I am not a fangirl !! I am a fan queen... Eléonore 28 years old fangirl (attention crazy one) French The only consulting vampire under the mountain (I invented the fairy tale) daughter of Persephone Capricorn
Tags ✦ broken betrothal, angst, lovers to enemies, heartbreak, love confession, open ending
Wordcount ✦ 2,600
Aemond's betrothal to you is broken when the war starts and he weds one of the Baratheon girls. Flying out to Highgarden to convince the Tyrells to join your mother's cause, you unexpectedly meet him again.
Aemond Masterlist
It was known by all that Ser Otto Hightower was a severe, solemn man that considered every action he took and conversation he had before they occurred. Nothing was left to chance, and therefore Aemond knew that when he was formally summoned to the Council Room one evening, it was significant.
It had been a few days since his father the king had passed, and the tension was slowly rising. Whether or not there would be war was still uncertain, and Aemond knew his grandsire still hoped for a peaceful resolution, but he was not so optimistic himself.
Arms crossed behind his back in that serious countenance that was his, he regarded his grandsire. “You wished to see me,” he said, calm but apprehensive.
“Yes, Aemond,” he replied, gesturing to the seat directly on the right to the king’s chair. He waited until both were seated to speak again. “As you well know, our attempts at negotiating peace with Rhaenyra have failed, and now we are faced with the possibility of war.”
“I am aware,” he replied gravelly—the gravity was not lost on him, and what he risked to lose either.
Now that there was an official rift between King’s Landing and Dragonstone, the matter of his betrothal to you was at risk, and it was perhaps what preoccupied him the most. When it came to warfare, he was confident in Vhagar’s ability to face any foe, but when it came to his heart, he was wary.
“In those circumstances, we have to assume your betrothal to her daughter is broken,” Otto continued, and while he knew the man to be right, he loathed to face this truth. “And as such, you are now free to make another alliance.”
Aemond’s chest tightened at the prospect—he had been betrothed to you in childhood, no long after the birth of little Joffrey, as a gesture of goodwill and reconciliation, and despite what had occurred later on, he had always been satisfied with such a match.
The two of you shared interests and had an understanding of duty and your place in the world. Over the years, temperaments settling and characters growing, he had found a kindred spirit in you and had come to privately cherish you, as any man should his betrothed.
In many ways, you completed him, and by your side, he felt a sense of freedom and belonging he had never experienced anywhere, and in anyone's presence.
Ignoring his grandson’s inner torment, Otto stood and paced the room as he talked. “House Baratheon does not want for girls to marry, and still has not declared,” he said, and Aemond understood now he had not been summoned for a discussion, but to be given his marching orders like a soldier. “You are to fly out to Storm’s End and choose a bride.”
“I do not wish for a Baratheon bride,” he protested. He loathed how quickly you were set aside, and how he was expected to turn his back on you without a second thought.
The Hand sighed, looking at him sternly. “I understand, but in matters of war, our wishes must take second place now to what is necessary to preserve your brother’s reign.”
Aemond stood in turn, knowing that all protest was futile. His fate had been sealed before he had even stepped into the room. “I understand,” he said as though the words burned the roof of his mouth.
“Lord Borros has four girls, you may have your pick of them,” Otto said as though it was a favor he was bestowing, handing Aemond a roll of parchment no doubt containing the terms of the alliance. “Wed the prettiest, or the most cunning, it matters not. What matters is an alliance sealed in flesh.”
The image disgusted him, but he nodded—in his hand, the parchment weighed more than paper.
Never had you thought that you would live to see a war, and now that it was your reality, you were finding out that it was quite unlike what you had learned in books. It was slow and agonizing, days spent bent over maps and drafting letters, waiting for banners to declare themselves and men to march into place.
This slowness did little to ease your anguish, and even after months, the devastation of Luke’s death still weighed heavily on your mind, grief as fresh and sharp as the first day. It seemed the cruelest fate that he had met his death at the jaws of Vhagar, under the command of the man you had once been promised to, and you could not reconcile it. Even though you knew of the hatred Aemond harbored for your younger brother, you could not bring yourself to believe it had been done out of cruelty.
In the first days following the death of the king, you had flown to the Eyrie on your mother’s orders, to negotiate with her cousin, only to return to tragedies—the death of a brother, by the dragon of a man who you loved, who had in turn wed another.
Secretly, almost ashamed, you mourned Aemond as well as Lucerys—despite the hatred that now lived in your heart, the love you once felt for him was festering, like neglected flowers rotting in a vase that you could not bring yourself to throw away. Even though you had never spoken those words to him, and he had never spoken of love either, you had found respite and ease in your courtship, admiring his mind and his calm demeanor, and you knew you would have been proud to call him your husband.
It seemed to you as though your future had now been stolen from you, your whole life in ruins around you, and you standing among the rubble. In the deepest corner of your heart, you loathed how quickly he had wed another, and the permanence of it was near unbearable—a simple betrothal would have been easy to break, to buy off in gold, but a marriage was permanent.
Such thoughts plagued your evenings until sleep claimed you, exhausting forcing you into rest, which you spent in the library, searching for escape in books. One such evening as you were pouring over a tome on the Reach, footsteps interrupted you.
It was Jacaerys, dressed in his riding clothes, hooded cloak draped over his arm. “Why aren’t you abed?” you inquired.
“I can sit still no longer. I must act,” he replied, to which you discarded your book to the side and rose, suddenly worried as he was prone to rash actions. “The Freys control the crossing at the Twins, and Cregan Stark’s men are marching south.”
“Are you flying out?” you asked, coming to face him. He took your elbows into his palms, your hands curling at his forearms, and nodded decidedly.
“If his men had a direct route into the Riverlands, we would not have to wait for Daemon to act,” he explained with conviction. “I will treat with The Freys to secure it.”
“And leave me here, being forced to play the coddled princess,” you retorted.
“You may find an expedition of your own,” he encouraged. “Hide my absence from mother, and I shall hide yours when I return.”
With a sigh, you brought up what had been your preoccupation these days. “The Tyrells still haven’t declared for either side. I may fly there, persuade them,” you mused, and Jacaerys nodded along. “Perhaps a dragon in their courtyard will convince them to call their banners in mother’s name, and they might unite the Reach.”
With that, your decision was made.
Highgarden sat alone upon a hill, nestled in a small patch of woods, and Aemond thought it was truly unremarkable from the skies, but then he had hardly expected otherwise from a house who had refused to pledge itself to either side of this war. Lord Lyonel was still a child, but his mother, a severe woman with a practical approach, had refused to call her banners and risk lives for a conflict she believed the House of the Dragon should resolve on their own—at least, that had been her words.
Aemond thought that with a dragon at the bottom of her hill, she could be persuaded. He circled the castle slowly, evening falling over its eastern side, and it was only when Vhagar had landed on the slope that a chirping sound came, a call he knew only too well—that of another dragon.
There were only so many riders it could have been. Aemond’s heart lurched in his chest and he found himself praying as he made his way past the first gate, the guards letting him in without issues after a glance at Vhagar. Overhead, gray clouds were gathering and a thin, cold rain was pattering on the ramparts.
Crossing into the first courtyard, he released the breath he had been holding when he saw that it was indeed your dragon waiting near a fountain, the beast making another one of its chirping sounds as Aemond walked past.
Entering the hall, his heart was thundering under his breastbone and his stomach coiling in on itself, and he could not prepare himself for the sight of you—there you were, the object of his regrets, of his laments, standing in front of the lady of Highgarden, wearing riding clothes and a cloak bearing your mother’s colors.
However, he quickly had to set his torment aside, as Lady Margot, unimpressed by his arrival, had risen from her seat. “If you have come to wage war, you will not be well-received,” she called, and the rows of guards on either side of her hall suddenly stood straighter, their hands twitching towards their belts.
Breath catching in his throat as he came to stand in front of her—and thus, closer to you than he had been in months—it took him a second longer to find his voice. “I have not come with threat of violence, my lady, but to negotiate,” Aemond replied, clipped, and handed her a roll of parchment.
To his utter disappointment, your eyes remained firmly ahead of you, refusing to even glance at him. In that moment, he bitterly regretted his loss of control, faced with the living, breathing evidence of what Vhagar’s attack had truly cost him.
Lady Margot glanced down at the seal, but did not open it. “An offer has already been made to me, and I reserve my judgment for later,” she declared, but his eye was still on you, fearing that the moment he would look aside, he would miss a glance, a sigh, any sign that your cold indifference was only a mask.
Ears ringing with your silence, he thought that he would rather face your fury and your grief.
It was then that you spoke, and hearing your voice was almost enough to quench his thirst. “I shall leave you with my mother’s proposal, to discuss it with your council,” you offered in a perfectly controlled tone before turning on your heels and making your way towards the door.
In a split-second, Aemond’s heart made the decision to follow, as though pulled by an invisible thread weaved around his breastbone.
“Leave her be. Do not bring bloodshed to my hall,” Lady Margot shouted, a sense of alarm in her voice. “Prince or not, I will not tolerate it.”
Ignoring her call, he rushed after you. “Do not let him leave the courtyard!” she ordered her guards, but his longing was so, it would take dozens of them to keep him from you.
Uncaring that his negotiation would likely fall through, he knew that if he let you go now, you would be lost to him forever, and it mattered to him more than any army.
Rushing outside under the arches, Aemond called your name, but you barely heard him over the thundering of your heart—it had nearly frozen in your chest when you had heard a guard announce him, breaking anew at the sight of him crossing the doors. It had taken all your strength not to shatter here and then, and now you needed to escape his presence, else you feared what would occur.
“Would you at least look at me?” he shouted, urgency bleeding through his tone.
Rain had started to fall, chilling you to the bone and running down your temples as you checked the buckle of your dragon’s saddle. “Look at me!” he repeated, catching up to you and looming over your shoulder.
He almost regretted his request when finally you turned, showing not only fright but contempt. “Or what, will you fly after me as you did my brother, subject me to Vhagar’s jaws?” you accused, your voice strangled.
“Never. I would never cause you any harm,” he replied, nearly shaking with the prospect. The cold rain and the curve of Vhagar’s spine over the rampart brought back that fateful night, and he cursed his grandsire then, who had ordered him to wed another, as well as he cursed himself for not having refused.
“And yet you have,” you cried, four devastating words that undid him as your unshed tears did.
“I did not mean for it to happen! I did not intend to kill him. Vhagar flew out of my control,” he confessed, and for a moment you stared, searching his eye. There was a frightening glint in his eye, one you had never seen before, but you knew enough of him to know he was telling the truth.
“Even if I were to believe you, we have nothing else to say to one another,” you replied, taking a step back towards your dragon, reaching back to grab its rein, but Aemond stopped you, curling a hand around your arm firmly—it was the tightest he had ever held you. “Unhand me! Do not make this torment even more so—”
“So you admit it is torment, as it has been for me,” he said then, his face contorted in anguish, and never before had you seen him so undone, untethered. “You have plagued my every waking hour.”
The words escaped your mouth before you could reign them in. “And yet you wed another.”
It seemed to shatter him, a flinch crossing his graceful face, and to see a man usually so composed tearing at the seams from your words soothed your anguish and filled you with arrogant pride. “I loved you,” you said, as much an accusation than a confession. “My heart was yours until you—”
“Tell me it still is!” he cut you off, crowding you against your dragon’s flank, his breath hot on your face.
“It isn’t,” you lied, and you could swear a sob tore out from his throat before he pressed his mouth to yours, his lips carrying words he could not say.
Never before had he kissed you so fiercely, so desperately, and you closed your eyes as more tears flooded your cheeks. You sobbed as you mourned what could have been, loathing him as much as you longed for him, and you hated yourself for the way you responded to him.
Aemond felt the moment you surrendered, and while he had thought it would soothe the ache inside of him, instead it tore a new wound across his chest. He pulled away slightly, enough to force you to look at him, and you held his gaze through your tears.
There was no disgust on your face, no horror, only the worst heartbreak he could have ever imagined. “Let me go,” you whispered, and as though your words carried a spell, he complied, stepping away, his chest suddenly hollow.
A/N: Dividers by @/saradika. Based on an anonymous request.
I love learning about lotr Behind the Scenes because 95% percent of the time it’s just “we let Viggo Mortensen loose and he did weird shit” and there is no way to predict what the fuck he did
What is a wolf but a bat without wings? / What is a bat but a winged wolf.
Sansa was often said to favor the Tullys. In truth, she favored only her mother, as Catelyn had favored hers before her. The resemblance belonged not to House Tully, but to the habitually forgotten line of Whent,
One time I was leaving a friend's place and an older lady with basically no English came up to me and communicated that she was very cold and needed a ride. She pointed to tell me where to go.
I got there and her daughter or granddaughter came out and was like omg her phone died we were worried
And then the older lady said something and the younger lady translated.
"She knew she could trust you because you have pink hair"
I thought it was funny at the time. But when I think back on it I think she was basically saying "you had a visible sign of not vibing with the system I was afraid of"
Refer to my blog for the first part! Also feel free to comment any feedback is helpful!
Trigger warnings: mention of accidental drug misuse
1 month later
Prosie had let herself into Effie's apartment with her spare key when there was no answer to the door. Prosie found herself checking on Effie more and more these days. Not that Effie wanted her too, but because Prosie was becoming increasingly worried. Effie seemed to be getting worse instead of better with time. Oftentimes during conversations she had this distant look in her eyes. Oftentimes she was obviously zoning out. She was never fully present, something was always on her mind.
Prosie couldn’t be the person Effie needed 24/7 as usually checked on her elder sister every other day because she had responsibilities back home. Effie refused to let her have someone watch her. She’d get agitated whenever Prosie mentioned hiring a caretaker for her.
When Prosie walked into Effie’s apartment today it was quieter than usual. Effie had impeccable hearing so the no response was jarring. Maybe she left the house today? Prosie thought that unlikely because she never seemed to leave the house these days. Her heart started to race. She was panicking. Something was off. It was too quiet. Prosie walked through the home until she reached Effie's bedroom door. She listened in for snoring, but when she didn’t hear anything she became more concerned. Opening the door she saw Effie laid out on her bed. She ran over to her.
“Effie.” Prosie waited for a response. When she didn’t get one she lightly shook her. When that didn’t work she shook her more intensely to no avail. “Effie! Wake up.”
Prosie began to freak out. Time seemed to stop. She stumbled over to the phone and dialed emergency services.
“Hello, this is Prosperina Trinket-Cellio.” Prosperina tried to stop her voice from shaking.” I'm at 45 Sunset Blvd in apartment seventeen.” She told them the wrong building accidentally while rushing her words. “I meant 46 Sunset Blvd, sorry. I have just found my sister unconscious! Please get someone over here now!”
. . .
In the minutes after her call to the police it felt like time moved slowly. She didn’t know what to do other than maybe check for a pulse. Holding Effie's wrist she didn’t feel anything. She couldn’t hold the tears that trickled from her eyes. She then felt something that seemed like a pulse. It wasn’t like a normal pulse. It seemed slower, spaced out. She didn’t know if she was imagining things or not. If she was just feeling what she wanted to feel. Her heart dropped. She couldn’t let herself think that the worst thing had just happened to her beloved sister. She blamed herself for not checking in more. Maybe this wouldn’t have happened if she had gotten her help to begin with instead of letting Effie make the decision for herself. Prosie tried to compose herself but her hands were still shaking and she couldn’t control her tears.
Prosie remembered help was on the way and quickly unlocked the front door before rushing back to her sister's side.
“Please Effie, you have to be okay. Stay with me. Stay with me! I’m so sorry. Don’t leave me please.” cried a helpless Prosie.
. . .
Effie heard beeping sounds coming from the monitor to her left. She tried opening her eyes. The fluorescent lights make that a painful experience for her. She realized where she was. “Oh no.” she thought to herself. She tried to remember what happened. All she could think about though was the uncomfortable tube she felt in her esophagus. She coughed a few times. She thought she was choking or something. She was panicking. Trying to sit up and get the cord out. Before she knew it a nurse had run into her room.
“Ms. Trinket, please calm down. I can take this tube out as soon as you do.” The nurse touched Effie’s shoulder. Hoping she would relax.
Effie tried her best to calm down. The nurse got her to relax and Effie just laid her head on her pillow. She wondered what had happened to her, but she had an idea. She realized that if she was in the hospital someone would have had to have found her unconscious. It was an uncomfortable feeling when she realized who that might have been. Prosie. She thought of how scared she must have been. She immediately felt a wave of guilt rush over her.
“Ms. Trinket, I will be right back with something for you to drink and a bite to eat. You must be thirsty.” The nurse said while making her way to the door.
“How long was I out for?” Effie barely was able to make out her words. Her throat was dry and her voice scratchy.
“Two days.” The nurse replied before walking out the door.
“Oh hell.” Effie mumbled.
. . .
Prosie had made it back to the hospital in less than 30 minutes. She had been sleeping in a hotel so she would be close to Effie. Most of the train systems were delayed. After the war so many things seemed to run slower. The Capitol didn’t look like the Capitol so much anymore. They were still doing clean up and because of the crews and construction sites everywhere it seemed to take longer to get from place to place.
Prosie felt relieved. Relieved in knowing that Effie was awake. This could mean she was going to be okay. Even when the doctors told her that her sister was stable she couldn’t calm down until she was sure. Until Effie woke up. She raced to the hospital.
Racing up the stairs she had almost rolled her ankle in the attempt to get to her sister.
“She’s in there.” A friendly nurse said recognizing Prosie’s short maroon hair.
“Thank you.”
Prosie rushed in the door.
“Effie! Effie, are you okay?”
“I’m perfectly alright, thank you, You don’t need to worry about me.” Effie responded, sounding less convincing than usual.
“No, don’t give me that. I found you unconscious with a glass of wine by your bed and your medications right next to it.” Prosie started to get upset again. “Did you do it on purpose?”
“No, of course not. I wouldn’t dare.”
Prosie didn’t believe her for one second. Effie wasn’t exactly lying. She didn’t intend to hurt herself, she was just being careless. That was somehow worse. That she didn’t care enough to be concerned with her safety.
“Well, I hope you understand I’m not going to make the same mistake again.”
“Prosie, what do you mean by that?”
“I am going to send you to a place where you can be helped. More than I can help you by myself.”
“No! Prosie, that is not necessary.”
“Oh, but it is. I’m sorry, but at the same time I’m not. I can’t let the same thing happen to you again. And then have worse consequences next time. Ones that can't be solved with a stay at the hospital.”
Effie couldn’t think of what to say to smooth things over. She realized she’d have to accept her fate.
“Do you know how much you scared me? How much you scared everyone.”
“Everyone? You didn’t make this a big deal? Did you?”
“It is a big deal, Euphemia. I wrote a letter to Fulvia and Octavia letting them know what happened. Those flowers over there are from them.”
Effie felt so embarrassed. Like she had just concerned everyone who cared about her. Everybody already has their own stuff going on, she didn’t want to add anything else to anyone's plate.
“I also sent a letter to Haymitch. There’s no telling when he will get it though with how slow everything's moving now.”
“Are you serious Prosie? You didn’t even think to ask me before telling my business to the whole world. Haymitch did not need to know this.”
“How could I have asked you? You were too busy hurting yourself.”
Effie scoffed. She couldn’t help but be frustrated. She realized that Prosie was concerned, but now things were worse because too many people are concerned now. She didn’t feel like she should have anybody worried about her. There were people who deserved their empathy more than her.
. . .
Effie was released the next day and sent to a mental health facility that could keep a closer eye on her.
In the few weeks that she was there she felt like a bird in a cage. She was certain she didn’t belong there and somehow this worsened whatever emotions she had been feeling already. She knew it was wrong but she purposefully made herself a pain in the ass to everyone who worked there. She was demanding and rude hoping they’d let her leave because of that. Or that she’d be kicked out. It never worked.
She recalled a time where she refused to go to therapy. This did nothing but frustrate everyone. She figured they’d keep her there longer out of spite of her bad behavior. She was used to having people respect her, but here she was nothing but a patient. She started to feel more like a patient than a person. She couldn’t even recognize herself anymore.
Effie sat with her head in her hands on the uncomfortable white bed they had put her in. The room was as cold and entrapping as the rest of the building. She could hear three knocks at the door.
“Come in.” She said, giving up the rude act. She just accepted this is where she’d be for the foreseeable future.
“You have a visitor Ms.Trinket.” said one of the nurses.
They say she is the queen who never knelt. That dragons came to Winterfell, and even their fire could not melt the ice in her veins.
They say other Lords and Ladies bowed in fear or bowed in awe, but the Queen in the North would not be moved by beauty, by promises, by threats. They say when the dragon queen was dead, and so few remained in Westeros to lead, and her brother took the crown, that she stood, and she refused to kneel, even then.
They say come Spring, she walked the fields they planted, that it was her breath that thawed the soil, her prayers that caused the seeds to take root, her songs that pulled the sprouts from the earth to the Sun. And even then, her knee never touched the ground.
But she did kneel.
They were at supper, a Lord droned on about something he found of great import, and his Lady sat still, rigid, with a slight tremor in her hand when she attempted to use her utensil. The Queen’s face was young, but her blue eyes had seen all manner of evil, so the queen became Sansa, for Sansa knew.
She left her oversized chair, the carved wolves fierce, frightening , and came down to eye level beside the Lady, one knee touching the worn stone of Winterfell’s great hall, “I remember you, My Lady, would you come to a sewing circle tomorrow and speak to me of my mother?”
The queen’s favor was protection, and she used it well.
There were men who fought for Winterfell, for the North, for all of Westeros during the battle against creatures from nightmares. Most died quickly, some lingered, and for them, she knelt, to listen if they had words, to sing a hymn if they wished it, more than one if they asked, yet another even when her voice faltered as she saw the cost of life, the price of freedom.
She knelt, when she met a boy in Wintertown, whose bright eyes and smile reminded her of brothers lost, of childhoods stolen. Much to the chagrin of her ladies, to the great dismay of her laundress later, down to her knees she fell, to kiss his ruddy cheek.
She did kneel, often. As did they, devoutly.
And Sansa remembered her lessons, the ones she had learned, the ones she had rejected. She had been right.
It was better to be loved.
This is a little rough, but I wanted to contribute to Sansa week. Happy Sansa won the game of thrones day!
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