millie

22. she/her. multifandom

[milliesdiary]

my name is 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐚, but you can call me 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐞. i'm 22, french, and an amateur writer.

i occasionally post 𝐧𝐬𝐟𝐰. you must be 18+ to interact with those works!

reblogs & comments are very appreciated and encouraged! ✩

hotd masterlist

[ichorai]

nobody ; jon snow.

track five of WASTELAND, BABY!

pairing ; jon snow x martell!gn!reader

synopsis ; a child of sand and a child of snow—destined never to last, but somehow, you made it work.

words ; 9.0k

themes ; angst, action, fluff, healer au

warnings / includes ; heavy violence/gore/injury, wars/fighting, trauma, ramsay bolton, implications of sex, multiple mentions of death, reader is a bastard to oberyn martell, reader loathes the cold, a couple game of thrones spoilers, mentions of other characters in the show, and finally, fuck season eight !!

main masterlist.

You were fifteen when you first met Jon Snow.

The air was saturated with the ambrosial scents of spiced mulled wine and the rumbling thunder of tipsy cackling. Alcohol dripped from full golden chalices, heaping baskets of steaming bread rolls were passed around the mess hall, and plates were piled high with peppered mutton chops and creamed potatoes. You were seated near the end of the long table, quietly sipping on your honeyed apple cider as you politely smiled and nodded at the young nobleman who sat across from you, detailing a rather elaborate story of how he had hunted down a bear with nothing but a single hatchet and a lick of courage. 

You didn’t buy a single word of it, but the exaggerated story was mildly entertaining nonetheless. You’d rather listen to his tipsy rambling than watch King Baratheon stick his tongue down a random maiden’s throat. 

Once the man finished, he smiled charmingly, before grabbing your chalice and downing the rest of your drink. His loud belch was drowned out by the rest of the crowded hall of Winterfell, busy feasting and celebrating. Your lips twisted into a frown out of instinct, but you quickly fell back into a stoic expression, gently excusing yourself from the table. 

You mourned your half-eaten food left on your plate, but you didn’t think you could stomach another bite of Northern food—you longed for the sticky sweetness of Dorne’s dates. 

Hurriedly, you wove through the hall, quickly ducking when a silver wine chalice sailed across the large room. You made for the exit, squeezing past a couple children playing by the entrance.

Once you were outside, Winterfell’s frosty wind instantly nipped at your exposed skin, whispering snowflakes into your ear and tousling your hair in a haphazard fashion. A shiver spidered down your spine as you pressed yourself against the castle’s walls, pulling your fur coat closer to you. 

How you missed the kiss of Dorne’s sun on your cheeks. 

Damn the North.

You wrinkled your nose in frustration. 

A repetitive, faint thudding drew your attention away from the howling breeze, resonating from just around the castle’s corner. Curiosity piqued, you sleuthed across the icy grass, looking around the bend with wide eyes.

It was dark—far darker than it was inside. The only source of light came from the lit torches lining the walls and the dewy luminescence of the moon. 

The thudding came from a man—no, a boy—hacking furiously at a hay-sewn dummy with a dull wooden practice sword. You blinked, watching with mild awe as he relentlessly struck the unmoving figure, moving with an exact precision that was uncommon to see in such youth.

You didn’t realize just how long you’d been staring when he suddenly stopped, muscles visibly tensing beneath his thick leather tunic. The wooden sword drooped downwards when he lowered his arm, but his grip never faltered.

“What are you looking at?” he grumbled at last, turning around to face you entirely. 

At first, you found yourself at a loss for words. He was quite a beauty—a large mass of dark curls adorning his head, dancing with the snowy gale. His eyes, a tempestuous hue of stormy grey, narrowed and scrutinizing, were studying your every move, as if preparing himself for some sort of attack.

You shuffled backwards out of pure instinct, but steeled yourself before you had the nerve to turn tail and run. 

“Nothing,” you replied hoarsely, averting your gaze to a particularly interesting pile of rubble. “I just… needed to get out of the mess hall for a bit. It’s loud in there.”

It was silent for a moment, before he placed the sword down, regarding you with a somewhat intrigued stare whilst stepping closer. 

“I’m sorry if I’m being disrespectful,” he said, surprising you with his sudden change of demeanor, “but I don’t quite recognize you. How am I to address you?”

“My name would be just fine,” came your reply, eyebrows shifted upwards. “I’m Y/N. Y/N Martell. My father is Oberyn Martell, brother to the ruling prince of Dorne.”

It was the boy’s turn to be surprised, and an amused smile itched across your lips when he seemed to fumble for words, wondering if it was customary to bow or to shake hands with you. 

After his initial stupor, he shook his head, small bits of frost flying away from his hair. “Well, what are you doing out here? It’s cold out.”

“I told you, I came out to get some space. It was awfully crowded,” you hummed. Then, you leaned forward towards him, lowering your voice to a leveled whisper, “Plus, the sight of King Baratheon fondling a woman on top of his venison doesn’t exactly whet my appetite.”

A flit of a grin momentarily crossed his features, but it disappeared back into his regular brooding nature nearly as soon as it came.

“You know my name.” You tilted your head in a questioning manner. “It’d be rude of me not to ask for yours.”

“Jon,” the boy with curls of ebony replied in an off-handish manner.

“Jon…?”

His lips twitched downwards, twisting into a glower. Reluctantly, he mumbled, “Snow. Jon Snow.”

“Oh,” you whispered, stepping closer with widened eyes. Jon risked a glance towards you, surprised that he could see his own reflection in the dark of your pupils, frost clinging to your eyelashes and knitted brows. “Snow is a name for Northern bastards, is it not?” Your tone was not one of disdain like Jon had expected, but rather one of tender excitement.

There was a twitch to his jaw. He remained silent.

“I’m a bastard, too.”

Your words made him tear his gaze away from the snowy ground to your searching eyes. “You? A bastard?” he asked, plain with surprise.

You bowed your head once with a mild smile painting your lips with warmth. “I suppose my proper name would be Y/N Sand—the name given to bastards of Dorne. But we don’t care much for bastardy as the other kingdoms do. My father thought it proper to call myself a Martell during my stay in King’s Landing.”

Snow scuffed around Jon’s boots as he dug the heel into the grass. “What were you doing in King’s Landing?”

“I’ve been staying there to study medicine. Been about… seven months now? I left home when I was fourteen,” you said, teeth worrying into your bottom lip in thought. The hazy memory of saying goodbye to your father and sisters made your heart lurch with a sudden jolt of nostalgia. 

“Do you like it there?” Jon asked, intrigued. “In King’s Landing, I mean.”

You wrinkled your nose in response, shaking your head firmly. “I much prefer the golden sands of Dorne. The wispy shade of a palm tree. The wiry muscles of our horses—bred to run for fortnights on end. The cool sip of water on a hot day. The spitting bonfires at night—the stars seem to be so much brighter in Dorne, Jon Snow, you wouldn’t believe it.”

The both of you tilted your heads up to look at Winterfell’s dark sky. There wasn’t a single star in sight.

You sighed with stinging disappointment, tilting your chin back down to nuzzle your cold nose into your coat.  

Jon couldn’t help how his lips twitched upwards ever so slightly. “Sounds like a wonderful place.”

Humming your agreement, you uttered, “Enough about me.” You stepped closer so that you were nearly side-by-side with him. “What are you doing out here? Why aren’t you at the banquet?” 

The smile on his lips melted away nearly instantaneously. “Lady Stark thought it improper to seat a bastard amongst the royal guests.”

“That’s stupid,” you said in a rather blunt fashion, which made Jon’s eyebrows inch closer to his curls. “Not to bash on your kingdom’s customs or anything—but I find the exclusion of bastards rather redundant. You’re still their family regardless.”

“It’s what I am,” the boy responded with half a shrug. “It’s all I ever will be.”

“It’s all you’ll be if that’s all you choose to be, Jon Snow.” You inhaled a lungful of frigid air. 

The boy beside you seemed to mull over your words for a while, mouth twisted in thought. “I plan to join the Night’s Watch,” he said suddenly, looking almost surprised that he’d admitted that to you. He hadn’t spoken to anyone about the matter yet—it just happened to slip from his tongue without him giving it a second thought.

“That sounds fun,” you replied with a small smile, nudging your elbow into his shoulder. “At least, as much fun as you can have in this dreary place, anyway. No offense.”

For the first time, you heard the bastard of Ned Stark laugh. It was a quiet one, barely little more than an amused huff of his nostrils, but you heard it nonetheless. It made a queer sensation pool at the bottom of your stomach, one of warmth and selfish pride. You wanted him to laugh again. 

“You’d look handsome in black,” you commented with a roguish leer, to which Jon shifted in an awkward manner, turning his gaze to the frosty ground. If you looked closer, you’d be able to catch a dusting of rouge over his pale cheekbones.

The silence warped around you two in a hazy cocoon, time slowing down to a slow drip, drip, drip of the sand grains in an hourglass. 

Abruptly, you pivoted away from his side to face him, beckoning back to the mess hall with your head. “I’m sorry, in Dorne it’s rude to converse with someone who hasn’t had a meal when you’ve already eaten. You must be starving! Let me go fetch a plate for you.”

“Oh,” Jon started, already beginning to shake his head in panicked protest, “you really don’t have to—Lady Stark wouldn’t be very pleased—”

“Who said Lady Stark has to know? What if I just pretended I wanted a second helping?” You internally grimaced when you remembered that you hadn’t even finished your first helping. 

Raven-hued curls shook haphazardly as he stepped forward to catch your wrist with his in a futile attempt to persuade you to stay. After all, he wasn’t all that hungry.

He could feel his stomach cinch painfully at the thought of roasted mutton chops and candied almonds, or honey cakes and creamed potatoes, or steaming rabbit stew and flaking raspberry pie. Alright, Jon supposed he was a little bit hungry. 

“Sorry, can’t hear you!” you called out while waltzing away with a bright smile. “I’ll bring us two chalices of honeyed apple cider, too! Hope you like that!”

Despite all his efforts to stave away his mirrored excitement, Jon couldn’t help but watch you whisk away with a grin pulling at the side of his mouth.

“This is Ghost,” Jon said after swallowing down his bite of peppery chicken. You had been generous enough to add a bit of nearly every single dish available in the hall, walking out none-too-discreetly with a wobbling mountain of food stacked on the porcelain. 

The white direwolf, still only a small pup, tittered towards Jon with a knowing glint in its eye, using its snout to nudge against his knee. Relenting, Jon ripped off a piece of mutton and tossed it onto the ground for the direwolf. 

You were practically vibrating on your wooden seat beside him, grinning ecstatically. “I can’t believe you’ve got a direwolf!” you exclaimed in a hushed whisper, biting into a slice of spiced honey cake. “He’s gorgeous.”

Chuckling, Jon reached over to ruffle the creature between the ears. “He’s alright. Was the runt of the litter.”

That made your grin stretch wider. 

The two of you conversed for what felt like hours—you found out that he was only a year older than you, that he hated blackberries, that he had nightmares about dragons sometimes. In turn, he learned that you had a pet snake at the ripe age of five, that you counted the stars outside your window when you couldn’t sleep, that you thought your father, Oberyn Martell, was going to kill the Mountain one day.

Jon found you fascinating—he couldn’t remember the last time he had listened so intently to someone.

Jon had wolfed down the food you brought, despite previously claiming he wasn’t all that hungry. Setting the empty dishes aside, you strolled alongside him, sipping on your cider and occasionally bumping into his side, which made both of you laugh as he kindly told you to mind your step. 

When the guests inside the hall started to quiet down, small groups of people trickling out of the castle to retire to bed, you knew your limited time with Jon was coming to an end.

“We’ve only just met, but I’m gonna miss you,” you said, gazing towards him with disappointment etched plain as day across your features. Your hand lifted to brush away a bit of snow that had landed on his shoulder. “I certainly won’t miss the cold, though. I have no idea how you Northern folk live like this.”

“Our blood must be thicker than yours,” he commented in a humorous tone, which made you roll your eyes and stick your tongue out playfully at him. The smile that spread across Jon’s lips made your stomach twist with a queer sort of warmth. A tentative silence warped about the two of you, and you felt him step closer to you, his hands clenched into fists by his side, as if he was staving off some sort of urge. 

You were young and foolish then—it was only expected that you acted on giddy impulsivity.

You leaned forward slowly, making sure he knew of your intent—and you kissed him. It was a dry, chaste kiss, awkward and hesitant in nature but endearing all the same. Jon was frozen for a long moment before his calloused hand was brought up to cradle your jaw, movements stiff with uncertainty, softly tilting your face so it slotted just right over his. His nose gently bumped into yours. His teeth caught against your lip. His dark curls tickled your forehead when they knocked together. The kiss tasted of apple cider and winter’s frost.

You pulled away with a flustered beam, pleased to see Jon had turned a furious shade of scarlet, his expression mirroring yours. 

“Goodbye, Snow,” you said to him quietly, just as the both of you spotted his family coming out of the mess hall. Subconsciously, you shuffled away from him. The last thing you wanted was for Ned Stark to catch the both of you in the act, even though it was merely a harmless kiss. “You stay safe at the Night’s Watch, alright? Who knows, maybe I’ll get you to come visit Dorne one day. Get that thick, chunky Northern blood of yours to loosen up.”

“It would be an honor to come,” he replied with a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. There was a glint of sadness hidden within his dark irises—perhaps he believed that this would be the last time he’d ever see you. “Goodbye, Sand.”

With that, you watched him trudge away with a tight chest, his fur-coated figure growing smaller and smaller as he disappeared into the castle walls. 

You were twenty the next time you saw Jon Snow.

Five long, long years.

You shivered on the horse, Sansa’s cold fingers holding onto your waist tightly. She sat just behind you, breaths spilling out pale mist over your shoulder. Podrick and Brienne were only an arm’s length away on their own horses, faces stony and filthy with grime. You were sure your own face was no better.

“Open the gates!” someone screamed. 

The creak of metal. The whinny of a horse. The schlop of mud.

Your eye was heavy with exhaust.

Brienne led the way into Castle Black, dismounting her horse first. You followed suit, helping Sansa down and watched as Podrick ambled off of his. Castle Black was far colder than Winterfell had been. The cold didn’t seem to bother Sansa as much—after all, she was well accustomed to the weather since childhood. That, or she welcomed the numbing sensation of the frigid wind. 

Despite being stuck in cold conditions for years, you were still a child of sand. You were made for the heat. The thought made you pull your thin coat closer to you, lips warbling into a glower. 

And as you turned your head away from Sansa’s pale, sallow face, you could feel a dozen pairs of eyes burning into you. Tilting your gaze upward, you nearly burst into tears of relief upon seeing a familiar face.

Jon Snow. 

He held the same features as he did five years ago—the heavy-set frown, the stormy, curious eyes, the ebony locks upon his head. He was taller, evidently so, and had a well-tamed beard blanketing the expanse of his jaw. He had grown into his features, face more chiseled and physique just a tad more defined. 

The bastard laid his eyes on his sister first, an amalgamation of shock and confusion morphing across his features before it crossed over to the two strangers he’d never seen before. One tall and blonde, one stocky and dark-haired. 

Then he looked to you. There was a slight shift to his expression. One of slight dubiety. Then, like a ray of sun on a stormy night, realization dawned upon him. 

You looked so different. You wore your hair differently than when he last saw you, dyed a significantly lighter shade than it used to be. There was a new, jagged scar carved down your left cheek, a dirty leather eyepatch fixed over one of your eyes, and you were much taller than you had been at the ripe age of fifteen. Nonetheless, Jon recognized the small quirk to your lips, your Dornish facial features, the brightness of your one eye (though far dimmer than it used to be).

He rushed down the creaky wooden steps. 

He embraced Sansa first. The red-head breathed out a sigh of exhaustion when he held her, tears rimming her eyes like snow on a wiry tree branch. Jon held her tightly—it’d been five long years since he’d seen his family. 

A lump formed in your throat when he gently pulled away from her, and cast his gaze to you. You felt small under his scrutiny, partially afraid that he’d forgotten you after all these years. 

Then, he whispered your name to the frost and you bit back a sob, launching yourself forward to wrap your arms around his midriff. There was so much you wanted to tell him—so much he needed to know. 

But you couldn’t force the words out. So you remained silent, burying your nose into the warmth of Jon’s neck. 

Your hair was still damp from the icy bath they’d drawn for you. The cold made your heart jump up your throat—it took you around ten minutes of dipping your toe into the water only to retract it with a scalding hiss until you forced yourself in with a grumble. You were now wrapped in about three layers of thick, furry blankets, a bowl of warm chicken soup cradled in your palms.

The crackling of the fire in front of you filled the silence momentarily. The clementine flames licked into the air greedily, spitting out small orange embers for you to watch turn into grey ash. 

Jon was sitting close beside you, thigh pressed up against yours. You hadn’t the time to say anything to him before you were whisked away for a bath and food. Now that you had his full, undulated attention, you weren’t quite sure what to say.

“It’s good soup,” Sansa chimed from across the both of you. She was staring into the fire with a nostalgic grin fiddling with the corner of her raw-bitten lips. “Do you remember the kidney pies Old Nan used to make?”

Jon chuckled. “The ones with the peas and onions?”

The two hummed in thought, then fell back into silence. You shifted to slurp up more of your soup, offering your spoon to Jon with a tilt of your head. He shook his head softly, gesturing for you to have some more. 

You had offered out of courtesy—Dornish traditions never died—but you were ever so grateful that he declined. You hadn’t realized just how starving you’d been. 

Ramsay went out of his way to make sure you barely had a meal a week. He was cruel like that. Glancing to Jon, you caught him watching you unceremoniously gulp the soup down with a wide grin. 

“Sorry,” you coughed out in a small voice after wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “Do you… do you have any more of this?”

“We have plenty,” Jon said, not unkindly. “I’ll have one of the lads fetch another bowl for you.”

As he left, Sansa looked to you with an amused expression. “He likes you.”

“I barely know him. He barely knows me,” you replied, eyebrows canted upwards at her statement.

“And yet he likes you,” she persisted, bobbing her head down to sip on her soup.

You didn’t grace her with a response, instead opting to stare down at your empty bowl.

Jon came back not too late after, handing you another serving of the warm chicken soup. “Thank you,” you said sheepishly, before tucking in once more.

“We should have never left Winterfell,” Sansa spoke up. Both you and Jon looked at her, grunting noises of agreement. “Don’t you wish you could go back to the day you left? Tell yourself, ‘don’t go, you idiot’.” 

A film of tears glossed over your eyes. “I wish I never left Dorne.”

Jon shook his head. “How could we have known? All the things that have happened to us… it wasn’t our fault.”

“I wish I could change everything,” Sansa admitted, shame threading heavily through her tone. “I was such an ass to you.”

“We were children,” he replied. “Though, you were occasionally awful.”

You snorted at that and Sansa rolled her eyes before turning to watch the fire. 

“I’m sure I can’t have been better,” Jon replied modestly. “Always sulkin’ in the corner while the lot of you played.”

The three of you chuckled mirthfully at the thought of young Jon muttering curses under his breath in the shadows. 

“Will you forgive me?” Sansa asked, quiet. 

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Jon countered firmly.

“Forgive me,” bit out Sansa, narrowing her eyes.

They both smiled. 

“I forgive you.”

With a satisfied smile, Sansa drank the last of her soup and placed it on the table in front of her, rising with a certain kind of grace only she bore. She excused herself to go draw a long overdue bath.

Jon glanced at you once she left. “What have you been doing? After all this time?”

Hesitant, you fiddled with the spoon in your bowl. 

“Well, five years ago, I followed your father and sisters to go back to King’s Landing. Continued my studies. Watched Ned Stark die in front of my eyes. My father came to King’s Landing for Joffrey’s wedding.” You paused for a moment, finding it hard to speak around your suddenly-thick throat. “I watched him die, as well, fighting for Tyrion Lannister. He was about to win. He was so close. But he wanted revenge for his sister—and his greed for revenge eventually became his demise. In a panic I… I ran away from King’s Landing. From everything.”

Tears of gold. Stolen bread from outdoor markets. Rats squeaking on cobblestone pathways at night.

“From then on, I bumped into Podric, Tyrion’s squire, and Brienne, a knight pledged to looking for the Stark girls. Pod recognized me from my time in King’s Landing—and knew all about my family, so that convinced Brienne enough to let me tag along. Besides, I knew more about medicine than half of King’s Landing combined, and that’s always useful when embarking on a journey.”

Bandaged wounds. Crackling fires. Clopping horseshoes.

“After a while, we ran into Arya and the Hound. I tried killing the Hound because his brother killed my father but I stopped upon realizing that he wanted his brother dead just as much as I did—if not more so. We lost sight of Arya. I’m sorry, Jon, I have no clue where she could be now.”

Blood. Sword. Blood. 

“Pod, Brienne, and I kept moving forward and we eventually caught sight of Sansa at an inn with Petyr Baelish. Sansa remembered me from all those years ago at Winterfell—so I asked if I could accompany her. No, I didn’t ask. I begged. Tears and everything. I was foolish to leave Brienne and Pod. Baelish agreed to let me come when they were chased out.”

Panicked rambling. Desperate eyes. Hands and knees—begging.

“At Winterfell… it was a living nightmare. Ramsay Bolton tortured Sansa and I—he would lock me in rooms for weeks on end and forced me to run through the forest naked whilst shooting bolts at me. He fed me dog food and tied me to the bars of the hounds’ cage so he could watch them struggle against their ropes to rip me to shreds. He made me watch as he cut pieces of Theon away. He gave me these.” You pointed at the deep scar on your cheek, then to the eyepatch, voice warbling. 

Hounds. Manic gaze. A scream of agony.

Jon’s hands found your face, slow and steady, his thumbs swiping at your cheeks. It took you a second to realize that he was brushing away tears, steadily falling from your eyes without you noticing. You nearly flinched away when his finger trailed down your steadily healing scar, but steeled yourself before you could retract away. 

You trusted Jon Snow.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Sand, I can’t imagine what that must be like,” he said softly. You cried harder.

“My family is dead. Poisoned with hatred for each other—for everybody else,” you choked out. “And it feels like you and Sansa are the only ones who can understand.”

The man in front of you nodded solemnly. “Aye. It was a pain like no other—hearing about each of their deaths through raven letters. And knowing that there was nothing I could do about it.”

Far too caught up to care about your boldness, you placed your bowl on the table and sidled up to Jon, your head resting on his shoulder and arm curled around his back. He didn’t seem to mind at all, in fact—he shifted so that his arm laid over the back of your neck. He smelled of a hearth’s smoke and a fresh, tree-like fragrance.

“Enough about me,” you whispered. Jon smiled, remembering that those had been the exact words you uttered to him five years ago. “What’ve you been doing all this time?”

“I was murdered, for starters,” he said with a hint of amusement when you abruptly twisted in his arms staring at him with parted lips. 

“You were what?”

“A story for another time, I promise,” he mumbled, waving away your concern and gently nudging you back down against him, as your arm was digging into his stomach uncomfortably. “I’ve been fighting nonstop, come to think of it. I’ve killed people I hated, people I didn’t know… people I admired. I hung a boy younger than Bran. I’m tired of fighting, Sand. I’ve fought and I’ve lost. I’m done.”

You opened your mouth to say something comforting, reassuring, anything. But you had little to say, so you kept quiet, pressing your nose to the underside of his jaw in an effort to convey your sympathy. 

Jon’s chest rumbled beneath your palm as he said, “There’s also dead in the North.”

“There’s what?!”

The bastard hummed gravely. He hummed as if that was just a normal sentence to toss out. 

“And both of those things mean… we can’t stay here.”

You turned again, making sure your forearm wasn’t pressing against his abdomen, instead slanted off to the side. This made you lean even closer to Jon, nearly nose-to-nose with him.

Well, you certainly weren’t cold now.

“Where do we go?” you whispered in a low voice, brows furrowed. “I’ll follow you anywhere, Jon Snow. You’re the closest thing I have to a family now. I trust you.”

Jon studied you for a moment with an indiscernible expression, irises darting between your glistening eye and your front teeth digging into the flesh of your bottom lip. You spotted the way his gaze lingering on your mouth just a bit too long, but you pretended you hadn’t noticed. “Sansa wants to go back to Winterfell,” he replied slowly, bracing himself for your reaction.

The way you physically tensed against him didn’t go unnoticed. 

Blood. Screaming. Trees. A bolt grazing your thigh. Blood. Barking hounds. Sansa’s wedding. Theon’s screams. Blood. Trees. Blood. Manic gaze. Ramsay’s sweat. Hounds. Blood. Blood. Blood.

“Why would we ever go back?” you spat out, withdrawing yourself with a snarl.

Jon sighed. It was a long, winded one, laced with exhaustion and uncertainty. “Because it belongs to us. To her, to Arya, to Bran, to Rickon.”

Your face softened. “To you, too.”

After a tentative pause, Jon rested his cheek onto your head, beard tickling the skin of your temple. “Aye. To me, too.”

“Will this be your last fight, Snow?” 

Jon snorted at the thought. “I wish it was, Sand.” Already, it seemed you had forgotten about the dead in the North he had mentioned—which was all the better. He didn’t think you needed to worry at the moment. You deserved even just a brief moment of rest. 

“I hope you kill that bastard. I hope I kill that bastard. I may be trained in the art of medicine, but I know how to fight. I grew up with the Sand Snakes, after all.”

Jon wisely chose to remain silent at that. He had no doubt that you were capable to take care of yourself.

“We should go to Dorne,” you murmured, words growing quieter as your eyelids drooped. Now that your belly was full and you were warm from the blankets and fire, it was growing harder and harder to resist the urge to doze for twelve hours straight. 

“Alright,” Jon replied with a smile. Then, he asked in a joking manner, “How’s the weather been up here? I personally think it’s quite warm, actually. Must be my thick, chunky blood.”

“You’re a real pain, you know that?” you barked out while pinching his arm, your words lacking any real bite. “And don’t even get me started on the damn snow! Why the devil is it always snowing here? It’s ridiculous, actually!” 

Jon was smiling down at you so wide that his cheeks ached as you drowsily gesticulated at how horrible Northern weather was. 

When Sansa came back nearly an hour later, she wasn’t at all surprised to see you passed out in Jon’s arms, her older brother frantically motioning her to be quiet with his free arm. Much to his horror and her humor, all the jostling had made you rouse awake, blearily looking around with evident confusion etched plainly across your features. Jon gently coaxed you back down, telling you to go back to sleep with a soft tone—one that she’d never heard him use before. 

Yes, she thought with a slightly amused shake of her head, he definitely likes you.

“You don’t have to be here, you know,” Jon said quietly, just loud enough for you and Sansa to hear. You shifted on your horse’s saddle uncomfortably. Of course you didn’t need to be here. But you weren’t kidding when you said you’d follow Jon Snow wherever he went. 

Without sparing him a glance, Sansa replied with an even voice, “You know I do.”

Jon sighed. He looked towards you. If the situation wasn’t so serious, he’d laugh at how the fur coats you donned were nearly thrice your size. He briefly wondered if you were still cold under all that.

Ramsay Bolton certainly wasn’t a sight for sore eyes. He had a throng of men on horses riding behind him, the banner of a flayed man dancing with the wind, almost mocking in nature. His eyes were cold as ever, countenance serious yet still so very arrogant. 

You could feel your muscles tensing so hard you were nearly stiff as a statue on your horse. 

Blood. Trees. Theon’s screams. Barking hounds. Blood. Ramsay’s sweat. A knife flat against your cheek. Blood. 

“My beloved wife. I’ve missed you terribly!” Ramsay preened with a sinister smile, scornfully bowing his head to Sansa. Then, he turned his horrid gaze to Jon, barely making note of you. “Thank you for returning Lady Bolton safely.”

Your blood boiled, an anger churning thunder within your stomach. You bit down on your tongue and steeled your emotions. Now was not the time for impulsivity.

“Dismount and kneel before me. Surrender your army and proclaim me the true Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. I will pardon you for deserting the Night’s Watch. I will pardon these treasonous lords for betraying my house. Come, bastard. You don’t have the men, you don’t have the horses, and you certainly don’t have Winterfell. Why lead all these poor souls into slaughter? There’s no need for a battle. Get off your horse, and kneel.” Ramsay sat up straighter on his horse, gesturing to the cold, muddy grass in expectation. “I’m a man of mercy. I promise.”

Liar.

Fury clawed at your throat until you could feel the metallic taste of iron sting your tongue.

Of course, Jon Snow did no such thing.

“You’re right,” Jon admitted with a level tone. “There’s no need for a battle. Thousands of men don’t need to die. Only one of us. Let’s end this the old way. You against me.”

The slight change of your expression was minute, but it was there. Ramsay noticed the way your brows pulled together and a frown carved over your lips. 

The devil of a man chuckled. You’ve heard that laugh a million times before—it plagued your nightmares every night. It was one of utter contempt, laughing at the sheer ludicrousy of the offer. 

“I keep hearing stories about you, bastard. The way people in the North talk about you… you’re apparently the greatest swordsman who ever walked. Maybe you are that good—maybe not. I don’t know if I’d beat you. But I do know my army would beat yours. I have over six thousand men. And you have, what? Half that? Not even?”

Jon nodded his agreement. “Aye, you have the numbers. Will your men want to fight for you when they know you wouldn’t fight for them?”

A cold fury washed over Ramsay’s features. His nostrils flared as he stared Jon down. “Tell me, will you let your little brother die because you’re too proud to surrender?” 

For the first time since she left Winterfell, Sansa spoke up. “How do we know you have him?”

A horrific leer flickered over his face. Those manic eyes came into play once more. He was enjoying this. Slowly, he gestured to one of his men. He was drawing this out. 

Like a cat playing with a mouse before devouring it whole. 

The man behind him pulled out a fluffy, black mass. It took you a moment to realize what it was. Horror settled itself, black as tar, in the pits of your gut.

It was the head of a direwolf. 

You wanted to look away—but you couldn’t.

Ramsay studied your expression with glee. Whilst Sansa betrayed no hints of her inner turmoil, he could read you like an open book. 

“Now, if you want to save your—”

Sansa interrupted him with a tone so sharp it would’ve cut straight through iron. “You’re going to die tomorrow, Lord Bolton. Sleep well.”

With that, she turned and rode away. You had half the mind to follow her. 

Ramsay watched with shock clearly splayed over his countenance. He was quick to regain his composure, turning his head back to Jon. “She’s a fine woman, your sister. I look forward to having her back in my bed.”

Your breath caught in your throat, clenching your jaw so hard that it was a wonder your teeth didn’t crack under the pressure.

“My dogs are desperate to have their favorite playtoy back,” Ramsay simpered. Your head snapped up, finding his eyes trained upon you. There was a sickly grin to his features, twisting his pale face in an abhorrent way. “I haven’t fed them for seven days—they’re absolutely ravished. I wonder which parts they’d go for first. Those bright eyes of yours? Oh, I’m sorry. Eye—forgot I did that to you. Well, I suppose we’ll find out soon enough. In the morning, then, bastard.”

He sent one last smirk to you, bowed his head to Jon with a sneer on his face, before clicking his tongue and turning his horse around. The men followed closely behind. 

The mutilated eye beneath your patch throbbed. 

Bile rose in your throat. 

You could feel Jon’s worried gaze on you, but you avoided his searching scan, mirroring both Sansa and Ramsay’s movements by pressing your heel into the horse’s side, and galloping away.

The amber glow of the candlelight did little to hide the morose expression folded over Jon’s features. His lashes cast long shadows down his cheeks, lowered with thought. You had come into the room just in time to hear his row with Sansa, their shouts echoing along the stone walls.

You waited for Sansa to leave, then a couple minutes more to allow Jon a second to mull over his thoughts.

Then, you stepped out of the darkness. 

“Y/N,” Jon hoarsely said, immediately sitting up from his chair upon seeing you. “You weren’t at the war council.”

One of your shoulders lifted in a half shrug. “Didn’t think I’d be needed—I may be able to fight, but war strategy isn’t my forte.”

Jon regarded you for a second, before gesturing to the chair next to him. 

“Still,” he murmured once you took a seat, drawing your knees up to your chest, “it would’ve been nice to have you there.”

“You want my advice?” you asked, mildly surprised.

Jon’s hand slowly reached out to sit heavy on your shoulder. “You know him better than anybody here—other than Sansa, of course.”

Chewing on your lip in thought, you shifted so that you were facing him. “He likes to play games. He wants to draw things out—prolong the inevitable as long as he can so he could squeeze every last drop of sick enjoyment out of it.” Your eye darted to the warbling candle’s flame, clearing your throat uncomfortably. “That’s what he did with me, at least. I’m sure that on the battlefield, he’ll play to his strengths first—dangle it in front of your face. Leading you on like you would a donkey with a carrot.”

“I’m sorry if this is… a hard question, you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” Jon started hesitantly. “But why you? What did he gain from hurting you?” There was a bitter sort of anger to his voice—but not the active kind. It was passive, almost wistfully so, and frustrated that he could do nothing about it because it was in the past.

“I’m a bastard, remember? I am what he hates in himself the most.” You sniffed disdainfully. “And I suspect he’s somewhat jealous. I’m a bastard just like him, yet I’m considered royalty back in Dorne. How come I get to have what he’s always wanted? He reminded me of Joffrey in a lot of ways. But far worse.”

Jon’s eyebrows raised at that. “You knew Joffrey?”

A smile flickered over your lips that didn’t quite reach your eye. “Not really. But the stories Sansa’s told me—they seem nearly one and the same.” After a brief pause, you turned your head back to Jon. “I’m coming with you tomorrow. Just so we’re clear. I want to see him dead.”

Grimly, Jon bowed his head. “There’s no shame in staying here, Y/N. Especially not after what you’ve been through.”

“I know,” you said. “But I can fight. Or who knows? Maybe—just maybe—my medical skills will come into play on a battlefield. Slim chance, though—men rarely ever get wounded in a war.” 

The last sentence dripped with sarcasm, and it made Jon gruff out a short laugh. 

There was a beat of amiable silence before Jon nudged you with his elbow. “Just don’t die on me, alright?” 

“I think you’ve got more experience than me in that department,” you joked. “Which, by the way, you still haven’t told me about.”

Jon wrinkled his nose humorously. “Tell you what—if we both make it out alive, I’ll tell you about it.”

“Deal,” you agreed, swiftly sliding off the chair. He stood up with you, just inches away. “You should get some rest, Snow. Big day tomorrow.”

“Aye,” he whispered, bending forward to ring you into an embrace. He softly patted the back of your head just as you pressed your cold nose into the bushy fur of his coat. “Sleep well, Sand.”

When you pulled away to look at him and say goodbye, you found your throat running dry. You couldn’t find it in yourself to say the words. 

Jon seemed to understand.

“This isn’t goodbye,” he whispered in a low, reassuring tone, rubbing his palms up and down your forearms. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

With that, he tenderly kissed over your eyelid, then moved to kiss the eyepatch with an equal amount of affection. The raw compassion behind the action made tears sting the corner of your vision, but you blinked it away just as quickly as it came. 

Determined not to start bawling in front of him, you nodded once, then stepped away, retracting from his warmth. 

Damn Northerners and their thick, chunky blood.

A raised blade.

Rickon running.

Flying arrows.

Jon on a galloping horse.

Terror.

Ever so close.

A sick squelch.

Rickon Stark was dead.

Mud, everywhere.

Was that the barking of hounds you heard? 

No, those were the dying whinnies of horses.

A rally of arrows. 

The song of steel against steel.

A man screaming as you sliced his throat.

Gurgles.

You picked up a fallen shield.

Another rally of arrows.

Blood trickled out of your nose. 

Copper in your mouth.

Piles of dead men.

Parrying strikes. 

A grunt. 

Your sword sticking out of another man’s abdomen.

Jon Snow a whisker away from death. 

Your boot against his attacker’s jaw. 

Jon Snow’s frantic hand gripping your arm—pulling you. 

Where was he taking you?

Shields in a circle around you.

Trapped.

Trapped. 

Trapped.

Mud. 

Jon Snow yelling your name. 

Trampled. 

Clawing for air. 

You, screaming for Jon.

Inhaling dirty water.

Coughing.

Choking.

Air.

Jon Snow’s wheezing, exhausted gasp as you hauled him up.

Sansa Stark, in the distance. 

More men. Horses.

Ramsay Bolton riding away.

You spat out blood.

Coward.

There were three arrows embedded into the wooden flesh of the shield. Three.

Jon Snow managed to block Ramsay’s arrows thrice. 

Before a fourth could be nocked, Jon drove the edge of the shield straight into Ramsay’s face, a bilious crack of his nose echoing across Winterfell. 

Ramsay was on the ground, mud flying up between the two as Jon straddled him. His fist rained no mercy. With every brutal punch, a ferocious grunt rumbled from Jon’s chest. Each time he pulled away, his skin grew more and more damp with the Bolton’s blood—sticky scarlet mingling with the dark soot.

 It sounded less and less as if Jon were striking something solid, and more like he was hitting a pool of liquid. 

A snarl appeared on Snow’s face. Your Snow. There was a manic glint to his eyes.

You shuffled forwards, then back, uncertain of whether to stop him or to let him keep going. Fear reared its familiar, ugly head within you.

Ramsay smiled through the blood.

Jon paused for a second—a mere second—to glance up. He caught your eye. It looked like he was about to punch Ramsay again, kill him, even, but he hesitated.

You were afraid. Of Jon? Neither of you were quite sure.

Slowly, painfully slow, he slid off of Ramsay’s bloody figure, panting with both exertion and pent-up frustration. 

It nearly shattered him when he approached you, and you took another step back, merely out of pure instinct. 

“Jon,” you whispered, snapping out of your dazed reverie and reaching out to him. It was only Jon—you trusted him.

Jon Snow was nothing like Ramsay Bolton. 

You wrapped your arms around him, uncaring of the dirt and blood on his clothes. Three seconds ticked by. Before the fourth could strike, Jon gingerly lifted his arms to tug you closer to him. He mumbled out a couple breathy words into your hairline, but you couldn’t quite hear what he said. 

You supposed it didn’t matter—not when he remained silent for the rest of the time he held you. Barely, you registered the way his entire body trembled. He tucked his nose against the column of your throat. 

And he cried. 

That only had you holding him tighter. 

You watched in the shadows of the hounds’ kennel.

Watched as Sansa set the hounds on a tied-up Ramsay. 

Watched as they slobbered drool over his face. 

Watched as he screamed agony when they tore into his limbs.

Sansa’s hand brushed your shoulder on her way out.

You stayed.

You stayed until the screams turned into gurgling.

You stayed until the gurgling died away—a flame using the last of its wick. 

You stayed until you knew Ramsay Bolton was dead.

It happened in the dead of night. When the winds quietened to but a feathery whisper, when the moon shone silver and gold, when the fires in the hearths had waned to a soft orange glow. 

Jon’s face, now freshly void of any grime, was cradled in your palms. 

“We match, Snow,” you whispered, thumb trailing down the faded scar over his eye. 

A smile flittered over his lips. 

His own hands raised to faintly trace your new white patch on your eye, careful not to press too hard. “Yours is a lot worse than mine, Sand.” In a much less humorous tone, he said, “Thank you. You saved my life out there, while we were fighting. I owe you.”

You regarded him with a strange look, one so very tender and affectionate that it made Jon’s stomach squirm. “You owe me nothing, Jon Snow. You would’ve done the same for me.”

“You’re a good fighter,” he quipped, a dusting of pink on his cheekbones. “I was watching you more than I should have. You distract me.”

Instead of responding, you boldly leaned forward and enveloped his mouth with yours, nose slotted against his. It took no less than a second for Jon to reciprocate—as if he’d been waiting for this for a long time. 

All the frustration of the fighting, of the battles, of the wars, came pouring out of the both of you. It was raw, needy, brutal with want. 

Boots thudded to the ground. Fur coats were hastily shed. The back of your knees hit the bed, and you both fell onto the mattress with quiet oomfs. Your fingers tangled into his dark curls, tugging, yanking. 

Jon made a guttural noise against you, eyes half-lidded.

Stars of Dorne colored behind your eyelid as Jon moved against you. Sweat beaded your body. Your chest pressed against his, rising and falling with each staggered breath. His skin was burning, near scalding to the touch. But you were a child of sand. You were made for the heat. 

Caught up in the intense fervor of the moment, your blunt nails scratched down his abdomen, leaving raw red marks in its wake. You were about to apologize, but Jon seemed not to mind, kissing you even harder, all teeth and tongue. He smelled of cedar and honey cakes. 

At one point during the heated session, you switched positions so that you sat on top. “Didn’t you say you’d tell me about how you died if we both made it out alive?” you questioned, stroking his stubbled jaw.

A brief frown crossed his expression. “You’re really bringing this up now, of all times?” he grumbled. 

“Fine, fine.” You rolled your eyes and smoothly moved against him, like the push and pull of an ocean’s wave. A soft, desperate noise scratched at the back of Jon’s throat. “You’re telling me after, though.”

Abruptly, Jon hooked his leg over the crook of your knee and flipped you onto your back, hovering over you. An unattractive squawk of surprise wrangled out of your lungs. His long ink-hued locks tickled your forehead and you wrinkled your nose at him, flushed with desire. 

“I’m hoping you’ll forget that by the time I’m done,” Jon gritted out, sounding unfairly confident in his abilities, kissing along your jaw, your clavicle, your chest—and further down he went. Waves of heat danced across your body and you bit down on your tongue in near torment. 

He took his time with you, savoring every last second he had before facing the outside world once more. The grip on your hips grew impossibly tighter. Jon could smell the snow on your skin, paired with the faint aroma of smoke, most probably because you’d been hovering by the fire, complaining about the cold just before this. He smiled into your flushed skin. He just couldn’t get enough of you.

You were about to retort something scathing in response when his teeth sank into the flesh of your inner thigh. Immediately, your lips snapped back shut. You didn’t trust yourself to speak without dissolving into a fluster-fucked mess. 

It was safe to say, the thought of Jon’s past-death was the absolute last thing on your mind for the rest of the night.

You were fourteen when you left Dorne.

You were twenty-two when you returned home. 

“So…” you just about purred into Jon’s ear, draping an arm over his shoulder. “That thick, chunky Northern blood of yours loosen up, yet?”

He side-eyed you with faux-annoyance, before returning his gaze to the large expanse of Dorne’s gardens. His elbows were resting against the balcony’s marble railings, the sun’s rays kissing his skin with golden warmth. 

“It’s beautiful,” he observed, bowing his head. “I still can’t believe all of this is yours now.”

“Well,” you shrugged your shoulders, kissing his cheek fondly, “I suppose that’s what happens when I’m the last Martell standing.”

Jon turned to face you, expression turning grave. “I’m sorry, love. I didn’t—”

“Oh, hush.” You pressed a finger to his lips, other hand lifting to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. You made the mental note to ask if he wanted to get his hair trimmed—though, you rather liked the long hair on him. “It’s okay. What happened, happened. It’s over now. The battles have been fought—we defeated the Night King. Ramsay Bolton is dead. Cersei Lannister is dead. Daenerys Targaryen is dead. The war is won. We can rest.”

He looked as if he wanted to say something else, but he nodded once solemnly, then cast his gaze back to the sunny view. Palm trees arched to the cloudless sky, lush greenery neatly arranged in the gardens. In the center was a large fountain, with four red scorpions as its centerpiece. Just past the gardens were the beginnings of a yellow desert, where the camels roamed and snakes thrived. 

A servant came up to the both of you, offering two chalices of honeyed apple cider and a bowl of sticky date cakes.

“Thank you,” Jon told them graciously, nearly groaning with delight when he sipped the sweet drink. “I’ve missed this.”

You hummed your agreement, taking a generous bite of the cake. “I have something to ask you, Snow.”

An eyebrow arched in question, silently boding you to keep going. 

You fiddled with the loose, ochre fabric of your shirt. “Will you stay with me? Here, in Dorne?” Uncertainty splayed over your features, and you were quick to backtrack. “I mean—I understand if you wouldn’t—you’ve got family in the North, and it’s where you’re from but… I wouldn’t want to rule without you by my side.”

The question was one Jon expected—one he already had an answer prepared for.

“I don’t know.” Jon scratched at his recently-shaven stubble. “It’s a bit… hot.”

After getting over your initial shock at his nonchalant response, your fist collided with his forearm, which made him burst out into peals of laughter. Much to your dismay, you felt a smile cracking through your annoyed glower. 

“You’re a bastard, Snow.”

The raven-haired man turned to you fully, placing the chalice onto the flat of the railing and gathering you into his arms. His forehead leaned against yours as he stared into your single bright eye, glimmering with hope. How could he ever say no to you?

“Aye. That I am,” he said wistfully, before pecking you chastely. You tasted the apple on his lips. “And so are you, Sand.”

You nodded. “You’re right about that,” you whispered, sighing out a breath of relief. 

“Of course I’ll stay, love. You said it yourself—we can rest now. I can think of no better place than with you.” Jon slotted two fingers beneath your chin so that you’d meet his sincere gaze. 

There were tears pricking the corner of your eye, and you quickly blinked them away before yanking him closer by the collar of his tunic, and kissing him under the scorching sun of Dorne.

[milliesdiary]

hello there! first of all, it's nice to see a fellow frenchwoman on tumblr *excitedly shakes your hand* second... i don't know if you remember that one ask that talked about aemond chasing his... relative (les arbres généalogiques me perdent dkzkz) lucerys style but i do. boy i do. i may or may not have written a thing. oops. would you be interested?

PS: i wanted you to know that your writing is absolutely amazing. bent but not broken had me in a chokehold when i first read it and ekzjzkakak

omg yes i remember perfectly 😫 im super interested, feel free to tell me everything and share as much as you want!!

also thank you so much, im so glad you liked it ♥️

[milliesdiary]

tumblr is hungry bitch who eats asks but im not one to easily give up so im here again sending you the ask i originally wrote earlier this week:

"the bet between us" is an absolute masterpiece and one of my most favorites i've read till now <3 i'll always look forward to your works from now on <3 p.s - what do you mean being in denial? aemond targaryen is 100% real

AWWW THATS SO SWEET thank you!! 💗💗 i was hoping i did the prompt justice, i remember being nervous to post it because i wasn’t sure it was good enough & i had never written a fight scene before 💀

also how did you remember what you sent omg 😭

[milliesdiary]

Hi ily

aww i love you too 💗✨😭

[milliesdiary]

Are comms open?

yes 💗 :)

[milliesdiary]

i've sent you an ask saying how much i love your writing did tumblr ate it *ugly tears*

omg i think it did because i don’t see anything in my inbox from you 😭 BUT THANK YOU SOOO MUCH ♥️💗

[milliesdiary]

To Court a Serpent is absolutely amazing!! Your writing style is so great and compelling and conveys emotion so well!

thank you SO much :”) this means the world to me, i adore hearing feedback!! ♥️ ILY

[theoasiswinds]

I totally want to do more fan art for this story~!

Inspired by the story  from @milliesdiary

“  𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐓 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐔𝐒  “

anyhow little idea I had to doodle in between projects, I need to do better quality art, I just need to catch up on commissions and finish the next episode for MPO or I wont be able to load into webtoons on the 30th… AHHhhhhh! 

Ahem~! But Seriously, They  have Opened Story commissions! so please spread the word and support a super talented Story teller https://milliesdiary.tumblr.com/

[milliesdiary]

𝐓𝐎 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐓 𝐀 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐓

𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟐 𝐨𝐟; the bet between us

𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭; after your parents find out about the bet between you and aemond, they rule out the idea of a possible marriage. you refuse to disgrace the family name by going against their wishes, though aemond makes a very tempting case. 

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫’𝐬 𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐟𝐢𝐭; pic 💗

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞; of course aemond isn’t going to give up so easily… i hope you enjoy! :)

𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒' 𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐎𝐏𝐈𝐂.

“I thought she was to be betrothed to the Lannister’s son? Tyland, I believe. Or was it Lord Jason?” Your father inquires, a forkful of Brunswick stew raised halfway to his mouth.

“Tyland,” your mother corrects. “I mentioned the proposal to his father, but his son has already been sworn to one of Baratheon’s girls. A shame.”

You listen to all this while poking your vegetables around your plate in annoyance. They speak about it like you’re not even here. Maybe this is how it is for every girl your age — allowing their parents to set them up with whoever they see fit, without even asking for the bride-to-be’s opinion. Maybe they refuse to talk about it and just accept their duty.

You, however, are not like other women.

“That it is,” your father agrees. He gestures at you with his knife, his attention on you now. “House Lannister is a noble family. They are one of the wealthiest in all of the realm and possess a power that exceeds other houses among Westeros. They hold a seat at Casterly Rock as well. I wished to form political connections with the King.”

You have heard this all before. Your mother can sense your frustration at this topic, though she does not try to steer the conversation elsewhere. She has been very big on finding you a suitor, much to your distaste. 

“Do you have connections with any other Lords, perhaps?” she asks your father. “Any young men you can introduce to our daughter?”

“There are some I know of,” your father nods. You stare, waiting for him to make an excuse as to why they aren’t a good fit; maybe they’re too stupid, or cowardly, or aren’t husband material. Unfortunately, he says nothing else.

You decide to break your silence.

“No thanks,” you interrupt. “I would rather journey through the Seven Hells than marry a Lord. Or perhaps throw myself at a dragon. Either fate would be better than bedding a man who thinks he controls everyone, especially a Lannister.”

Your mother sets her cutlery down with a clang, a frown on her pretty lips; she’s about to scold you. You prepare for the onslaught. “We do not say such things, young lady. You should be grateful that your father and I have been trying so dutifully to find you a husband.”

You hold back a scoff at that, instead choosing to stuff your mouth with cooked carrots. “I would rather choose a husband myself, thank you very much.”

“If we were to allow you to do so, you would never get married — and stop speaking with your mouth full,” your mother reprimands. “How will you find a husband when you act so carelessly?”

Your father is not surprised by your actions. He knows you better than anyone else; after all, you might as well be a carbon copy of him, in both temperament and attitude. 

Instead of jumping to your mother’s defense, he wipes his mouth with the napkin that had been folded on his lap. “Do not fret too much, dear wife. Our daughter still has time to find a suitor. She has been enjoying sparring lately, which I believe keeps her out of trouble.”

You nod happily. At least he gets it.

“Though she has been making bets with that Targaryen boy,” your father adds.

You almost choke on a mouthful of your dinner; you quickly reach for your goblet and flush it down with multiple gulps of wine.

How does he know that? No one would dare tell him, would they? Shit, shit, shit. This is not good. Hesitantly, your gaze flits up to see your mother’s reaction.

She’s confused. “A Targaryen boy?”

“The prince,” your father says casually. He’s very calm. “The one-eye.”

Your mother’s expression instantly sours in distaste. Remaining nonchalant is difficult, especially when sweat starts to form on your palms. You avoid eye contact with her in the hopes that you won’t break apart. 

“And what bet are we speaking of?” Your mother prods, waiting eagerly for your father’s answer. Her food is long forgotten.

“As the rumors have said, I presume it was one where our daughter would have to kiss the prince if she lost the match.”

You sit up so fast that you knock over your half-empty goblet, the wine spilling everywhere. It makes your mother gasp. You jump out of your seat.

“Shit!” 

“Watch your tongue!” she snaps instantly. 

You stifle a glare at your mother’s scolding and snatch a napkin from the table, soaking up the burgundy liquid. Your father watches with a questioning look.

Of course there were rumors. If any of the men you beat at sparring overheard you and Aemond, they would have easily started to spread news of your gamble out of spite. Those bastards. 

You sink back into your seat, tossing the soiled napkin and avoiding the way your mother’s sharp gaze quickly settles on your face.

“Is that true? You were gallivanting with the…” She hesitates for a moment, unsure if she should continue. “…The cripple?”

You would be furious at the way she described Aemond if you weren’t so terrified. You’re quiet for a couple seconds; something your mother does not appreciate. 

“Answer my question,” she demands. The subject is not going to be dropped; you resist the urge to bang your head on the table. 

“I was just…” you trail off. “I mean…”

Your parents are both just staring at you now; it’s time to piece yourself back together. To calm down. Letting out a breath, you force a shrug. “The bet is true, and the match took place, but I never kissed him. I won.”

The frown your mother wears doesn’t suit her. “Why were you sparring with the prince in the first place?” 

“I never said I liked it,” you groan. A lie. “I just knew I would beat him, so I thought it would be fun.”

Your mother is not happy regardless. “The unpleasant things I have heard about him. I warn you to stay away from—“

Your father cuts her off.

“Have faith. Our daughter is an excellent fighter,” he states sincerely. “Be that as it may, she would never give the Targaryen boy her attention. I can assure you that there was no kiss.”

His genuine trust in you brings feelings of guilt; he has no idea you’re lying.

You can remember the expression on Aemond’s face when you stole him into the alleyway, and the way his lips felt upon your own. That second kiss had lacked all softness. It wasn't polite in the slightest, wasn’t gentle: just panting breaths, as rough as a tempest with the woody scent of him, 

You especially remember the way you had drawn him in for more, and wanted to do some other things that shall not be spoken of… 

“Good. I do not want him to be a bad influence,” your mother says. She does not press the matter any further. 

Instead, she mentions an invitation your house had received. The Blacks requested that you all attend a dinner at Dragonstone later this week. The Greens will be there, she adds slowly, noticing how you perk up.

The only thing you can do now is nod, drown yourself in your plate, and then scurry off to your chambers.

Getting ready for the dinner was harder than you expected.

Your mother is a loving woman. She allows you to do what you want for the most part — but she is also quite elegant, insisting that you dress the same as her.

You must be ‘fit for occasions that call for it,’ she croons. It’s a bunch of bullshit, you think.

“I know you do not want to do this, sweet girl,” your mother sighs, holding up a lace gown. “If you will not do it for me, do it for the Gods.”

“The Gods? The Gods would never make me wear a dress.”

You argue with her the whole time she helps you get ready, turning your nose up at every dress and diamond necklace she brandishes. It’s a struggle that lasts for nearly an hour, and thankfully, she gives up at some point.

You end up in a dark tunic-like dress. It’s similar to what Aemond and Aegon wear, just a bit longer.

It stops below the knee and shows the black pants and boots you wear underneath. The fabric is more stiff and clean-shapen than a regular gown; it doesn’t flow in the wind. The shoulders are extended, and a braided chain is across the chest. Attached to it is a light gray cape that drapes over your back.

The outfit is sharp, serious, and fierce. 

It was something your father got for you during his time at war; it had belonged to the tyrant wife of a general he defeated. Apparently your mother had hidden it because it was too boyish for her liking.

It’s not girly per se, but prim enough that your mother is surprisingly satisfied. “You look like a queen,” she says proudly.

“A conqueror,” your father corrects. “A soldier.”

“Though a necklace and some earrings would do her some good.”

You refuse of course. Luckily, your mother doesn’t force you to wear a single piece of jewelry. She even allows you to do your hair as you want.

Despite it not being your choice of clothing, it was better than the flowy lilac dress she tried to put you in. You would never admit it, but you feel powerful walking into the palace on Dragonstone.

The second you and your parents step into the grand household, Rhaenyra greets you at the castle door instead of the knights. 

It feels like ages since you saw her last — despite it being only a few years or so — yet her face is the exact same somehow, as if aging did not suit her. Her silver hair is swept back into a braided crown, and the red and black dress she wears sparkles with tiny gems. It fits her perfectly and contrasts well with the ruby-gold necklace along her throat. A crooked smile upturns the corner of her lips; she appears pleased. 

Rhaenyra has never once judged you for being unladylike. If anything, she always encouraged it. It was something you appreciated to the greatest extent. 

With a soft expression, you dip your head in a respectful bow. “Princess.”

Her eyes light up at your sincere smile; are you really that grumpy all the time? Is it that rare?

“You look lovely,” Rhaenyra says gently, taking in your outfit. 

“Thank you, Princess,” you say bashfully. She then beckons over your parents from where they stand behind you, dressed in their best clothes. 

“Too much time has passed, Princess,” your father says, allowing a polite grin to dawn his face. Rhaenyra returns it with one of her own.

“That it has, General,” she agrees. “I must thank you for joining us. We are honored to have your family’s support.” 

“It is the least we could do. If anything, we thank you for the invitation,” your mother says gratefully. “Are the Greens here yet?” 

Rhaenyra gives a curt nod. The mention of the Greens make her face drop a bit, but she collects herself quite easily. She extends her arm for you to take as she turns on her heel to face the corridor. “Shall we proceed to dinner?”

Nodding, you accept her kind gesture and confidently stride alongside her, your parents trailing behind and admiring the palace’s decor. 

The dining room is just as you remember it when you walk in. 

Ribbons of amber and bronze from the evening sun filter through the window panes on every side of the room, flooding each nook and cranny with a warm glow. You catch sight of Jace, Luke, and Daemon already seated toward the middle of the table, along with Baela and Rhaena. 

Alicent and Otto sit across from them, busy in hushed conversation. Your attention then flicks over to Helaena and Aegon who are also at the table. Aegon offers you a lewd glance, giving you a filthy smirk; if he feels your disdain, he keeps it to himself. He would probably enjoy knowing you are disgusted with him — such a pervert. You have heard of his antics and want to stay as far from him as possible.

On the contrary, you receive the friendliest smile on earth from Helaena. You feel incredibly warm inside; she does not seem to be the type to judge.

Alicent then notices your presence and dips her head toward you in greeting, a small smile on her face, as well as Otto. They appear to be quite nice. No one comments on your clothing, despite it not matching the silks that the women in the room wear. 

Slowly, your parents lead you to take a seat — and then you see him.

Aemond is situated at the far end of the table, a confident air to him as he leans back in his chair. Cool, collected, and stoic as usual. 

He notices you. And you notice him quite easily as well, thanks to his bright hair.

It’s his greatest asset; as expected, it is dazzling white, pulled back into the usual half-up style. The silky strands cascade far past his collarbones, his black high-neck tunic standing out sharply in comparison. His wide chest pulls the shiny leather tight, fitted to his lean body. 

And his face… Why does he have to be so handsome? How could you have not noticed it until that day you kissed him? 

Aemond’s violet eye meets yours. You both give each other a long, intense stare, like a pair of wild animals who have been starved of one another’s presence. His profile flashes with a feral look; it reveals the dragon he truly is beyond that hardened exterior. 

You are both connected in a second, understanding each other in a way others do not. 

There is a rapid change in Aemond's demeanor then; it goes from something poised to one of interest. His eye scans you up and down, taking in your outfit, your hair, and the cape that is thrown over your shoulder. He appears fascinated as his attention zips back to your face. Your body feels impossibly hot. 

Courageously, you approach the chair next to him and take a seat. Your mother notices from her spot beside you; her face screws up, though she doesn’t make a sly remark. She’s suspicious. 

“My Lady,” Aemond says. His voice is deep, silky, and rich with his distinctive accent. Your stomach turns as a result. 

You inhale sharply and glance at him with that usual boldness of yours. You hold your chin high, allowing a smug grin to glide across your face. “My Prince,” you greet. “I suppose you knew I was coming?” 

“I did,” he says coolly. The tiniest smirk rests on his mouth. “You are not wearing the usual dress of a woman, I see.” Then, bringing his voice to almost a whisper, he adds, “That was part of our bet, was it not?” 

Damn it. You totally forgot. But honestly, you can’t bring yourself to care.

“Oh no,” you say sarcastically. “What a nightmare.”

Aemond exhales sharply to express his amusement. He fixes you with a serious look afterwards. “I expect you to uphold it one of these days.” 

“And I expect you to get off my back about it.” 

Aemond hums at that. He has never been bothered by your sharp words or snarky remarks; he knows you well enough to expect it. He even anticipates it. It’s a little game for him. “Do you not follow through with your promises?” 

“I do.” You pick up your fork to point it in his direction playfully. “But only when it benefits me.” 

Aemond gives a curt nod in acknowledgement. He seems humored. “I did not expect anything less.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You are stubborn,” Aemond says coolly. You can feel a heat climb up your cheeks — were you that headstrong? “A woman who does what she wants.”

He is provoking you, that eye studying your face to gauge your reaction. You refuse to give him one. 

“You speak as if you are not the same, My Prince. Have you forgotten that we are alike?” 

The words spark a sense of appreciation in Aemond. He turns his attention to his golden cup, lifting the edge to his mouth; but before he takes a sip, you catch his gaze flicker over to you. It looks like he’s fighting a smirk. 

“You have nothing to say to that, it seems,” you state triumphantly, tone full of mirth. “Have I cut out your tongue?”

“Hmm,” Aemond quietly hums, setting his goblet down. The whisper of a smile is on his face: scarcely present, virtually invisible. “From how I won the match, I would say that you wouldn’t have had the chance.”

The pride in his response is annoying. And even still… the mutual teasing is fun. It’s difficult to express any true anger. You roll your eyes, though the smile on your face doesn’t subside.

“A man in your place should consider himself lucky that his head is still on his body.” You make an effort to sound offended, but fail. “Does something humor you?” 

“You do.”

You almost reel away at his honesty. The way this man has always been able to catch you off guard should be a talent. 

Aemond analyzes your expression, the ends of his lips curled. You take the moment to scowl at him; people have told you that your frown has the power to frighten others into silence, so you pray this is one of those times. 

It isn’t. 

“Will we talk about the other day, or shall we pretend it never happened?” He suddenly asks. The randomness of the question takes you aback. 

You remain silent, chin raising to blink at Aemond dumbly while trying to think of a reply. He can sense your surprise, because his eye gleams with intrigue; he wants to know your feelings on the situation. 

The memory of your kiss with Aemond runs its rough fingers across your cheek, and you’re automatically embarrassed... yet eager. Interested to hear what he may think about it. 

That being said, you fearfully whip your head toward the others; everyone is too involved in their own conversations to hear you both. Slowly, you glance over at Aemond again. 

“What is there to say?” You bring your attention back to your meal and awkwardly move the meat around the plate. 

“Plenty.” 

The chair creaks as Aemond leans back in it; he rolls a silver strand of hair between his thumb and forefinger, waiting for your reply. He obviously wants you to broach the subject.

“My parents found out about the bet, and let me inform you: they would not accept the notion of us being together,” you shake your head. "They do not want me to—” 

“Court a serpent?” Aemond interrupts. 

He remembered what you said — it is a reference to how you called him a dragon that fateful day. He’s always been clever, recalling the smallest things. Perhaps he thinks of himself as one too; a fire-breathing creature, able to set even the largest cities ablaze and leave them to ashes. 

“If that is how you would like to put it.”

You watch Aemond’s lips twist in irritation. He turns his head to stare at the fireplace that burns across the room, deep in thought. 

Just when you think he is done speaking, he talks, his voice melodic.  

“Will you not fight it?” Aemond inquires. 

Your head spins in response to his question, causing your eyes to dart in his direction. He’s not looking at you though; his attention is still on the flames as they flicker, his expression cold. 

“I cannot,” you reply weakly. It hurts to even say it. “My family is too important to me. I must not go against their wishes.” 

Truthfully, you don’t know what else to say. It was unexpected for Aemond to ask if you were planning to turn on your parents.  

You debate saying that you are alright with the idea of being with him, despite not being the type to court someone or marry. That you would never think of anyone else the way you think of him. But you’re not sweet or open about your feelings, so the words are impossible to say. 

Aemond is compelled to glance at you. He has a menacing, dark gaze; the blood of the serpent runs in his veins. Maybe that’s why you always found him so much more alluring than any other man. 

“That is a shame,” Aemond says. He crosses his legs and places an arm on the table, tapping his fingers on the wood. Disinterest is laced in his tone. “I was hoping you would show them the same boldness that you have always shown me.” 

He is testing you. Taunting. 

You want so badly to hate him. Hate him for having an eye the color of violet blossoms and hair like silver diamonds. Hate him for his panther-like elegance and his deftness with a sword.

As much as you wish it, it is impossible. 

You scoff at Aemond, your frown hardening. “So I am to just run off with you? Is that it? I am not the type to do such a thing; you must not know me as well as you think, My Prince.” 

Aemond seems to consider that. You wouldn't know if he agrees because he has schooled his face to be expressionless. It gives away nothing. “Perhaps not.” 

He casts a glance across the table to ensure no one is looking. Then he slightly leans into your space. You breathe in his smoky, earthy scent; it’s an aphrodisiac. 

“You are the only person who has understood me, and I will tell you that I am the only person who will understand you,” Aemond murmurs. “Do you wish to be with someone who does not accept you for who you are? For the things you cannot be?” 

He’s right. Absolutely correct. You two share a connection, a bond flowing from one another. An understanding has always been between you two, hanging in the air. 

The case he’s making could not be more true. It’s terrifying to think about. 

What if your future husband hates your personality? Your behavior, your way of dressing? Would they try to force you to succumb to the stereotypical role of a woman? You don’t think you could handle that. 

A marriage with a man who does not tolerate you would be strained, no doubt about it. Worthy of the Seven Hells, even. The thought of it comes with a painful twist in the chest and a wince. 

“I do not,” you whisper. There’s an openness in his profile now. You decide to make the most of it. “But what shall I do, Aemond?” 

His expression softens at the mention of his name; the lack of an honorary title makes him feel closer to you. 

“Disobey,” Aemond says lowly. He ignores how you appear startled at his suggestion. “The day will come when you need them to respect you.”

“I could never—“

“I will propose the idea to my mother; advise her of the political benefits of a marriage between us. If there is to be a single person who may convince your family of a betrothal, it is her.” 

“...But do you love me?” you ask slowly. It is not in your nature to be so vulnerable, but the question has weighed heavily on your mind. Someone can have affections for another, but it does not always mean love; it can be infatuation, obsession, or lust. 

You want to know how he really feels. 

Aemond remains silent for a moment. It appears as if he is treading over his words, wondering if he should say them. Then, finally, he speaks. 

“I will never want to be married to anyone,” Aemond whispers. “Unless it shall be you as my wife.”

You nearly choke, both astonished and pleased by the answer. It is hard to ignore: Gods, he’s just so perfect. There’s a wild spark in his eye.

“I vow to serve you, to listen to you, to die for you if need be,” Aemond reassures gently. He means it. You can tell. 

“Do you think it would really work? Truly?” 

“I cannot make any promises. But I can give you my word that I will do my best.” 

You think it over: would it be worth it? How would your family react at the proposal? Your mother? Before you can reply, Aemond’s hand slinks under the table to rest on your knee. You almost jump.

His palm is warm upon your pants, the touch tender and graceful. It is not meant to be dirty, but it invokes filthy thoughts in your mind that you have to shake away. You grab at his wrist, the leather of his sleeve smooth against your fingers.

“Aemond—” 

“Let me know your answer,” Aemond starts, training his eye on you. When you don’t reject him, his grip on your leg tightens. “Whenever you are ready.”

In that moment, you come to a conclusion that maybe — just maybe — this issue can be resolved. The space between you can be filled. Aemond shares the same yearning; you can see it in him. 

Wanting each other but being unable to have that connection is not something you want to deal with forever. Aemond is the only one who has completely accepted your true self: the way you are unladylike, your crude remarks, your tough personality. 

Your expression must soften, because Aemond’s does in return.

And, for a moment, you think you might be ready. 

[milliesdiary]

BABY AEMOND’S LIL BLUSH 🥺

I KNOW OH MY GOD he’s so smitten 😭 he loves reader so much, ever since the beginning ✨

[theoasiswinds]

I totally want to do more fan art for this story~! 

anyhow these are my favorite scenes from @milliesdiary commissioned story 

“ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐓 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐔𝐒 “

Oh my gosh, they are such a talented writter, you give them a wonky idea and they make a masterpiece. 

Anyhow! They do have Opened Story commissions! so please spread the word and support a super talented Story teller https://milliesdiary.tumblr.com/

[milliesdiary]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐓 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐔𝐒

𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭; you’re a general's pants-wearing daughter: a skilled fighter, headstrong, and teased by others for not being feminine. during a sparring session with your friend, aemond, you two make a bet: if you win, he has to show you his eye. if he wins, you have to wear a dress — and kiss him.

𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐬; aemond being aemond, confessions, just some good old sweetness ✨

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞; thank you so much to the amazing person who asked for this :”) i hope i could do it justice! to be as inclusive as possible, i do not mention the reader’s father’s descent. i also do not specify her skin tone, body type, eye/hair color, or hair texture ♡ 

𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐍’𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐄𝐋𝐒𝐄.

Not like any other woman, at least. You’re strong-willed. Unshakeable. Not as naïve. 

As a child, you made mud pies, climbed trees, and kicked boys who made fun of you for acting unladylike. You would return to your parents with grime under your nails, grass stains on your pants, and a twinkle in your eyes. Blood never bothered you; you could get slashed open, bruised, and filthy, yet still make it home. 

Maybe it was because of your father — a stubborn general hardened by war, with a sharp way of speaking and a stern sentiment. He taught you the way of the sword at the age of 9, and instilled you with a sense of discipline. Not once did he try to force you into the stereotypes of being a woman; the fancy clothes, the manners, the expectation to give birth at any chance possible. 

That’s just not you. 

You're not the kind of girl who crumbles beneath the weight of insults, who loses her mind, who cries. You give the same treatment to those who hurt you. You are Bloody Mary, the venomous spider, the wicked snake. You are a creature that can wander through flames without getting burned.

So no, you are not like the other women.

And the townsfolk are always willing to remind you.

The second you step onto the training grounds, all eyes are on you, and there’s an intense discomfort at how they look you up and down.

They are taking in your appearance; your black flowy cape, leather pants, and the tunic cinched at your waist to match. It’s not the style they are used to seeing, comprised of silk dresses and chiffon gowns. 

People gossip about how you could steal the hearts of every man in Westeros if you just put on a skirt — if you sat with your legs crossed, prim and proper. If you smiled more often. 

“Such a waste of a pretty girl,” they whisper.

How stupid.

You shrug away their stares and try to focus on something else.

It’s a beautiful day, perfect for sparring; the November sunlight veils the world in a golden shawl, and the cool air is sweet as a mandarin. The temperature has risen enough so that you can train without getting numb or going home with an earache from the wind.

You’re more than ready for a fight, to get your hands soiled and feel sweat bead down your face. 

Walking over to a table where swords and blades of all kinds are spread along the surface, you feel that familiar rush of excitement. You’re about to grab a dagger until you hear someone call your name. 

It’s Ser Criston. He walks over, armor clicking with every stride and gleaming in the autumn sun, only to stop beside you. “I was waiting for when I would see you again. Have you come to train?” 

“Of course,” you say simply. “Did you expect any less?”

“Maybe not,” the knight replies, an accepting expression on his face. He knows that you enjoy playing dirty. 

Luckily, you and Ser Cristin get along. He is outside a lot of the time helping to train the others, so it was not unusual that you both talked from time to time. You aren’t sure if he is bothered by your lack of femininity, but he never mentions it, so you do not mind him.

You focus your attention back to the blades, picking up a particularly sharp sword. You weigh it in your hands; the grey metal is dense and heavy, brand new. Your reflection stares back at you in the steel. Ser Criston catches your hum of satisfaction. 

“That sword was gilded just days ago. A work of art,” He nods.

“Indeed it is,” you agree. Then you smile knowingly at him. “Is there anyone I can spar with?”

Ser Criston responds with a curt nod. Admiration dances in his brown eyes; he’s definitely not like the others. “Plenty.” 

Eager, you follow Ser Criston to the patch of land reserved for sword fighting. People are gathered in a circle around two men who are already sparring; the crowd cheers, made up of men who are desperate to make a good impression and women who have come to watch.

You glance at the pair of individuals who are currently engaged in a duel, following their sharp steps as they parry each other’s hits. You remain near the back of the crowd, bringing the tip of your sword to the ground and resting both hands on the hilt. 

You’re trying to act casual — but you’re actually itching for your turn. Impatient.

The fight turns out to be pretty boring. You’re able to guess every move before it’s done and correct every miscalculated block inside your head. It might be unfair to judge them so harshly; you’re a skilled fighter and have trained for years. The advantage is yours. 

But you also can’t bring yourself to care. These are the same men who boast about their power despite being weak.

You’re genuinely relieved when one of the men knocks the other down, leveling their sword at their opponent’s face. The people around you clap for awhile, and then the crowd slowly breaks apart as some leave to continue their duties. 

It’s fine; you don’t need the validation of a crowd during a match.

“Alright,” you say gruffly, ripping your sword from the dirt and skirting through the gaps of people, stepping onto the sandy soil of the sparring area. You turn to face a few of the trainees’ expectant faces. They are waiting for you to choose someone, though all of them seem pathetic. Might as well get it over with.

“Would you like to duel?” You finally ask a man toward the front.

For a second, he remains still. And then he smiles; fucking smirks like he’s a serpent and you’re a lamb ensnared between its teeth. He thinks you’re an easy opponent, all because you’re a woman. 

Beating him is going to feel good, you think. Beating all of them.

Balancing the sword in a hand, you spit into the dirt just to spite him — which is successful in making multiple people cringe. Good. You have to bite back a smile and prepare yourself for your opponent’s first strike. 

And you were right, of course.

They’re all useless, each more powerless than the last. There’s no challenge, no threat. Not even child’s play with any of them. You have more than half of your competitors on their asses before they even get an opportunity to attack, making every clang of your sword against another seem meaningless.

You ought to take pride in it, thinking back to their breathy chuckles as they whispered about how deluded you were. How unwomanly.

But you don’t. You don't feel prideful, self satisfied, or any emotion of fulfillment. It’s too easy. 

The blows from your adversary are repetitive, almost as if he is rehearsing a list of strategies. The movements are easy to predict, giving you the upper hand. It’s not difficult to knock him on the ground, sweeping his legs out from beneath him with a blow that you wish he would have jumped over.

There is someone who definitely would have dodged it, though.

The enigma, the cunning raven, the Prince — Aemond Targaryen. The one man who doesn’t judge you or stare condescendingly. The only person who you consider an equal, an acquaintance. 

Aemond is a man of honor. His eye is the shade of lavender, and every syllable that falls from his tongue is sliced apart by the sharp quirk of his lips. High cheekbones, fair skin, an eyepatch making a home over a scar that sits where his eyelid once was. 

A dark serpent. 

Just as you struggle with your identity, he does, too. You are aware of Aemond’s lack of restraint, lack of faith, lack of fear, and his internal conflict. You know why the man is the way he is.

Aemond had told you what happened once, after you had finished having a nice conversation with his nephews. It’s tragic: when a person doesn't feel valued as a member of a family, they develop a sort of outcast mentality. Childhood experiences of neglect paves the way for lifelong isolation, and as a result, Aemond withdrew. He started spending time alone.

But out of every person in the world, he chose to keep a spot open for you. It’s an honor, really.

The man you are sparring with gives in, standing to his feet with a grunt of humiliation and shooting you a glare. You return it with one of your own, ready to pick another opponent, and then—

“You have been busy, I see,” A familiar voice says.

You turn toward the sound of it, the lull and the accent — only to be met with Aemond standing in the front of the crowd. You size him up, sword dangling at your side. 

Aemond’s arms are crossed behind his back in a casual fashion, head held high with interest. His white hair is in a half-up half-down style, the ends flowing over his broad shoulders like a silk scarf.

“My Prince.” There’s no stopping the grin that blooms on your lips. As embarrassing as it is to admit, you always find excitement in his presence. “Dare I ask how long you have been watching?” 

“Long enough.” Aemond is silent as he scans you up and down; there’s not a single streak of dirt on you, nor a single cut. He takes notice. “Pray tell: how many men have you made fools of?” 

“I don’t know,” you dramatically sigh, acting indifferent. You retreat from the center of the sparring ground to stand in front of him. “I have not had the luxury to count. I was too busy winning.”

Aemond exhales a sharp breath from his nose — his way of conveying amusement — and slightly tilts his head. “It seems that they have not prepared themselves for a woman of your caliber.” 

It’s a compliment; a bit cheeky, yes, but a compliment nonetheless. It has you rocking back and forth on your heels in anticipation. “A woman of my caliber? I must say, My Prince, I am flattered.” 

“I would not say it unless it were true.” 

“Well, if it is of any comfort, you are not like any man I have ever known," you jibe. "You're like a character in a folktale. Someone from a history book.”  

"The prince, I presume." 

"No, you're the dragon. A magnificently evil dragon." Your tone becomes teasing. “How could anyone lead a regular life with a beast like you?”

“I should inquire the same, My Lady.”

“You just don’t understand a woman that dares to be different, that’s all.”

Aemond lets out a simple ‘hmm’ at that. You slap him in the arm playfully and he doesn’t flinch. He only graces you with the tiniest smirk.

The prince does not enjoy being touched, though the aversion seems to disappear when it comes to you. He can tell; he knows by how he does not scowl at the idea of your hand on his shoulder, or cringe at the feeling of your arm brushing against his. You do not give off negative energy. 

Perhaps this is why you have remained in contact with each other; you don’t judge one another for the things you are and for the things you can’t be. Somewhere, deep down, you both think the same thing: take me as I am, or watch my back as I go.

You know of Aemond’s true nature, and he realizes yours.

Much like him, you cannot be picked and thrown away like a flower or an old manuscript. You are a hurricane: ferocious, unflinching, and authentic. A dagger that will slice through the flesh of anyone who dares to cross you.

Though he will not publicly admit it, your spunkiness delights him.

“Come then,” Aemond says. 

You’re confused at his words — unsure of what he’s talking about — before he saunters to the center of the sparring circle. He brandishes his sword from a holster wrapped around his hip, the metal screeching into the air. “We have yet to train together. Demonstrate your skills to me.” 

It’s true. In the years you’ve known him, you have never once challenged each other. You know what Aemond is capable of though, so it’s intimidating. It’s probably the main reason you have never asked to spar. 

Maybe it’s time to change that; you’re not about to back down from a fight. It would hurt your pride too much. 

“Fine,” you agree, slinking forward to stand before him in the training area.

There’s so much you want to know about Aemond, you notice. So much that you’d like to learn. Your gaze is focused on his face, and his eye, and then that eyepatch — and you realize that he has never showed you what’s underneath the leather.

You’ve heard the rumors: how the socket has been replaced by a sapphire, a deep, saturated blue that reflects the light at every angle. You wish so badly to see it. For him to trust you with the imperfect parts of him. 

It gives you an idea.

“I will spar with you,” you begin, maintaining a serious tone in your voice. “But only if we make a bet.” 

The look on Aemond's face changes from being neutral to intrigued. He slices the earth open by shoving his sword into the soil. “And what would that be, My Lady?”

“If I win,” you quip, “you must show me your eye.”

The silence is deafening.

Aemond frowns then. You’re scared for a second; scared that you went too far and bit off more than you could chew.

Looking back on the past can be very frustrating. You have to let it go, you want to tell his younger self, clapping him on the back. If you did that, he might get angry. Or maybe cry. Maybe you would, too. 

You open your mouth to revoke the words, yet close it just as quick, unable to get a single syllable out. 

But then he speaks.

“Then it shall be,” Aemond says firmly. He leans his weight on his sword, crossing one ankle over the other. You aren’t sure if he actually doesn’t care or if he’s just hiding his anger. He’s always been an expert at keeping his emotions at bay. “If that is what you wish.” 

Relief is a godsend in that moment. You fix your surprised expression into one that is more calm. “…And if you win?”

Aemond seems to think it over.

Finally, he decides on something; with the mischief that glints in that one eye, you know it’s going to be less than satisfactory. “I propose you wear a dress for an entire day.”  

“What? There’s no way—“

“And kiss me.”

Your mouth drops open in surprise. 

Is this how he plans on winning? By threatening you with something so strange in the hopes that you will give up before you started? Like hell you’re going to kiss him. Fuck that. “You cannot be serious.”

“But I am,” he says coolly. Taunting. 

In that moment, you consider your options. One, you could retreat. Two, you could fight him and win, effectively seeing the thing he hides most. Third, you could lose, and have to wear a dress, and…

The thought has you reeling. But, at the same time, you do not want to run away from a challenge. You never have. And never, ever will. 

You’ll just have to win.

“It is settled then,” you nod, trying to remain composed. Your voice wavers a bit; if Aemond notices, he does not comment on it.

Aemond’s mouth creeps into the slightest smile. He tears his sword from the earth and spins it in the air with a flick of his wrist. “Whenever you are ready, then,” he deadpans.

“I have been ready,” you tease, stepping sideways as you both begin to circle each other. Your footsteps are light and airy in a silent prowl, a show of the expertise your father passed to you. “Are you?” 

“The first to hold the other at sword-point wins,” Aemond states, ignoring your question. There’s a sharpness to his words as he tries to draw a reaction from you. Provoke you. “I hope you do not hold back.”

“You must think lowly of me, My Prince,” You retort. “I would never do such a thing. Are you worried that I am going to beat you at your own game?”

Aemond licks his lips, fixing you with a predatory stare; it looks as if he wants to use his canines to rip apart the air, the world, your body that stands before him.

It urges you into action.

You lunge with your sword, but Aemond knocks it to the side with ease, spinning his own in a hand and making a swipe at you.

You don’t hesitate to deflect it — once, twice, three times — before parrying another of his blows. You manage to hit Aemond’s sword particularly hard the fourth time, and you catch a glint of surprise in his eye.

You take a quick step back, before confidently transferring your blade from one hand to the other without breaking eye contact. Your head is buzzing with exhilaration.

“Did you think it would be that simple?” You grin arrogantly. “As a man who studies the way of the sword, I thought you would be more of a challenge.”

To your chagrin, Aemond doesn’t gift you with a reaction. His profile remains composed, although there is a fire in his eye; he has finally found someone who tests him. 

You are about to say something else before he lunges for you.

Aemond is fast and skilled, the swiftness of his steps impressive, with a strength in his arms that could send you to the ground if you gave him an opening. With every clash of your swords, you know he’s evaluating your endurance, your attacks, the likelihood of you slashing him with your blade.

However, Aemond is not attempting to boast his power; not like the other trainees who argue like idiots about whose sword is the sharpest or who has the best balance. That’s what you like about him.

Aemond’s jaw is set and confidence keeps his chin held high, even as you deliver another strike to his blade. Your attention is drawn to the way his knuckles are white from the grip on his sword; veins protrude from the pretty skin of his hands, emphasizing the slender length of his fingers.

Focus.

Strike. Block. Dodge. Slash again. You score another hit, but Aemond follows it immediately with a jab at your chest, which has you losing your balance. You respond with a stab at his side, though he dodges it. 

This dance of blades feels like it lasts forever; if it were anyone else, you probably would have won by now. Every second feels like a minute, each one longer than the last. 

Just before a leap, Aemond tightens his grip on the weapon’s hilt. Before you can react and fix your stance, the sword swings towards your feet, his speed and skill working together to knock you off-balance. You land on your back in the dirt, your blade flying somewhere.

You’re fast, yes. But he is faster.

Quickly you try lift yourself up and grapple for it, but suddenly Aemond pushes you back down. He straddles you, careful not to place his entire weight on your body, and then the pointed edge of his blade is at your throat.

You’ve lost.

Aemond lets out a breathy pant, a wicked grin on his lips — it sends a chill branching down your spine, all the way to your feet. Spite coils in your chest, your nerves trembling with adrenaline, and you see the thrill of the fight reflected in Aemond’s eye.

You are both the same in that way.

“You do put up quite a fight,” Aemond jests, his tone low and deep. You let both arms lay flat across the ground, every breath labored as your heart punches the inside of your ribcage. “Though I am afraid it was not enough.”

You've never experienced energy like this before. You’re trapped underneath him which is exciting in a strange way. You respond with sarcasm in an attempt to hide your embarrassment.

“You offer to spar with a woman only to fling her into the dirt,” you pant. “How polite of you.”

“And you spar with a dragon.” Up close, Aemond’s iris is a startling violet, and the pupil reflects streaks of shadow and light. He’s agonizingly gorgeous. It makes you feel warm. “Is that not what you called me?”

“You are a man of the most preposterous kind.”

“And yet you still wallow in my company.”

There’s nothing you can really say about that. In a final act of defiance, you stare him down as long as possible; in this small way, you feel undefeated. “You can release me now.”

Aemond hums in acknowledgment, letting his sword hang at his side and slowly standing. In a rare act, the prince offers a hand for you to take, but you slap it away. He is entertained by your glare. “You never fail to reject kindness when it is given.”

“Kindness does not serve me.”

Aemond is amused at your annoyance. He spins his sword between his fingers before sheathing it back into its holster, and you pick up your sword to pass it to an observing knight. When you turn back around, Aemond is staring at you. “What?”

“You owe me a debt.”

There was the bet; you’d almost forgot. Gods, you were going to have to wear a dress for a day, and — and…  

“Regretting your choices now?” The taught line of Aemond’s mouth evolves into a smile, coy and demure.

“No — no, of course not,” you snap. The words don’t come out as calm as you need them to, and it’s all because of him; he has a way of being frustrating. Always doing something to make you tighten your fists. But as much as you would like to blame him, it was your idea. You reap what you sow. “I never break a promise.”

“Good,” comes Aemond’s response. You both stare at each other for a bit, and then you realize: he’s waiting for you to kiss him. For real. Right here, right now.

“What is wrong, little bird?” He teases. “Do not fly away from me now.”

“I—“ you start, unsure of what to do. A split-second decision is made. “I am not doing this here.” 

Before Aemond can say anything, you are grabbing him by the arm and tugging him along. You pull him past clusters of townsfolk, ignoring their curious stares and keeping your gaze forward. He does not resist you.

After peering around an empty alley and inspecting it for any stragglers, you drag him into the stony darkness and nearly slam him against the wall. It’s not on purpose; you’re just reacting to the aftershocks of adrenaline. 

You need to be alone to do something like this. 

You’re so close to Aemond now that you’re breathing the same air as him, nearly pressed against his chest. You can smell his jasmine shampoo, can feel the warmth radiating from his body. You try to slow your breathing: in and out, to clear your head and push every doubt away.

When you find the courage to look straight at Aemond, you find that he’s already gazing at you. 

The light is dim, though you can still make out his profile. You expect his violet eye to be full of mirth, akin to a wild animal staring back at its prey — but what Aemond offers you is righteous and noble. It causes you to prickle with eagerness and anxiety. 

“Do not look at me like that,” you mumble.

“In what way?”

“That way.” You don’t even know what you’re referring to. You just want him to stop staring; it’s burning you up from the inside. “You always act like this when you feel like you have won.”

Aemond’s smirk grows before your eyes. His gaze flickers to the sliver of space between you, and then back to your face. “Sometimes I feel that you know me better than I know myself.” 

You would let out a sneer if you weren’t so terrified; you need to uphold your side of the bet. You know it. And you definitely don’t want to give him the chance to tease you for your hesitation. 

“Maybe I do,” you breathe. Then, grappling with every single piece of boldness you can find, you press your lips upon Aemond’s. 

The kiss is resolute — there’s no way you were going to half-ass it — and you fall into him roughly, slamming each emotion you feel onto his mouth. He tenses a little, but then his hands rise to your arms, thumbs pressing into the sleeves of your tunic.

And then it’s over. 

You break away from Aemond, almost shocked at yourself. Did that really just happen? Your blood pressure is through the roof, pulse thumping like a war drum.

You stare at him, and he stares right on back, both of you saying nothing. You can't look away, as frightened as you are. His expression is soft. So soft that it scares you, yet his eye darkens with interest.

You try to make a joke out of it, to rid yourself of this awkward feeling.

“With the way you are looking at me, My Prince, I would assume you actually like me,” you jest. It doesn’t work. Your brain is mush and the words are flimsy. Gods, you feel overheated. 

Aemond only blinks, those silver lashes fluttering against his cheeks. It seems like he has come to a realization, and you don’t know what that is. He’s testing the waters; waiting to see if you will run away.

“And what then, My Lady?” he finally replies.

Your body gets hotter in an instant. The implications behind his words are enthralling, holding you in a death grip and making it impossible to speak. You’re searching for something to say, anything, but come up empty handed. Part of you is glad when he fills the silence. 

“I must admit,” Aemond says slowly. “There is a certain quality to you. You seem unbreakable.” 

“You know that’s not true,” you whisper.

“Perhaps,” he says. “Though there are times where I am not so certain.”

“Aemond…” 

“Tell me: what do you think of me?” Aemond suddenly asks. It’s not commanding, not a demand. It just feels…personal. You’re not sure how else to describe it, the sound of him speaking so softly. Your ears are accustomed to your father's stern instructions and peoples’ jeers of your boyish antics. His tone sultry, he asks, “Do I make you nervous?” 

“No—you don’t make me nervous,” you stutter. It’s hard to look him in the eye as the lie comes from your lips. “I do not really think of you much, honestly.”

“Hm.” Whether or not Aemond knows you’re lying, you have no idea. “You would be astonished then if you knew the ways I have thought about you.” 

“What do you mean?”

Aemond takes in your expression, gaze flitting down to your mouth and then back up to your eyes. “Would you like to know?”

“Yes,” you say automatically. You’re not sure why you’re hoping for something more — something other than just empty insults and jests. Almost as if he knows what you’re thinking, Aemond leans in. His lips brush against your ear as he speaks.

“You are alluring when you ache for chaos. The flesh of your opponents are beneath your nails and their blood stains your teeth, and I can see you are a woman on fire.” His voice just above a whisper, breath hot against your cheek. “We are both made of flame. You have stolen my attention, my love.”

My love. He has never called you that before.

And it’s in this very second that you have an epiphany. How could you not have noticed it earlier? Felt it? How did you ignore the passion whenever this man talked, the warmth he conjured within you, how grateful you were that he treated you differently than others? 

Aemond has feelings for you. And judging by how you are instantly filled with a massive amount of satisfaction, happiness, and excitement, you hold affections for him too.

But what is love, anyway? It must be the imprints someone creates inside of you—bruises, scars, gashes. Maybe he had maimed you in the same way, except you turned a blind eye to it. Truthfully, you never even thought you would experience something like this. 

After all, love makes humans do terrible things, and you do not consider yourself to be that bloodthirsty. So much of it is violent; there’s the desire to be split apart, defiled, twisted, and reinvented by another person. 

You have seen lovers approach one another in a wolflike manner, ravenous and feral for their attention. People who challenge their love get dragged in between them and flayed open without mercy. It’s terrifying, though it’s not watching the wolves tear others apart that scares you. 

It’s knowing that you would do that for him.

Aemond boldly stares you down. “You are unaware to the extent I defend myself and my sentiments. How you manage to get the truth from me is rather peculiar.”

He suddenly reaches out and touches your cheek; he does it slowly, almost as if you are a beast trapped in a snare and he might scare you away. 

Then Aemond moves his thumb to the corner of your mouth, before skimming it over your bottom lip and pulling it down slightly. He stares down at the inside of your lip — the sensitive, shiny flesh — wishing that he could brand his name there. If anyone tried to entertain you after, you could simply tug your lip down and show them who you belonged to.

This is not a simple bet anymore. 

The urge to kiss Aemond again breaks free from within your system. Against your control, the impulse expresses itself in dirty thoughts that invade the most intimate parts of your body.

Quickly, you grab Aemond’s wrist and tug his hand away so you can press your lips to his once more.

“I hate you,” you breathe against him, holding his face between your hands as your noses brush together. “I hate you so much.” 

Aemond retaliates accordingly; the way he licks into your mouth sends a shiver that ricochets throughout your body. He’s hot. So, so hot. His fingers cup the back of your neck to keep you close as your hands fly away from his face to hold every inch of him possible. 

Aemond’s chest is warm, and his lips are scorching when he trails them over the corner of your mouth and then down your throat. You let your fingers roam to his hair, exploring the softness of each strand that drapes over his shoulder blades.

Aemond knows he’s getting a reaction out of you, that you are starting to feel the prickle of lust. It’s humiliating. You refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing you can be riled up so easily. It is not like Aemond would give in to your primal desires anyway; he cares too much about duty, about honor. The man follows house tradition — marriage comes before anything else. He is just toying with you now.

You break apart from him, something he surprisingly allows. You want to tell him that you love him, just so he knows. If only you had the ability to articulate such things. 

“Is this all you wanted?” You ask instead. “A kiss from me?”

Aemond places his hands on your elbows to coax you back a bit further; he wishes to see you entirely. His hand then rises to your cheek, where his thumb strokes at the underside of your jaw. “I did not want just a kiss, darling,” he reassures. 

“And for how long have you been thinking like this?” You steel yourself and continue more quietly. “How long have you loved me?”

“Since the boar hunt,” Aemond says without hesitation. “You begged your mother to let you join, and a girl said you might as well be a townsboy. You tackled her to the ground.”

“But that was the day we met.”

“It was.”

“…That is…quite a long time.”

Aemond only hums at that. The confession makes your heart flutter and threaten it to stop; you swallow down his words, grateful, and then try to collect yourself. You clear your throat. “My Prince—”

“Aemond,” he corrects. 

“Aemond. I need you to know something.” 

“And what is that, my love?”

“You can’t sweet talk me into wearing a dress. I will not do it.”  

“You will.” 

Damn it. He is really not going to give this up.

“I hope you burn in the Seven Hells,” you mutter. It’s a joke, of course. You can’t really be mad at him. 

Aemond’s lips threaten to twitch into a smile. An emotion akin to pride rests in his eye. “I shall only go if you accompany me there.”

And maybe, just maybe, you were meant to burn together. Whatever your destiny is, one thing becomes very clear:

You will ruin him, and he will love you for it.

[blayresmuses]

intimacy unfamiliarity

summary: aemond feels lost without his eye patch but you show him he has no reason to feel that way.

warnings: unprotected sex, fem!reader, pure smut!

aemond was a quiet man by nature but never speechless.

he was an observer, someone who never opened their mouth without reason, without a purpose.

there are things he longs to say however, as you blink up at him, his eye patch dangling from the tips of your fingers. he stops moving completely, wincing at the sensation of your cunt clenching around him but he’s caught, like the stray cats of the keep that stand for seconds before scurrying off.

your fingers caress his face - the patch is disregarded somewhere - and when your thumb strokes under his marred eye his breath hitches, hips rutting against yours just once, delving ever deeper into your very being. you’ve taken a part of his soul he feels like, you’ve gotten it hidden somewhere inside you and he doesn’t know wether to snatch it back or protect it with his life. such vulnerability, it makes him shudder and shake - so badly your hands soothe his shoulders, his back.

aemonds mouth slots against your shoulder, his one eye unfocused, far away. he wants to avoid looking at you, so afraid of what he’ll see - disgust, regret, pity. he couldn’t stand it, wouldn’t bear to be the victim of such a thing. he’s a prince, he’s important and so his fingers clutch at the bottom of your jaw, holding your face far, far away from his. he wants to feel detached but his tongue slides over your pulse point at your neck and he imagines his is racing in just the same way, tied together with invisible tethers, bound for life.

you huff through your swollen lips, impatient little cunt trying to lock him in, make him move. your thighs lock around his waist and with all the strength you can muster you manage to flip aemond around until the positions are reversed. silvery blonde hair spreads on the pillow where’s yours was - he can feel the subtle body heat you have left behind, like the shadow of you is everywhere, surrounding him all at once.

that one eye finally surveys you, takes in the heaving breaths and the fussy, wilful glint in your pupils. your nails trail down the skin of his chest, tenderly as if you could spook him at any moment. he lets forth a growl and you whisper his name in response, watching him carefully. before you can think, can take in the anxiety thrumming through him at being underneath you, being exposed, you grip your own breast, shivering when your cool fingers touch your nipple.

the other hand slides down the flesh of your stomach. aemond watches you, completely enraptured. pleasure sizzles down his spine when you touch your clit, rubbing it slowly at first, working yourself up. he admires the way your back is arching, his own hand splaying across the skin as if he’s coming out of a stupor. his own hips move when you sink all the way down, taking him completely inside of you and the soft sigh of contentment you give out makes him want to finish there and then.

you don’t rise up again, simply rock back and forth against him - taking your own pleasure. aemond wonders if he should be angry that you’re using him to get off but the way you’re looking at him, admiring him, adoring him - it sends rivets of endorphins to every corner of his brain. the pleasure and lust drips from every pore and he reads every emotion that passes through your features. every thought behind those wide, hazy eyes are filled with him, how badly you want him, desire him. you keep grinding, engorged tip of his cock sliding back and forth against that spot inside of you that makes you see stars - ones that perfect, familiar shade of violet, settling themselves into every nerve in your body. the chamber is filled with cries of ecstasy, all of his name. aemond, aemond, aemond.

aemond knows every one of your tells and when you drop your hand from your chest and bring it to his, digging your nails right in just above his heart he knows your close, can feel it in the incessant clenching of your cunt, the wetness dripping down and gathering at the base of him. you press in and press in until it stings, until he imagines you want to take his heart from his chest and store it for yourself - you’re claiming him. ‘keep going,’ he urges hoarsely. ‘show me how much you want me, sweet girl.’

you whine, writhing on top of his form so beautifully the air is ripped from his lungs. the complete bliss in your stare pierces him so deeply because he truly realises then you’re not disgusted by him, nothing of the sort. you’re completely obsessed with him, attached and bound to him as he is you, all you radiate is pure love and he wants to swallow it down, let it consume him from the inside out.

your head drops back when you cum, mouth slack with pleasure. aemond let’s you ride it out, even when his fingers twitch with impatience. he grits his teeth through the tightening of you, knows you’re subconsciously trying to milk him, make him fall off of that precipice with you. you shake and tremble, hips still rocking back and forth, slow with sensitivity. finally, aemond grips the flesh of them, pulling himself up to become chest to chest with you.

you’re heaving, breasts rising and falling against him as you lean yourself forward. ‘thank you aemond,’ you murmur. your foreheads touch, breaths mingle. aemond doesn’t say a thing, merely takes in how you glow, how beads of sweat have gathered at your hairline and how your eyes are blown, glazed. you’re euphoric, clingy - always are in your post-orgasmic state - and aemond revels in it, let’s you murmur away your love for him, drinks it down like wine. ‘for showing me, being your true self.’

his first reaction is to freeze up but instead his large hands encircle your waist, resting there as he admires the sight of you there. neediness pulls at the base of his spine and he knows he doesn’t need much to finish. rough fingers grip at the flesh of your ass as his hips rut upwards, sliding against your balmy walls until you’re gasping into his mouth, fingers tangled messily in the strands of his hair. aemond hums with pleasure, that sapphire glinting in the light as he takes you.

‘you were made for me,’ he grunts as you cry out. ‘no one else, only me.’ there’s desperation in the way he touches you as if marking you with his cum is his most vital task. he will never be used to this vulnerability or the innocence of true love. with you there’s no scheming, you’re the only thing in his life that will never be corrupt, just constant and reliable, another part of himself.

you beg for it, for him to fill you - give you that final piece of bonding to tie you together completely. you’re shaking and moaning in pleasured sensitivity as aemond finishes, hand cradling the back of your head tightly. he breathes deeply against your mouth as he fills you with his seed.

he doesn’t move for a long time after he finishes, let’s you cling onto him as he absorbs the contact, the contentment that thrives in his veins. before the afterglow even gets the chance to settle he’s reaching for the eyepatch, the security it brings him. you just watch, only wanting him to be comfortable. that softness, selflessness makes him feel ashamed and when he looks you in the eye he finds he can’t do it, can’t put it back on when you’re sitting there in front of him, unashamed of who you are or where you’ve been.

he drops it to the floor and cradles you into his chest, heart rate picking up again when you kiss the nail marks that are scattered there. ‘only mine.’

[milliesdiary]

I NEED HIM NEOWWWW

[cassianas-deactivated20221211]

𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧 -> 𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝖾𝗀𝗈𝗇

wrote this after reading this post by @dragonsbabe - my boys need more love <3

so of the two of them, aemond is probably better at hiding it

he’s not big on pda and since his outward demeanour isn’t the most approachable anyway you might almost think he’s not bothered by it

in private, however, you see a very different side to him

will be kind of wary at first, not wanting you to recoil from him in fear and/or disgust

but once he realises how much you actually care about him, things change

likes to rest his head in your lap and have you play with his hair

has actually fallen asleep on more than one occasion while you’re doing this

even if you start out sleeping apart more often than not you wake up in the middle of the night tucked into his chest or with his arm around your waist

the kind of man who kisses your palm when you cup his face with your hand

lots of forehead kisses (bc he’s so tall)

you’re always the one who ties his hair back and fits on his patch in the mornings

he’s still not a pda person but will hold your hand sometimes during meetings and feasts

likes when you hold onto his arm

the first time you hugged him after he came back from a mission it sort of took him a while to process it

but now it’s something he looks forward to more than anything else (not that he’ll admit it)

you kissed his sapphire once and he’s never forgotten it

always has a hand resting on your back as reassurance or protection

will definitely bridal carry you back to your chambers if you’re tired or sick

likes when you fall asleep resting your head on his shoulder; it’s everything to him knowing that you feel safe around him

now, aegon on the other hand…

i think we can all agree this man is severely touch starved

has tried to hide it over the years in order to be more like the person alicent and otto want him to be

but sometimes he just wants a kind touch so bad it aches

something you realise after multiple attempts from him to get you into bed

he cuts his hand and you help him bandage it up and he just melts

and that’s when you know, and your heart breaks

once you two become closer, this man is touchy as anything

holding your hand, sitting close enough that your shoulders brush, neck kisses

sometimes when he gets too stuck in his head about being king you’ll touch your forehead against his, and it always calms him down

sleeping together isn’t always sex, sometimes he just wants to be held

you’re always waking up tangled together

and it’s practically impossible to get away, he’ll just say “five more minutes” and tug you closer

lives for hugs, he’ll pick you up off your feet and spin you around, holding you close the entire time

will let only you cut his hair or attend to minor injuries

your smiles and encouragement mean the world to him, they give him the hope that he might actually be a good man after all

[milliesdiary]

me when aemond and aegon

[milliesdiary]

What if you are Jace's sister and he realizes you are in love with Aemond (and he also finds out that you two have been having premarital sex) which causes a fight so you go to Aemond for comfort and he soothes you

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐕𝐎𝐖

𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐬; princess!reader, targcest, mentions of sex. for some context: reader is daemon’s bastard child who rhaenyra welcomed as a part of the family. yes, aemond is a hypocrite :/ we still love him tho!! 

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞; ngl this has been sitting in my drafts for awhile because i hate it. im going to be working on commissions for a bit though, so i decided to post it anyway to keep you guys fed :) please reblog and comment with your feedback. it means the world to me and keeps me motivated! ♡

"𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐀𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐃."

Those were Jace’s words the second you walked into the dining room for breakfast. They take you aback, shock you into a frozen stupor. 

You and your family have been in King’s Landing for the past few weeks, trying to set aside their differences with the Greens and do their best to reconcile. It has been rough for your younger brothers, though you have been having a brilliant time. 

You and Helaena spend plenty of time together, Alicent treats you kindly, and Aegon leaves you alone. And Aemond? Well... you and Aemond are closer than most in terms of relationships. 

But that’s a story for another day. 

No one else is in the room thankfully — Luke wakes up later in the day, Helaena is presumably outside catching bugs, and your mother is probably off at a meeting with the court — so it’s just you, your younger brother, and the few servants that set the table. 

“What?”

Jace gives you an unimpressed look; his chestnut-brown eyes are slightly narrowed, lips melded into a frown. “You love Aemond,” he repeats. 

Your heart nearly stops when he says it, and you’re instantly terrified you’ve been caught. It would appear that misfortune has a tendency of catching you off guard. You honestly don’t know what to say. 

“...That is quite an accusation,” you try to deadpan. That heated expression of his is chilling; you invite him to sit next to you in hopes of extinguishing it. “Why don’t you just sit down and eat?”

Jace isn’t deterred. He holds his head high and keeps his voice stern; a trait he has undoubtedly learned from your mother. “You told me a couple moons ago that you had no affections for him.”

Oh, Gods. You don’t really want to sit here and listen to him complain about how much of a burden you are from rejecting all of your parents’ attempts at arranging a marriage. For hating every single man they tried to set you up with. You scold yourself more than enough. 

“I know what I said. And I mean it. I do not love him, Jace.” You let out a nervous laugh, trying to come across as naïve. The servants are staring now. “What has brought this on?” 

“You must think of me as a fool.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why are you acting so innocent?” 

“I don’t love him, Jacaerys. I swear it.” A bitter lie. 

For a fleeting moment, you think you’ve won; your brother stands next to the table without saying a word, his mouth clamped shut as he bites the inside of his cheek. 

And then he drops the bomb. 

“I know you have been seeing each other,” Jace says. It doesn’t come out as a question; it’s a statement. “Stealing each other away in the night.”

Your heart drops in a single second. How does he...? 

For these past few weeks, you thought you were being careful. Undetected. There was never anyone around when you slipped through the dark halls of the Red Keep every night and sidled up to Aemond’s door. Not a single voice to stop you as Aemond tugged you into his room and spoke High Valyrian in your ear as he undressed you, as he kissed you senseless, fucked you senseless. It was a dangerous game, of course — but you never actually expected to get caught. 

“…Where did you hear that?”  

“A kingsguard told me that you parted from his company last night.” Jace’s mouth twists into a disgusted frown. He hesitates, almost like he physically can’t say what comes next. “...From his chambers.”

In that moment, you knew it was over. The gist was up. 

“Jace…”

“Tell me it isn’t true.” 

And that’s the thing: you can’t say you don’t love Aemond, because it would be the furthest thing from the truth. Your hands fall to your lap and you fist your hands in the skirt of your dress, begging for courage. 

“Don’t tell mother.” 

Your response — shameful and pleading — speaks volumes. It makes Jace’s skin boil; he had been praying that the knight was wrong. And that hope he clung to so religiously? It’s gone. You can feel the symptoms of a dispute brewing: sweaty hands, agitated eyes, labored breathing. Tension hangs over you like a dark cloud and refuses to dissipate. 

“Why?” Jace looks disgusted, repulsed even. It sparks a flame inside you. “You saw his true colors that night. All of us did. Baela, Rhaena. Luke.”

You know what he’s referring to. It is a memory that you want to squeeze the life out of. 

“I thought we talked about you sorting out your priorities,” he continues. “What self-respecting daughter of the future Queen runs off and beds whoever she likes without a marriage proposal?” 

Yes, perhaps your growing annoyance is misplaced. Your brother wants the best for you, and it’s only natural that he would have his reservations about Aemond.

But he doesn’t know the man like you do; he hasn’t seen his hidden softness.

Sometimes people lose their ability to be recognized when they are joyful — in a pleasant way, of course. Aemond is one of those people. You’ve seen him smile once before. Truly smile. It was not sly, snarky, or coy; for once, it was the sincere kind. You wished he would do it more. It was incredibly beautiful.

If only Jace could have experienced it.

“Don’t speak about him like that,” you mumble. 

"I won't restrain myself to appease your ignorance.” 

Inhaling sharply, you take a seat at the table and busy yourself by playing with the napkin beside your plate. It’s a feeble attempt at controlling your rising panic. Jace must think you’re acting a bit too calm, because he seems to bristle at your alleged indifference. “I am sorry I didn’t tell you. Really, I am. I was just scared—“

“You lied.” 

“It was a white lie. No harm was meant to come from it.”

Jace fixes you with a firm scowl. “A white lie? A white lie? Meddling with our uncle who you are not betrothed to is not something that just happens.”

“You are blowing this out of proportion. I did it to keep you from getting upset and—“

“This is not just about the lie itself,” Jace huffs. 

“Then what is it?”

“You believed I wasn't worth your honesty.” 

Your gut tightens at his remark — you know he’s right and that he deserves to be informed of such things. Finding out that someone you care for is hiding something this important is a rude awakening. 

But you can’t stop. 

“I knew you would act like this,” you retort. Raising your voice wasn’t planned, but it happens anyway. It feels like your veins are being ripped to bits as the telltale marks of wrath sweep throughout your body. “I will do you a favor next time and not tell you anything at all.” 

“Or you could not encourage him,” Jace spits out. “You think that he does not act like his brother, Aegon? For all you know, he could be gallivanting with a servant every second he is not with you.” 

Your jaw tightens so firmly that it seems to lock in place. You’re pissed now. “Aemond is not like that.” 

“When you see him next, you can tell him to jump in the damn Dragonpit,” Jace continues. You aren’t used to hearing such crude language from him; it has you reeling. “Perhaps he’ll do that after he’s done fucking you.”

Something inside you bursts. Agonizingly. Ferociously. It's a jolt to your system that throws everything off-kilter. It is a painful fury that splits you in two. 

You slam your palms down on the table and rise in your chair; you're astonished the wood doesn't split with the force of it. The plates and forks clatter, and Jace almost jumps. The servants bustling around you certainly do. 

Your brother has some nerve. You want to spit foul names in his face. Wish to seize him by the collar and force him to kneel before your feet, because why? Why can’t you be with who you want? First it was Daemon who denied that you ever get betrothed to Aemond. Then it was your mother, and now it’s him. 

“I do not need protecting, Jace!” Your chest is rising and falling faster now, like the erratic pull of the tides. It feels like there is so much bottled up energy inside of you that you could scream, erupt, or break something … you need to break something. You choose his spirit. “I don’t need you at all!” 

Jace’s expression falls then. Along with it goes your anger. 

His gaze flits to the ground for a second — as if the stone is a safe haven from your wrath — and you’re about to apologize when he lifts his chin to glare daggers at you. 

“I get it now,” Jace laughs bitterly, shaking his head in disbelief. “You would do anything to be held by him. Ceasing to care about who he might hurt next and ignoring his callousness. You see only what you want.”

In his rage, Jace’s lips spew poison from deep in his chest, a dark place that you didn't even know he had.

“You make me wonder how I ended up with a delusional lunatic for a sister.“

Dead silence.

The two of you are just staring at each other now. Jace braces himself when you step away from your seat; he looks like he’s expecting you to slap him, like he’s preparing himself for the sting. 

And as much as you would like to do it, you just walk away.

You’re not even sure if Jace tries to stop you at first. Not sure if a servant tries to tries to grab you by the arm. You are running on pure adrenaline, pure buzzing energy, blood pumping like a battle cry in both eardrums. 

It takes until you’re exiting through the giant wooden doors to hear Jace yelling your name — and you loathe how worried he sounds, detest it — and then you’re practically running through the stone hallways. 

You want to go to bed. Shut everyone out and sleep until you awaken in a different world: one where you are not expected to get married to certain people, where your brother doesn’t expect you to be a person you can’t, and the 'losing an eye’ thing never happened, and … and it’s just you, Aemond, wrapped up in the sheets of your mattress. That’s all. 

The world is just cruel. 

Every step echoes as you make a beeline for your room. Tears slip down your cheeks and your fists quake; everything hurts. Emotionally, at least. You’re too worn out, too aggravated, too... mad? Hell, you’re not even sure if you’re still mad. The emotion that rips you apart right now feels more like an indigo-drenched sadness than a red-hot anger. 

It’s a strange, crushing feeling that has you stifling a sob while rounding a corner. 

But, as if the universe hates you, you catch a glimpse of that ethereal man — the fucking bane of your existence — walking down the same hallway. His back is to you, long white hair swishing with every stride he takes, and his posture is strong. 

You don’t want to ruin his day. Spoil the mood, or show how weak you can be.

You call out his name anyway, because there’s only one thing you can think of in this moment. A mantra:

I need you right now, My Prince.

I need you to truly look at me and understand me.

Aemond, I need you to see me.

The man turns then. He says your name, and you, who denied loving him, practically run and throw yourself into his arms. 

For a moment, Aemond doesn’t move a muscle; he’s confused, at a total loss. But then his palms slowly come down to your waist, supporting your body as he allows you to sniffle into his tunic. 

He doesn’t speak for awhile. Instead, he just looks down at you.

Your cheeks are dressed in tears that resemble droplets of honey. Your gardenia scented hair, pressed against his chest, is beautiful. He discovers an unexpected heaven amidst your grief. 

“He doesn’t want us to be together,” you try to whisper, but the words falter and trickle pitifully out of your mouth. They lack the power that you so urgently need. 

At first, Aemond is silent. He has no idea what you’re talking about; and then it clicks. Jace. 

Aemond has never been one to comfort others. You don’t really expect him to do much, honestly. But when he decides to speak, his tone is gentle and holds no judgment. “Your dear brother has found out about our arrangement, I presume.” 

You pull away slightly to stare up at Aemond. You drink in every plane of his face; those high cheekbones, his pretty lips, the silver hair that brushes the ridge of his jaw and the scar he hides. You want to absorb all of him. 

Aemond’s hands come to rest on your elbows, and then they slide all the way down your arms until he’s tenderly holding you by the wrists. He doesn’t give you a chance to answer before speaking more resolutely. “Did he hurt you?” 

“No — No, of course not,” you sniffle. Jace could be stubborn and fierce, but he would never lay a hand on you. “He was just being a brat. We got into an argument and he was ... he was mean.”

Aemond hums at that. “It must not have been too bad then. He is all bark and no bite,” he muses softly. Every syllable is gentle, each vowel soothing in its own right. He’s calm somehow.

It’s in these moments that you wish so deeply you could be like Aemond. Wish that you could stand your ground, despite wanting to run away. Wish that you could hold the barbs of someone’s anger in your palm and not get stung; not allow the sharp edges to slice under your skin and leave streams of blood in its wake. 

But you are not strong like him. 

With bated breath, you move to embrace Aemond once more, arms wrapping around his middle as you press your nose into the leather of his tunic. 

It doesn’t last long. 

Aemond leans into you, and then with both hands on your shoulders, gently tugs you away from his chest. You glance at him in confusion, and meet his gaze with an infantile glare. 

For a second you think he doesn’t want to hug you. That he’s about to chide you for being a big baby, for getting in a fight with your sibling and blowing things out of proportion. 

But then you quickly realize that he just wants to see your face. 

The truth is, Aemond doesn’t want you to hide in his arms. He doesn’t want you to bury your head into his chest and conceal your pain, or for you to dig your face into his clothes until each cheek is dry and you look composed again. 

He wants you to share every emotion with him openly, no matter how warped or ugly or bruised. 

Perhaps that’s what love is; recognizing someone's greatest vulnerability and still choosing to love them. 

It’s hard to place what emotion rests itself in Aemond’s eye after that, but whatever it is almost has you numb to how he’s holding both of your hands in his own. That is, until he trails a thumb over your knuckles. 

“Convince Jace, please,” you beg once more. The edges of your mouth start to turn downwards as you tear up again, and Aemond’s eye follows; he takes in your grief intently, and you are fully conscious of that fact. “Please. Show him you are worthy of my hand.” 

There’s a sort of surprise that swirls in his lilac gaze; however, his lips are in a straight line, his face nothing else but cold, and you can picture the war that rages inside his head. 

“I bear a hatred that could draw blood,” Aemond finally murmurs. “Those who do not deserve to be forgiven will not know my mercy. I will not betray my feelings to please others.”

“Try, Aemond. Please. If not for you and your sanity, do it for me.”

Aemond can only stare at you — his only love, his life, his breath of fresh air. The woman who he hopes will be his future wife despite your family’s distaste. He inhales deeply, chest rising and flattening the creases in his tunic, gaze roaming the tear-tracks on your face. And then he caves. 

But not before making a demand. 

“Do not cry, my love,” Aemond breathes. “It does not suit you.” 

And when you blink up at him so sweetly, nodding in a wordless vow, Aemond presses a kiss to the crown of your head. Then he kisses your left cheek, and the right, before slowly tracing his lips against your own. 

“Your body is mine,” He whispers into your parted mouth. “And I will find a way to claim it. They will have no choice but to accept me.” 

Aemond is a professional at pressing your buttons. It’d be a lie if you said it didn’t excite you; quickly, you capture his lips into a searing kiss. He returns the favor, knowing damn well that you want him, and yet he doesn’t tease in between kisses. He chooses tenderness over taunts just this once. 

The air is filled with a sentence unsaid: 

Touch my soul with warm words, and I shall do whatever you wish. 

[milliesdiary]

aemond allows you to do his hair sometimes. he keeps the braid until it falls apart. an act of true love, really