorrow harden into something much more determined. One by one, realization dawns on each member of the small council, and Lord Hightower takes the lull in both silence and contemplation to sink his claws of persuasion deeper and deeper into the flesh of his victims- until he grazes bone. “We would be transported back to the days before the conquest when any man could declare himself king and execute a power that has not been earned, I am sure of it.”

There is no proof beyond his word. Present evidence does not suggest the demise of their kingdom following the king’s passing, but Otto has planted a seed of doubt within the heads of his former council members and nurtured it with poetic of doom and ruination. With a chance to fester, no one can think clearly. Though he knows the answer, Lord Larys Strong- Master of Whispers- plays coy. His exterior is grim, matching those seated around him, and proceeds to inquire about matters he’s already privy to.

“What do you suggest we do, Lord Hightower?”

In a rare display of contemplation, Otto allows himself a moment to gather his thoughts before he speaks. “When our great King Viserys takes his last breath, I believe that Prince Aegon, his firstborn son, should succeed him.”

“Whilst I agree that a male heir should occupy the throne after the king passes, the king has named Rhaenyra as his heir.” Lord Lannister argues, “If he wished for Aegon to rule, he would have declared so, twenty-three years ago.”

Alicent Hightower sits at the head of the table, the only woman amongst a chamber full of men- only allowed to listen in and contribute on behalf of her ailing husband. Whilst she occupies his seat, a throne within its own right, she knows she is not welcomed. The lords in her company have grown so familiar in with her presence, that they oft forget that she is a woman herself- and they’ve made no attempt to conceal their true feelings about woman and power. Nevertheless, they’re respectful towards her when it counts. Even after years of power, she does not understand the extent of it. Perhaps, it’s because she realized early on in her marriage that it was never hers to begin with. She spares her father a glance and her stomach churns. The desire to be as distant from the conversation taking place as possible fills her, but instead she is captive. Besides her, the vein in Otto’s forehead pulsates. It fills her with a fear reminiscent of her youth, despite being well into womanhood, and she seizes the silence as an opportunity to finally speak. The tip of her tongue wets her lips. She licks the cracks, softening the dry skin before she takes a breath and clasps her hands above the table- hiding bloody nail beds behind her palm.

“My lords,” She commands the attention of her audience with a graciousness that many of them are unaccustomed to. With a polite press of her lips, she proposes, “Is this a matter of upholding orders given lifetimes ago, or protecting our people?” The question visibly divides the room, and she can hardly believe that she’s found the courage within herself to utter her true thoughts aloud. “You have been assembled to guide our king back to the light when he finds himself astray.” She reminds them carefully. “He is lost, and if,” A breath, and then a pause. A sigh, and then hesitation. Many remember when Alicent was just a girl- soft, quiet, naive- and it’s difficult to acknowledge that the same woman commands them now- rough, reserved, aged by duty. Still, they await their Queen. “Perhaps, if he could be suaded to name Aegon as his heir-“

“The realm would be better for it.” Otto interrupts his daughter, supplying his own words and thoughts in place of her own. With a gentle nod, she agrees, bowing her head and surrendering her voice to him once more.

“How do we proceed?”

“Beyond that, would betrothing his eldest strengthen his claim to the throne?” Tyland interjects, demanding an answer of his own.

“How so?”

“If Aegon were betrothed to a noble house, perhaps even one the King has silently made an enemy of, then it would prove his ability to unite kingdoms divided by difference.” It makes sense. Perhaps, if they had more time, it would be something to consider, but they are pressed.

“If it were Prince Aemond, perhaps, but Prince Aegon is not…” Otto bites back the truth, refraining from speaking ill of the man he’s trying to convince his counterparts to support. “It is a more difficult task in practice than it is in theory.”

“If not for the sake of political advancement, then we should consider a match for the sake of convenience.” Larys offers, his eyes grazing those around the table until they meet your father’s. “You have a daughter, do you not, Lord Piper?

“I do,” The man sitting next to Lord Beesbury confirms suspicion with a nod of acknowledgment. “Though, I do not wish to bargain with her hand.”

Across the table, Otto scoffs. Perhaps, he is unfamiliar with honesty- enough so that he blanches in the presence of sincerity. The years have not been kind to him. Stress has caused him to wither away. Now, he’s not even the shell of the man he once was. In place of loyalty, he is self-seeking. Where he was once obedient, he is now rebellious. Under the guise of being dutiful, he is poisoned by greed. Always wanting more- bigger, better, bolder- he dreams of avarice for his generations to follow. Having taken hold of the reins their king was too frail to grasp, he’s appointed himself holier-than-thou actually is. Perhaps, he’s due for a humbling reminder that he is still a man that serves- not a man who commands men to serve- and who better to deliver it than the Master of Laws?

“You would deny a proposal from a prince of the realm, and deny your child the privilege and security of joining a monarch?” Equal parts anger and offense seep into his tone, drenching each word with resentment and outrage. It is not your father’s intention to slight the Hand, but the spitfire has always been prone to encouraging tempers to flare. Sullen eyes of stormy blue darken with something meant to provoke. Hungry for a fight- or, at least the chance to inflict defeat- he taunts.

“A proposal has not yet been made, Lord Hightower,” With an elegance that Otto is incapable of, your father replies. “And until a legitimate proposal is made, I will not entertain possibilities of figment.” The finality within which he delivers the statement does not go unnoticed by anyone in the room, and for the time being, the topic is put aside.

“Very well,” Otto yields- though, rather dismissively.

“Your Grace, might I suggest urging Aegon to consider any and all proposals for his hand?” Lord Lannister proposes. For a moment, he seems unsure of his own suggestion- brows pinching together as he contemplates a solution to their problem- but then the tension eases, and a look of clarity washes over his features. “If we are truly running out of time, then desperate times call for desperate measures.” He urges, more confident in his speech than he was not a minute prior. “I do not believe that we possess the luxury of scrutiny any longer.”

“How much time do we have, Mellos?” Your father inquires, going straight to the source and cutting out the need for a meddling middleman. Otto’s expression remains stoic, but the master of laws and the hand have been silently butting heads for long enough for your father to recognize even the most subtle shift in his glare. He’s practically seething.

“No more than a few moons, I’m afraid.” Another blow takes the air from the room.

“In seven weeks time, Aegon will find a wife.” Alicent declares, allowing a week for each of her gods to guide her son towards the right match- hoping that it would be enough time to allow him to secure a partnership of his choosing, whilst gifting him what was stolen from her- a choice.

“And what of the others?” Tyland’s brow raises, and Otto’s stare narrows.

“The others?”

“The other princes and the princess,” He elaborates, speaking of the King’s other children that still reside in the castle, and tucked away in Oldtown.“What of them?”

“That is a bridge we shall cross once the waters rise and force us to,” The Hand dismisses, sparring very little thought towards the idea. “Until then, let us not waste our time pondering over it.”

“Of course, Lord Hightower.” Lord Lannister yields.

Silence fills the chamber once more- though, it is somehow less and more daunting than it was before. Something ominous and foreboding lingers.

“If any word of what we have discussed here leaves these chambers…” Otto threatens, but the lords bow their heads respectfully- a silent display of surrender and submission to the man that’s always found a way to manipulate them as if they were puppets brought to life by his touch. “Good.”

The clashing of swords serves as a beacon, coaxing you towards distraction with tiny sparks of light and the promise of forgetting what’s troubling you- even if only briefly. As you inch closer, the wrinkle between your brows softens- and it’s only once the crease has been smoothed over that you realize how truly upset you had been. Perturbance is a fleeting feeling, however. The sun is warm on your skin, and each step closer and closer towards the training yard stains the bottom of your skirts with evidence of your escape. Through rubble and mud, you march on.

A spectacle has taken place near the center of the yard, drawing a small crowd of onlookers from the outskirts surrounding the field where the art of battle is studied and perfected through practice. Wood splinters against the impact of a weapon, sending shards of the Targaryen sigil into the mire- pieces of a whole that the servant’s children will dig through the murk for once the training grounds are unoccupied. The dance continues. Murmurs and gasps of awe are accompanied by polite applause, and when pointed steel meets flesh, all encouragement ceases in favor of silence and concern. Between a break in the crowd, you spot him, instantly. For only a moment his eye meets yours. It’s by chance that he’s able to find your face amongst the growing swarm of strangers- something familiar in a wave of unknown- and the distraction causes him to lose his footing, allowing his opponent a chance to lunge at him. Aemond dodges the attack, moving swiftly before the point of the blade has a chance to draw blood. His jaw hardens. With renewed vigor, he strikes. Back and forth, back and forth, both men dodge and attack one another until the prince’s weapon grazes armor. Stumbling back, the knight nearly topples over, and before he can steady himself back on his feet, Aemond threatens the tip of his sword against his rival’s throat, earning another round of applause from the meddlesome crowd, as he is deemed the winner.

His opponent- a seasoned knight and valiant protector- wipes the sheen from his brow whilst he struggles to catch his breath. In, and out- in, and out, again- defeat fills his lungs in labored breaths, but loss does not linger. The prince’s victory is not his failure, in the same way that his strengths are not the prince’s weaknesses, but a challenge- meant to provoke. There is a role he plays, a title he dons, and a weight- heavier than that of his blade and armor- that will crucify him if he does not honor the oaths he vowed himself to uphold. Copper spills from the split in his lip, and he welcomes the warm metallic into his mouth with the tip of his tongue. It tastes of progress- for his opponent grows stronger, and stronger, each time they draw their blades.

Ser Criston Cole sheathes his weapon, and prepares to praise his opposer- though, he doubts it will mean anything to the boy who’s bested him more times than he can count. Still, he is courteous. He turns to greet the prince, prepared to meet the sharp edges and flared nostrils of a victorious man trying to catch his breath after triumph, but such a sight is nowhere to be found. Where the line of his jaw should be tense, it is laxed. Where a violet fire should blaze, there are only embers of calm. Even the permanent crease between his brows seems smoother, creating the illusion of a boy, not a conqueror. He searches for the cause of the sudden shift in his demeanor. Following the prince’s line of sight, he finds his answer in the form of a maiden.

“My lady, I believe you are not meant to-“ He approaches with warning, but isn’t allowed the chance to finish.

“Perhaps it is time for a brief respite, Ser?” Aemond suggests, but Criston knows that it is not a suggestion- it is a command. He is the prince, after all. However thinly veiled, he understands what’s being asked of him, and he respectfully bows his head prior to fulfilling the unspoken order.

“Of course, my prince,” His tongue swipes along his bottom lip, savoring another tang of metallic punishment before he presses his lips together firmly- smearing the blood that oozes from the small wound unintentionally whilst he turns to bid you a proper farewell. “My lady,”

“Ser Cole,” You return with a polite smile. He mirrors the gesture, though it lacks any sincerity. Sparing Aemond one last glance, he huffs a breath and takes his leave. Gravel crunches under the weight of his boot, and once the sound becomes distant enough- and the mass of supporters has started to disperse- Aemond turns to face you.

“And where are you supposed to be?” He taunts, mischievously inquiring as to why you’ve found yourself in the training yards during his lessons. The corner of his lip threatens to curl into a grin when a beat of silence passes and you roll your eyes at his questioning. It’s hard to believe that the man before you grew from the boy you met so many moons ago. He has grown considerably since the night your paths crossed in the godswood. Older, taller, wiser- leaner, stronger, more striking - and yet somehow, still the same boy that wept beneath the branches of an oak under the cover of nightfall. His fingers flex around the hilt of his sword as he sheathes the weapon back into its holster, and you swallow thickly when you realize that you still haven’t answered him.

“Lessons with my septa,” You cast your glance downwards, toeing a piece of gravel to avoid his gaze. Nerves twist in the pit of your stomach when a brief glimpse of a moment you’re trying to forget flashes before your eyes- an accusation, a threat, a scowl, and a suffocating certainty- and you quickly shake it away. “But I can recite our histories in my sleep, and I have little interest in learning to be the perfect wife for some lord, so I’ve decided to come watch your lessons, instead.” Whatever vexation taints your tone disappears completely when you offer a coy simper, “Besides, I find them much more captivating than mine.”

There's a wall of weapons that you find yourself gravitating towards. They glow and gleam in the sunlight. Silver, iron, and bronze twinkle and shine, and you can’t help but reach out. Perhaps, you’re able to find beauty in weaponry because you’ve been sheltered from its devastation. Either way, you reckon that you’d sacrifice your virtue to wield anything on display- even a sad, rotted excuse for a wooden sword.

“Is that so?” He muses, watching as your fingertips ghost over the hilt of a throwing knife. You barely graze the handle, yet you trace the carved pattern delicately. He watches with a hint of amusement. The training yard is no place for a lady. It is where war is perfected- battle practiced and strategized- and though it is oft less tragic than combat against actual enemies, it is not exempt from peril. Axes, blades, and spears sharp enough to cause much more than injury are handled daily, by men and boys with little to no experience. Regardless, the training grounds are a place of savagery, and you look out of place amongst the weapons you admire. Aemond imagines that a blade could never appear deadly in your hands. Not when you handle instruments of torture with such care.

“Perhaps,” You agree- though, it’s only halfheartedly. When you turn to meet Aemond’s stare, you finally feel the warmth of the sun upon your skin. It is inside of you, burning, flushing, and festering whenever you are near him. He is enchanting. With long silver hair, sharp angular features, and such cunning dexterity, he is bewitching. Mayhaps, it is not the sun that fills you with warmth. Mayhaps, it is him. “Or, perhaps it is because I Ionged for your company.” You hope that your exaggeration masks your shyness well enough to go undetected. Just to be sure, you flash a playful grin. “At the very least you tolerate mine- which is far more than I can say for others.”

“I should fetch a maester,” He replies, and the suggestion stills your step. Aemond halts alongside you, and you wonder if he’d been injured during his sparring lessons, or if he felt feverish. Worst of all, your heart plummets with worry when you consider that perhaps his eye is crippling him- as it tends to do every once in a moon- and the thought of pain you’ve never felt but witnessed vicariously through him, sends a dull throb straight through your right eye. With lips parted to question, you turn towards him, only to discover that the smallest semblance of a smirk upon his lips. “You seem to be riddled with delusions.”

When you sigh a breath of relief, he offers a thin smile. His teasing always teeters the line between jesting and sincerity, and even after so many years of companionship, you’re still never truly sure where his intentions lie. Though, he’s never once been vicious. Towards you, he’s never been spiteful nor callous. Perhaps there’s always been a gentleness reserved for your friendship. At times Aemond could oft appear distant, reserved, and withdrawn when he found himself in the company of others. Even when you were children, he never truly appeared interested in anything you had to say, but you’ve come to learn that even though he is distant, reserved, and sometimes withdrawn, his silence is not a flaw. Whilst he is a man of few words who prefers to listen rather than be the subject of attention, time has graced you with the knowledge that he is only distant to those who do not truly know him, only reserved in the company of those he has nothing insightful or genuine to offer, and withdrawn from those whom he does not care to consort with.

By chance, you find yourself in the godswood. It’s reminiscent of a simpler time. Moss is neither soft, nor cold beneath your slipper, and petals of dragon’s breath and poppies remind you of your fleeting youth. It is not the same place it once was, but it is still a safe haven of sorts.

“The only person truly riddled with delusions is my septa,” You huff, agitated and overwhelmed at the mere mention of the woman who’s caused you such distress.

When your back meets the thick trunk of oak, a strained exhale passes your lips.

“I am meant for more than this.” Breath betrays certainty, a somber huff diluting the sentiment of spoken word as the tips of your fingers retreat into the flesh of your palm. A wrinkle deepens across the expanse of your forehead, a crevice he is simultaneously unacquainted and familiar with, and he recognizes sorrow on the face of another- a strange sight when not his own. He needn’t ask what troubles you. Not when he knows you will reveal your despair to him- even if unprompted. He is silent as he listens. “More than a dutiful wife, more than just barring children,” Spite overpowers propriety. Too overwhelmed to hold your tongue and remember your manners, you speak freely- as you always have in Aemond’s company. With a finality that evaded your tone moments prior, you vow, “I am destined for more.”

His muscles begin to ache from overuse. Tendons have stretched past their limit to grant his lithe figure an advantage against an opponent much more experienced than he. The ache doesn’t register as pain. Not even close. If anything, he welcomes the soreness. It’s a reminder that he must become stronger, faster, and greater, than those that dare to brandish their weapons against his own. The strain of his muscles is uncomfortable- though, not entirely unpleasant. He revels in the feeling for as long as he can before he’s forced to confront the fact that he doesn’t know how to help you. As the only woman- beyond those of his blood- who has ever shown him any sort of amiability, he acknowledges your pain- though he can not make sense of it. He supposes if Helaena, his older sister, were condemned to the same punishment of breeding until she met her demise, he too would feel the same livid rage. But, as a prince who upholds duty and honor above all else, he struggles to bash the place in society you’ve fiercely scorned. Knowing not what to say, he remains silent, until you spare him a glance.

“Hm,” He hums thoughtfully, though it lacks the comfort you’re seeking.

“If I’m condemned to spend the rest of my life with only needlework to look forward to in times of solace, I swear I shall perish.” Your stomach churns at the thought of producing a babe. You would rather prick every single one of your fingertips twice over with an embroidery needle than be forced to care for a child you would always resent- because they would forced you into a role you have no desire to fulfill. “Do you think your creature would end my suffering if I asked nicely?” Aemond presses his lips into a thin line whilst his eye meets yours. Vhagar, his greatest victory was a beast- but you’ve never acknowledged her as anything more than a creature. She was more than flames and chaos. She was a heartbeat- a creature who felt grief, joy, and even weariness. She was more than wings, scales, and acidity. She was a living, breathing, soul- and perhaps Aemond’s only other companion. You’ve always held her in high regard. At the mention of her name, his interest piques. “What is it that you tell her?” You inquire playfully, attempting to banish feelings of fear and unease with a jest. “Dra-kar-es?”

He tenses. There’s no hint of a smile upon his lips, no traces of amusement nor humor to be found in the aftermath of your childish gag. Both fermented and vexed at the sound of his mother tongue passing your lips, the strong slant of his jaw hardens as his brow drops into something much more irate- something much more perturbed- and any semblance of joy quickly fades once you realize that he does not find humor behind your words, but a taunt.

“You would rather die than become a man’s wife?” The power of the dragon is not one that he underestimates. He would be a fool to, and he is not a fool. Still, he can’t comprehend what would drive you to such madness. Suggesting that the flames of his dragon would end a suffering you’ve not yet felt is cruel. To bargain with your life over the mere thought of what awaits you on the other side of marriage is lunacy. Try as he might, he can’t make sense of your sudden hysteria, and with a sudden tightness in his throat, he awaits an explanation.

You ponder his remark, silently. He does not understand. If he thinks you spoiled or manic, he does not insult you by sharing his thoughts aloud. Instead, he waits for you to make sense of the absurdities you speak of- though, you struggle to find the right words to make him aware of your agony. The lack of an answer causes him to grow restless, and he parts his lips to speak, but you’re the first to find your voice.

“I imagine it would feel like dying, each day I’m forced to submit to a man who has not earned my love- a man who does not see me as an equal, but as a womb for his future sons,” It is much too crass of a reply to be given to a prince, but Aemond has been a companion for so long that you oft forget that he is of royal decent. Through the brashness of your words, his gaze softens. “And if I am to fail…” Your lip trembles, failing to reveal the consequences of actions that have not yet been attempted, and you swallow the rest of your fears down with the growing lump in your throat. “Yes, I would rather die than become the wife of someone chosen for me.”

He says nothing. He does not know what to say. If there are words to quell the unease of your future, they escape him. So, he stays silent. Offering nothing more than a blank stare as you press your lips together tightly. His feet feel heavy- like he has sprouted roots from his toes and embedded himself in the soil below- and when he tries to force his limbs to move, to take a step closer towards you, he is frozen in place. With a quiet sigh, you bring the back of your hand to your eyes, wiping away the tears that you won’t allow yourself to shed, and take a breath. This time, when you meet Aemond’s eye, you attempt to offer him a smile. It’s then, that you notice the red that stains his skin.

“You’re bleeding,” Right below his cheekbone, on his left side, there’s a small scratch. The wound- if it can even be called such a thing compared to the more prominent, scarred gash on his right side- has already started to coagulate. It’s truly no deeper than the cuts and scrapes you used to get whilst playing in the gardens as a child, but the sight of blood upon the face of someone you care deeply about is still alarming, no matter how small. He has already suffered so much- lost, even more. He does not deserve to feel pain, no matter how slight. If you could somehow take it all away, you would.

Hesitantly, you steal a quick glance behind you before taking a few steps forward- until the tips of your slippers touch the tips of his boots. His eye widens slightly as you hold up a hand, and when he makes no effort to evade your inevitable touch, you rest your palm against the sharp edge of his jaw. His breath hitches, but he doesn’t order you away. Gently, you trace the shallow cut with the tip of your thumb, and Aemond can’t remember the last time that someone treated him with such care- the last time someone handled him with such delicacy. The urge to lean into your touch is overwhelming. To seek the closest thing to comfort, to peace, he’s ever known is like being suaded by temptation. He nearly chases the feeling until the ruffling of leaves above- mistaken for footsteps of potential onlookers in search of gossip to destroy both your reputation, and his- causes him to release a heavy exhale through his nose, and pull away.

“It will heal.” He assures you, though the reminder brings little comfort. If the gods will not end his suffering, you will try your very best to.

In the silence that follows, serenity remains. There should be something daunting about the nothingness that hangs in the air. Doubt should fester, and insecurity should loom, but only peace is present in Aemond’s company. He is the thunder and lightning of a storm, and the dew left behind afterward. He is a wave crashing ashore, and the ripples left behind in its wake. He is the chaos, but with you, he is the calm. Bathed in soft, orange rays of the setting sun he is still the glimpse of silver from your childhood- though, now he is much more than a stranger. He is everything. To you, he is everything. You realize, then, that you would have him in any way- violent hurricane or dew, waves or ripples- as long as he could always be a part of your life, a part of you, you would have him.

“Aemond, I-“ You can’t fathom the words. They’re stuck in your throat and they’re sickeningly sweet with an intimacy that’s unfamiliar, but not unwelcome. Your pulse quickens, beating faster and faster as if to catapult the sentiment from the cavern in your chest to your lips, but to no avail does your voice find you.

Aemond thinks you look terrified- with your mouth hung open, your eyes wide and brows pulled together- he’s concerned for you. He doesn’t want to interrupt, but you appear to be unwell. Sickly doesn’t suit you, and he wonders if you’ve overexerted yourself, somehow. Perhaps your corset is too tight, or perhaps you’ve had too much sun. Regardless, he notices a thin sheen of perspiration glimmering across your forehead and prepares to ask if you’re well, but his inquiry remains unspoken- along with the affection you couldn’t will yourself to express.

“Prince Aemond,” The sound of your father’s voice fills the garden with an authority that diminishes its tranquility- though it doesn’t present any harm or danger. Knowing that you’ve been caught in a rather compromising position, you immediately take a step back from Aemond- though the distance feels further than miles. Your father presses his lips into a thin line that reveals neither displeasure nor ridicule. Refusing shame and embarrassment, you bow your head low in humiliation- instead- and whilst you take the brunt of chagrin, Aemond remains unfazed.

“Lord Piper,” The prince returns, easily enough to convey nonchalance, but his stomach twists with uncertainty that his tongue does not divulge. All at once he’s burdened with realization. He’s forgotten duty and honor in favor of temptation. For a few uninterrupted moments of your company, he has dismissed propriety. It is equivalent to sin, to be caught alone with an unwed maiden, but you have been an acquaintance longer than you’ve been a maiden- or so it seems. He oft forgets that he is no longer a child, and neither are you. Guilt nearly swallows him whole, but his eye does not show remorse nor does his throat bob with repentance. He will suffer penance for his wrongdoings, but you should not be forced to answer for his crimes. A shrill voice silences the declaration that sits atop the tip of his tongue.

“Wretched child!” The round face of your septa blotches red with anger. Whilst you’re no stranger to her temper, her chastisement feels much crueler when it’s shared with company- opposed to in private. “I told you she’s rotten.” The old woman berates, directing the insult towards your father, who towers over her. She’s a petite woman, but her fury is equivalent to that of a large man- and nearly as intimidating. Her frown accentuates the deep lines around her mouth-making her appear years older than she actually is- and you wonder if she’s ever smiled, or if she was born with a frown. You can’t imagine that a smile on her face would be all that inviting, and the thought alone is one you can’t fathom. With a heaving chest, she demands an explanation from your father, “What girl leaves her lessons to sneak away with-“

“Forgive me, my prince.” Your father ignores the woman glaring daggers into the side of his head- rather, the side of his jaw, since her gaze only reaches so high- and addresses the man beside you. Aemond isn’t sure why he’s the one asking for forgiveness. He is not the one who has insulted you. When he looks at your septa, she turns away with a huff, refusing to meet his stare. He almost wishes that she would have finished her thought so that he had reason to reprimand her for such vile insults. Alas, his nostrils flare. “Might I have a word with my daughter?”

“Of course,” The line of his jaw is sharp whilst he grants permission. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he wonders what it might feel like to deny what is asked of him, but he refrains from flexing such power. Instead, he turns to you, only meeting your eye for a second before he bows his head politely.“My lady,”

“My prince,” You return the gesture, gripping the skirts of your gown between your fingertips and dropping down into a curtsy. It’s graceful, but the mire that stains the bottom of your dress reminds him of a time when it was not. With a final nod, he bids you farewell, and your chest aches with longing as you watch him leave. Alone, except for the presence of your father and septa, you feel like he’s taken a part of you with his departure. It’s an odd feeling, one that can not be explained. Yet, it lingers.

You miss the silent exchange between your septa and father, but you hear the scoff that leaves the unpleasant woman’s lips, and the sound of her angry footsteps as they depart. In her wake, she leaves a trail of crushed flowers. You look at the crumpled petals and leaves with apprehension- knowing what it feels like to be trampled over by such a neglectful woman- and wish to nurture them back to health. Perhaps, you’ve always felt inclined to heal what is thought to be broken.

Time passes. Following your father’s direction as he leads you through the castle grounds and down river row until you reach the river gate. Away from your septa, away from the small council, your father trades the overbearing horde for the gentle rippling of water as it trickles into the rush. Sailcloth ruffles in the distance, carrying ships to and from shore. Even with the shouting of merchants, ship captains, and the fish market vendors, it’s considerably more tranquil than the stuffy air of the palace.

“It is beautiful, isn’t it?” Your father prompts, and you offer a tight-lipped smile that does little to conceal what you’re truly feeling inside. “What troubles you, darling?”

“It is my septa,” A heavy sigh follows the confession. Revealing your worries frees a weight that’s settled in your chest. For the first time since the one-sided dispute, you can breathe. Surrendering your banners, you’ve laid your sword at your father’s feet, ready to embrace whatever awaits on the other side of attack- knowing that it will bring you the peace of mind you seek. “Today’s lesson consisted of reminders of duty, and the prospect of shame if I do not bear my husband’s heir within the first year of our marriage.” Too overwhelmed by the memory you wish to forget, you don’t notice your father tense beside you. “She suggests that if such a thing were to happen, then I am likely barren- and it was then that I decided that I would much rather watch the swordsmen than be ridiculed for an act I have neither attempted nor committed.”

Much to his dread, he understands why you’ve fled. He can not condemn you when he shares the same perspective. As much as it pains him to admit, the day he has long feared has finally arrived. His only daughter- once small and delicate- has become a woman grown. Forced to embrace a truth he wishes to deny, he dons a grim look of reluctance. He thinks about what he desperately wants to convey- pondering words of sentiment and merit, whilst mulling over the importance of fantasy and dreams- and struggles to exude the guidance he had hoped to. In every wrinkle, sunspot, and sunken crevice of his skin, he wishes to express his desire for you to embrace your youth. He wishes to preach about the importance of education and adventure, and happiness whenever and however you see fit, but nothing fills the silence that has settled during the lull in conversation- except for the sounds of water. A butchered version of all he wishes to say remains lodged in his throat. Nearly suffocating from the words he can not find the voice to amplify, his vision starts to blur.

“I am a woman, yes, but that does not condemn me to marriage or motherhood.” Unaware of the inner turmoil your father is silently suffering beside you, you continue to divulge your deepest, darkest secrets to the only man you know will truly understand.

“At least, it shouldn’t.” With a dejected breath, you huff. “I know that when the time comes I will have to make peace with the fact that I will never be more than some man’s property.” For a moment, you hold your head up higher- seemingly accepting the role you’re being forced into- and for just a second, your father catches a glimpse of your mother in the elegance you exude. “I hold no figment of love, no hope nor imagination for such a silly thing, but until I am sworn to wed, I would like to bask in my freedoms whilst I still can.” The confession pains him, especially when he wishes nothing more for you than to experience true happiness and love- if that is something you wish to seek.

Propriety, duty, and honor be damned.

“Then bask away,” He urges with a severity you do not understand as he reaches for your hand and squeezes it tightly- fearful of letting you slip away. “And do not let anyone attempt to darken your light.”

You would not heed his warning until it was too late.

a/n: massive thanks to both @em-writes-stuff-sometimes and @becauseicantdecide for easing my doubts about posting this, and for reassuring me that it wasn't absolute rubbish

tagging a few writers I admire: @mypoisonedvine @aemonds-sapphire @prince-aemond-targaryen @aemonds-war-crime @targbarbie @winterstellars @sapphire-writes @oneeyedvisenya @aemonds-fire @aemxnd @princeaemonds @ewanmitchellcrumbs

series taglist: @just-emmaaaa

Send me some feedback!

buy me a ko-fi!

#recs #Aemond x Reader #we all know i'm a slut for some imagery!

453 notes · View notes