Intrigues of the Mind

x male/gn reader

[scentedpepper]

Masterlist

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THE BLACK PHONE

RESIDENT EVIL

STRANGER THINGS

THE WALKING DEAD

TWILIGHT

MARVEL

SHAMELESS

GAME OF THRONES

HOUSE OF THE DRAGON

Coming Soon...

ORIGINAL CHARACTER STORIES:

OF CROWNS AND CHAINS

[scentedpepper]

hiii it’s meee.

how are you? i haven’t been much on tumblr and i wanted to check in on you and binge read your posts. hope you’re doing well !!

Hello, Swagger!!

This is such a late response gulp. I'm good but also tired and busy 🙁 ive been working silently on some writings and have an insistent urge to post here but have nothing finished 💔 in due time i will post i hope. How are you!! I hope you're well

[scentedpepper]

Interview with the Vampire has me sick to my stomach. Expect fics soon

[scentedpepper]

Ich habe eninen... Deutschen?

IAN GALLAGHER X GERMAN! MALE READER

Summary: Ian Gallagher's not-so-new foreign boyfriend is a much needed change of scenery.

Content Warning(s): None :)

Other Pairings: German! Male Reader x Older Brother, German! Male Reader x Gallagher Family

AUTHOR NOTE(S):

Request by @hpxmcusworld !

hpxmcusworld asked:

Hiii! I hope your doing well! Sense you said you where doing requests for Ian Gallagher I was hoping to request one with Ian x male reader? The reader was born and raised in Germany and he and his older brother who raised him moved here, the reader (has a strong accent) and is always so confused with the stuff that happens, like why arnt the taxes included in the price? Or why is there different names for meet like pork and beef Instead if just saying cow meat or pig meat? Stuff like that and the reader everything him and Ian go out is always grilling Ian on his questions cause he doesn’t understand how it works. and Ian interduces him to his family and frank likes the reader which suprises everyone. You can make up the ending if you’d like.

Thank you I hope you have a a good day!

Hopefully this is close to what you were looking for! Thanks for the request :)

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When you first entered the night scene of America you did not expect to find any major differences from the clubs back in Germany. And, well, you didn’t. 

Except for your acute onset illness of attraction towards pale, red-headed white men of course.

Ian Gallagher was what you liked to describe as a Chicago breeze. Cold, harsh, and utterly chilling. The first time you told him this, on the shabby floor of the apartment you and your elder brother managed to acquire. Situated in front of a small TV playing Alien VS Predator, he’d looked at you as though you were the alien and he was the vessel you wished to lay your slimy egg in. You did not quite understand his offense though you suspected it had something to do with the way you said the already harsh sounding words. That and the two of you were only 3 months into your impromptu dating stage and you did not shy away from laying it on thick.

“Geeze.” Was the first word he managed out of his thin, pink lips before his eyes averted to the scene he’d lost track of in the midst of the warm laughter and soft kisses the two of you shared.

“What?” You’d responded back to him, shifting the covers off your shoulders, forehead puckering in confusion.

“That’s what you think of me?” He looked at you with a slight laugh.

“Yes,” you said, clipped and certain. “I do not understand.” You shook your head, a frown forming on your face.

Ian turns in his leaned position against the wall to get a better look at you. His brows too, are furrowed, and his eyes are scanning your face as though he may suddenly find the missing puzzle piece.

“That’s… mean.” He started, almost amused with his own explanation.

“Mean?” You echo, sitting up slightly.

“Yes.” Ian insists. “You said I’m cold and harsh.”

“Yes.” You too, insist. “I like it.” You nodded once in firm approval.

The furrow in Ian’s brow only seems to grow and the slight grin on his face falls as though he may never understand you.

It became a habit, this confusion between the two of you. 

So much so that the two of you now had a long standing disagreement. Pity in nature yet, ever present in each respective heart. 

“Why is the price not the real price?” You’d asked, receipt clutched in both your hands as you stared intently at the printed American currency. Your accent is a heavy, clunky thing that makes all your words seem important and serious and Ian, after many trials, has simply found himself undeterred by the sound. 

The red-head accompanying you with a long arm slung around your shoulders blinked in confusion before realization dawned on his face. “Taxes,” Ian says simply, barely blinking at the receipt. 

“Yes. I know.” You frown, smashing the paper pitifully in your left hand. “Why is it not… all inclusive? You do it in Germany. Everyone does it in Germany.” Your head is tilted at an angle as you peer at the bright red strawberry before you. “They trick you.”

“It’s not a trick.” He chuckles. “It’s just how we do it here.”

“Your way of doing is stupid. Stupid American.” You shake your head as though you are seriously distraught. 

Ian shoots you a look. “So is saying cow meat instead of beef.” 

“What does it matter? It is a cow. Why not just call it a cow? You do this with pig meat too. Pork. It makes no sense.”

“It’s to differentiate between the animal and the meat product.” Ian retorts matter-of-factually.

“It’s the same.” You tell him as you dig into your jacket pocket in search of the keys. “You are eating a cow. You say, ‘I am eating cow.’ It’s easy. You Americans like to make things… complicated.”

Ian laughs at this, pulling you into a quick kiss. “You’re such a weirdo.”

“You are so American.”  You look at him with a judgment in your face that rivals that of his own disgust towards sexual intimacy with women.

The two of you pause as you reach the back end of you and your brother's shared vehicle.

“You love this American.” He boasts, puffing his chest slightly as he attempts to smother you with a kiss.

You lean back dramatically, your hands coming to press against his hard pecs. “No. You are loud, and impatient, and you eat too big of portion.”

Ian’s face scrunches in confusion.

“You are like… a big dumb puppy.” You say, still leaning away.

“Dumb puppy?” He repeats, face still twisted.

“Yes. Loud, and dumb, but you have a very nice smile.”

He grins at this and you feel a small, unexplainable pull in your chest as you press your lips against his.

It’s an accident really, that you’re forced to meet the Gallagher clan. Your brother has left for a “business trip” (which you assume to be a trip to get laid), leaving you all alone to fend for yourself. A task Ian does not find difficult and finds it even more absurd that you do find it difficult. Considering you're 21 years of age and that you were not, in fact, an infant.

The two of you are on the new found couch, some odd, action packed movie playing quietly in the background as you straddle Ian’s lap. His hands are resting on the small of your back, your head is thrown back in a blissful laugh at a joke he’s made that you don’t quite understand. The warmth radiating from him is a comfort, the scent of cheap laundry detergent and cologne. Everything about him is just that.

The lively conversing is broken by the sharp, shrill ring of Ian’s phone. He groans, pressing his forehead against your collarbone. “Ignore it.”

“It could be important.” You respond softly, running your fingers through the short strands of his hair.

“It won’t be.” He insists, lips brushing against your neck.

“Ian.” You warn, though it’s half-hearted.

He sighs in defeat, shifting you just enough to reach the buzzing device. He frowns as he reads the caller ID before accepting the call.

“What?”

You can’t make out the words from the other end, but Ian’s expression grows tense. “No, I can’t. I’m busy.” Another pause. “I know, but I can’t. Just have someone else do it.” His jaw is tight, a muscle ticking. “Fine. But only for a little while. I’m bringing someone.”

He hangs up, shoving the phone back into his pocket. He sighs, looking up at you. “Family emergency. I have to go home for a bit.”

“Okay.” You say simply, moving to get off his lap.

“No, you’re coming with me.” He says, pulling you back down.

“Oh. No. That is okay.” You shake your head quickly. “I will stay here. Your family… they will not want me there. In a crisis.”

“They won’t mind. And I’m not leaving you here alone.” He insists, already pulling you up with him. “Come on. It’ll be an adventure.”

The Gallagher household is not what you expected. It’s loud, chaotic, and smells vaguely of stale beer and something you can’t quite place. The moment you step inside, a small boy with a missing tooth rushes past you, out the door, followed closely by a girl who looks strikingly similar to Ian.

“Ian!” She yells, skidding to a halt. “Who’s this?”

“This is my boyfriend,” Ian says, and the words send a shock through you. You’ve never heard him say it so bluntly before. “This is Debbie. Deb, this is Y/N.”

Debbie eyes you up and down, a small smile on her face. “Cool. The rest are in the kitchen.” She gestures towards the back of the house before disappearing up the stairs.

Ian leads you into the kitchen, where the chaos seems to be centered. A man with a scruffy beard and a beer in hand is arguing with a dark-haired woman who looks exhausted. A younger boy is sitting at the table, methodically eating a bowl of cereal despite the commotion.

“Where the hell have you been?” The woman, who you assume is the Fiona you have heard of, asks Ian.

“I was busy. What’s the emergency?” Ian asks, pulling you closer to his side.

“Liam ate a whole bottle of vitamins.” Fiona says, exasperated.

“Is he okay?” Ian asks, eyes widening.

“He’s fine. I just needed someone to take care of things here while I took him to the clinic. Lips a no show and Frank won’t fuckin’ leave.” Fiona explains, finally turning her attention to you. “Who’s this?”

“This is Y/N. My boyfriend.” Ian repeats, and the word feels more natural this time.

“Boyfriend?” The scruffy man at the counter perks up, turning to get a good look at you. “Well, well, well. Ian’s got himself a foreign boy. I like it.”

This surprises you. Your brother had warned you about American fathers, about how they were often strict and disapproving. But this man, the suggested father, seems delighted.

The rest of the family seems to share this same sentiment, their heads on swivels for a moment as they all look at the man.

“Frank,” Fiona warns, but he ignores her.

“So, Y/N, what brings you to our fine country?” Frank asks, taking a swig of his beer.

“My brother. He got a job here.” You explain, your voice unfamiliar to the room.

“What kind of work does your brother do?” Frank asks, leaning in.

“He is… a chef.” You say, translating the word in your head.

“A chef!” Frank exclaims, clapping his hands together. “I like a man who can cook. Can you cook?”

“Some things.” You admit. “But I am not… as good as he is.”

“Well, you’re dating a Gallagher, so you must have good taste.” Frank winks, and you feel a strange sense of validation. You look at Ian, who looks just as surprised as you are.

“Frank, leave him alone.” Fiona says, though there’s no real heat in her voice.

“Just trying to get to know my son’s new beau.” Frank says, holding his hands up in surrender.

The younger boy at the table finishes his cereal and gets up, rinsing the bowl in the sink. He gives you a quick nod before disappearing into the living room.

“So, Y/N,” Fiona says, turning to you with a tired smile. “Welcome to the madhouse. Don’t mind Frank. He’s… Frank.”

“It is okay.” You say, a small smile on your face. “It is very… lively.”

“That’s one word for it.” She says, before her phone buzzes. “Shit, that’s the clinic. I gotta go. Ian, you’re in charge of dinner.”

“Fi, no.” Ian protests, but she’s already out the door, grabbing her keys and Liam on the way.

The door slams shut, leaving you, Ian, and Frank in the sudden quiet of the kitchen.

“Well, I guess it’s just us.” Ian says, looking around the kitchen as though he’s never seen it before.

“I can help with dinner.” You offer. “What do you usually eat?”

“Usually whatever’s cheapest.” Ian admits, a slight blush on his cheeks. “But tonight, we can have something a little better. As a celebration.”

“Celebration for what?” You ask, intrigued.

“For you.” He says, pulling you into a quick kiss. “For surviving your first Gallagher family crisis.”

The kiss is short and sweet, but it’s enough to make your heart race. You’re about to respond when Frank clears his throat.

“So, you two gonna make out all night, or are we gonna eat?” He asks, a smirk on his face.

You and Ian break apart, red tinted.

“Right. Dinner.” Ian says, moving towards the fridge. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

The two of you rummage through the fridge, pulling out various ingredients. Frank watches, offering unhelpful commentary every now and then.

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Bonus scene

Your older brother, the one who had raised you almost entirely on his own, was just as German as you were. Maybe more.

He sat at the dining room table when Ian walked in, a bagel in front of him, a knife clenched in hand, and a frown on his face. He didn’t look impressed.

“This is Ian.” You introduced, watching as your brother gave him a quick, dismissive glance before going back to his bagel. You could feel your shoulders tense, but Ian seemed unbothered.

“Nice to meet you.” Ian said, extending a hand, a smile plastered on his face that could rival the sun.

Your brother ignored it. “Are you the one who has been teaching him these strange, English words?”

Ian’s smile dropped, but only slightly. “I guess so.”

“Then I do not like you.”

Your face began to burn, a hot shame creeping up your neck, but Ian’s smile came back, full and genuine. 

“I get that a lot.”

“I do not know why he likes you. You have weird hair.” Your brother stated before shoving the bagel into his mouth.

“Hey!” You protest. “I like your hair. My hair is weird, too.”

“Yeah,” Your brother says, looking at Ian’s hair. “His is weirder.”

That seemed to be the end of the conversation as your brother stood up and discarded the knife into the sink. Ian was left standing there awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Well that could have gone worse.”

[scentedpepper]

Hiii! I was wondering if your currently taking requests for Ian Gallagher?

Hellllooo, I am yes :)

[scentedpepper]

Heart Flutters

RAMSAY SNOW X MALE READER

Part 1: Kempt Perversities

Synopsis: The heart wants what the heart wants.

Content Warnings: Desc. of Throwing Up, Implications of Pervious Sexual Relationships, Shaming Regarding Bastard-hood, Verbal Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Physical Violence (argument escalates quickly), Threatening, Verbal Mentions of a "Barren Womb"

Author Note(s):

Hi chat my head hurts

So I have literally no words in my mind but I can feel them in my heart and soul yk?

Part 1 linked up above

That's all, have fun

_________________________________________

Ramsay pulled his hand and his features together in a tense movement and all at once, his lower portion slumped, his knees creaked and his hand dipped a little, twirling the fork that rested ever so loosely between his fingers. The sound of the clinking was like music amongst the conversation of the other lords and ladies as they sat and ate.

You thought you heard Lord Roose utter some sort of reprimand under his breath, perhaps a scolding, but in truth, it was more likely a chuckle of laughter in your sister's direction.

Although an adult, her innocence still seemed intact. Hers could be called child-like, not in the common sense of age, she was, after all, beyond her twenties, but her mind was filled with simpler thoughts, ones of purity, those of her youth, that were easy to draw out at moments such as now.

She was not fit to marry Ramsay.

The conversations along the table seemed to last a lifetime.

For you and the Bolton's bastard, near the north end of the room, it meant a long game of cat and mouse.

The two of you often shared fleeting glances but you did not engage in discussion with him nor did he with you.

Only did your mother notice the absence of your booming voice, your father far too entranced in speech of who to marry your sister off to –Snow, or Theodorn Slate, the only noble in the North who was not twice your sister's age and unmarried. Your parents weren't as half unreasonable as their peers who often used their daughters as mindless cattle for gold dragon and silver stag.

You're fairly certain that had the foundation of your home not begun to crumble and break from hundreds of years of neglect and poor materials that they would have no complaints for her barren womb and consort-empty life.

But now, upon her own volunteer, your parents are met with a choice. The Bolton's bastard, or a random boy of a random lord in the North.

Your father's approval rate for the men who came before his daughter was few and far. And somehow, this was where you all were left. Ramsay Snow, motherless, probably as cruel and savage as his father raised him, and yet, from a larger, richer, more offensive house who has had close ties to your own since the time of the Dragons.

Theodorn Slate, too sweet to be sweet, of little knowledge, poorer, smaller, and whom you've met a grand total of one time.

Your mother leaned towards the Bolton's, your father towards the Slate's -though Roose did not know this- and you, well you felt little for either option but angry objection. In fact, you had insisted on an alternative to which your parents held no folly for. Their son would not be a working man.

Your father laughed louder and louder as time passed at Roose's statements, even those that were not meant to be jokes. And your mother, noticing only in a few stolen glances down the table, eyed your sullen face. But never did her expression seem to indicate knowledge or disapproval as you and Ramsay interacted –or, more accurately put, didn't.

Slices of ham had long been picked away until the remnants were far less satisfying, now coming to appear more like an off color fabric than a meal. To eat this was a chore and apparently Ramsay seemed to believe the same, as the plate in front of him grew emptier and emptier, and with each hunch forward that seemed to take you closer to the wood that covered the surface –you swore Ramsay's fork moved across his plate too.

His nostrils, you noticed, flared each time you did this, and his irises turned dark each time you turned away.

But this –this half baked staring game was getting tiresome and the dishes were near emptied. The servants refilling each glass of wine you chugged down in several big gulps was more interesting than the boy- or rather, the man, in front of you.

If you had a copper for each time your nose shifted upwards and you caught a whiff of that thick musky pine that clung to Ramsay, you'd be as rich as the Lannisters with an excessive addiction to pine needles. The smell itself did not sit well with you, you suspected it had something to do with it being so overwhelming that you could do nothing but acknowledge it. Especially not during a fancy dinner in the home of your intended in-law's.

One such glance at the poor man, those wild blue eyes, his hair sticking up on the ends, was becoming almost unbearable.

You stared at him angrily one brief moment. Your shoulders pressing together so tight the area near your deltoid was sore.

He looked back at you with the same penetrating irises, dark, the deep darkness of his pupils swallowing the pale blue of his eyes and then the lightheadedness hit you in a sick rush, like a bottle of rum running through your veins and burning as it went, a pressure wrapping along your temples. Throbbing accompanied by a strange pressure in the back of your throat. It all made you feel as though you might purge.

Oh, gods above.

"What has become of you?" Ramsay spoke suddenly, in alert without much discretion for your surrounding party.

There was a quick shift of his pale eyes. You blinked, unsure of what had just transpired before your body began lurching again and you felt that awful pressure getting nearer to your uvula, surpassing your Adam’s apple.

The chatter among the rest of your combined families died down as you stood abruptly, holding your hand to your chest, your cheeks puffing as if preparing to be filled.

At once, Ramsay was moving and your hands were grasping his shirt and shoulder as he hurried, in choppy steps, toward you. The two of you disappeared from the hall through the wide door, with the servants standing behind meekly, unsure of what to do.

Your feet clacked and thudded awkwardly on the stone floor, one hand was occupied with locking your puke in and the other hung limply from the collar of the doublet Ramsay wore.

There were audible gagging noises now as you all but leaned against Ramsay for support and rushed farther from the commotion, through the intricacies of the hallway, for lack of better judgement and finally into a bathing chamber, empty but no doubt to become occupied at any second.

Your knees hit the floor in an instant. A clunk followed as you dropped the supporting grip on Ramsay to which the feeling of lost control caused nausea to wash over you as your ears strained to pick up on the sloshing and retching sounds as you fiercely emptied the contents of your stomach.

Through the tears in your eyes and the strands of hair which escaped their restraint to your scalp, you saw another set of black shoes, the bend of the knees and on, his thighs clad in black leather and his hands reaching out towards you.

Ramsay kneeled there with a hand propped against his thigh, sitting on his calf and his toes curled inwards towards his knees, cramped within the leather and unable to stretch because of the position they were confined to, yet he stayed there patiently through the choking noises and the wretched smells, ignoring the heat and unpleasant feelings in his gut all for the sake of observing the way your back hunched and your posture slouched.

He watched, through furrowed brows, the way your shoulders moved. The way your body stuttered beneath his hand and the way your forearms shivered from both the heaving and the cries that came after.

Ramsay could see the skin along your neck vibrate as it stretched outward against the force of your coughs and the bitter taste.

It was such a transcending sight —to see, a man of your stature, your nature, reduced to a kneeling and crumbling mess.

"Is everything all right, M’Lord?" It was one of the brown haired serving girls who looked between the two of you before her eyes fell, ashamed, to her feet. Ramsay turned to her, his attention fixated on the woman for the first time as he ran his tongue over his lip and tasted something he couldn't define.

Behind her stood your sister, dressed in satin and lace, looking elegant as always while you practically drenched the bucket in slobber and snot. In her hands she dangled a few handkerchiefs.

“Are you quite alright, brother?" She said as you sniffed and blinked hard, your eyes stinging, your mouth wet and salty and full of a rancid taste.

"Yes. Yes." You stopped to clear your throat but it didn't help. Ramsay watched you with his own quiet analysis, his fingertips drifting and skimming your form gently as you hunched over the bucket still, head casted downwards, feeling your sisters concerned -and slightly disgusted- gaze with furrowed brows. "I've simply drunk too much at once. All is well."

There was a noise, a clump followed by a grunt as you leaned back and the floorboards creaked beneath you when you sat on your heels, the air cold against your face. Ramsay's hand followed with you.

"Tell Mother and Father I'm quite alright. Just a small misstep, thank you."

Your sister, whose lips were frowning, handed the handkerchiefs to Ramsay and then turned and walked back to the door, the shuffling and clacking of heels echoed and reverberated as the voices that floated by drifted back into silence.

The servant girl stood there still, reluctantly, and glanced at Ramsay, then you, then Ramsay again.

He did not look impressed with her.

She inched backwards, awkwardly, bowed, then turned to follow your sister's large footsteps. A soft clicking of wooden shoes against the stone sounded twice as loud in the closed space, a creak made by her weight as she shifted her foot back appeared as though it were thunder cracking over the mountains far east.

You opened your eyes, your mouth dangling at the corners of your lips and your shoulders relaxed, your muscles coming to a loose end. Your body, although in this dazed state, reacted appropriately with its appropriate bodily functions for which you were grateful.

You groaned silently, squinting at the air and sniffing again.

Ramsay was in your peripheral as you slowly recovered, his dark stare ever so piercing. However, it wasn't as intimidating as before.

The silence did not break, for, really, there was nothing that could be said. So you sat. Together on that disgusting floor you both remained quiet, listening to the other breathe –to the steady in and out that had you finally calm, no longer riddled with shivers and nausea.

One breath, two breaths, one breath, a sniffle, two breaths, one breath and a deep exhale was what Ramsay exhibited before shifting his weight. It was all he was able to do and all he would risk with so many around, so many servants nearby and both your family members sharing that long, oak table on the other side of the large fortress wall.

When you're ready, you come to a stand, legs unsteady as you amble towards the water basin. You dip your hand in it, water flowing through your fingers with ease, a welcomed feeling after that little interruption from the feast. Though the gagging still had you sore.

"You did not have to play Maester to me." You splashed your face, washing away the left over grogginess, forming droplets which dripped from your nose and eyelashes. A grunt somewhere in the back of your hearing signified Ramsay had moved further up.

The voice that followed was matter of fact, and when you turned to face him, skin still dripping, you could see a misplaced intensity bordering his eyes.

“Just as you did not have to insist on going beyond your means.”

You looked away, head turning, throat tightening as you felt yourself being swallowed up in the quiet vexation of his eyes. The small melancholy which had been plastered on your face all this time up until then had disappeared in a moment's notice.

“I am a man grown, Ramsay, I will drink as much wine as I please.” And still, you stood your ground with calm eyes and a level voice.

“You have sickened yourself.”

“And I will care for myself.”

You found that your voice often rose in synchronicity with his lack of restraint.

“I wish to care for you.” He said it louder, louder than your beating heart. With so much heart, so much meaning that it ripped your gaze from the water and straight into a black hole.

You paused.

He paused.

You both stared.

And then he couldn't help himself.

Because when could he ever.

“Why is that such a preposterous suggestion?”

Your silence angered him.

“It is not as though you do not need it.”

You stiffened, eyes halting in their warm craving. “I would advise you to tread care-”

“You'd be a mess on the floor without me. Without my father.” The words spilled past his lips with as much crassness as your gaze held, but he did not mean to snap, not like this. Not so unhinged. Uncontrolled.

“Castle gone to shambles. No food. –Not even scraps that the servants feast upon.”

“This conversation is over.” You declared.

He had little willingness to obey.

“Perhaps it's best to keep you there.” Ramsay held your gaze this time in defiance and seemed to grin as you faced each other, a contest, perhaps, to see how long before someone backed down –would be how they'd tell the tale.

The two of you stayed like that for moments long before Ramsay uncrumbled the handkerchiefs from his grasp and approached you. Your bodies brushed against each other at the water basin.

“You and your dear family.” He went on, dousing the cloth in liquid, cupping it in his hand with a swift flick of his wrist, then wrung the thing and reached for you.

Only did your brow twitch and your mouth remain tightly shut when your chin felt the cold wetness and he began wiping at your face and then all at once, the heavy tension of the room faded and turned almost serene.

Ramsay's eyes focused on cleaning your face, but his mouth wove words of graceful cruelty. “Since you all find the position so accommodating.”

Slowly, the rough textures of his fingers became smooth and every so often a ridge of his skin would scrape against your cheek, or your jaw, then settle for holding the side of your face. His fingers would come to cup and squeeze the flesh and the cloth moved only a small bit at a time.

Ramsay circled around you like a protective hound, his thumb pressing into the dip of your eye to clean out the tears there. He hovered and walked round and round, body dipped low to the ground, as though he could avoid giving himself an opportunity to bark.

Because he knew what he wanted to say.

What was once a bordering heated argument had deescalated into something more calm and innocent but no less emotional. Your expression was doubtlessly a confused one as your eyes remained on him and Ramsay's mouth appeared as though it were readying itself.

Both of your nostrils had flared a few times, letting loose sighs of an unrest you could not claim, but eventually, you gathered yourself. You shut your mouth, reached out and your hand touched his, retracting it from your face because, in plain, it had been there too long. Too personal. Too close.

Your eyes fell to the floor then flickered back to Ramsay who blinked at you. Twice.

"I know you have got something you wish to say to me." You backed away, at least as much as your own pride would allow, and the way the two of you leered at each other from across the distance where neither party dared turn away, let alone walk in the opposite direction, made it difficult for either of you to truly function. “Something more than this- pathetic display of a tantrum.”

There was a long pause where the two of you could only watch the creases of each other's eyes, the doubt forming in the mouth, and the ache in the chest that begged and pounded to be let out. To be seen. To be free.

"...You're not really going to marry her."

It wasn't a question. It was more of an accusation. Of course, had you known at sixteen he would say this sort of stuff later on you would not have done the things you did.

"Ramsay." The way you spoke his name, it was as if it were to fall out of your mouth before you had the chance to stop it, for it sounded nothing like what you had wanted to say. "We will never speak of it. Understand?”

"But why?" He spat at you furiously, his frustration rising and falling at the slightest bit of movement on your part.

"What do you mean why?" You responded in a hushed hiss. "Think of what your father would do to you if he found out!"

Ramsay's left eye squinted at your words, then both moved quickly away, and you saw the way the whites were glossed over, saw the tension on his face as he clenched his jaw, hiding the emotions as they surfaced and subsided.

"You'd become the next skinless man on the doorstep of the Dreadfort. Don't play coy."

The warning came harsh and Ramsay gave you a single look, a look you couldn't quite describe or put name to, and he charged you, like a vicious hound without remorse, grabbing your arms with a ferocity akin to a starving animal who'd finally come across food.

Though that wasn't too far from the truth.

You blinked, startled and for a moment felt nothing from the shock and anticipation but this cold, empty feeling as your pulse hammered in your veins.

The wall he held you against was colder. Ice to the touch.

"You doubt me?" Ramsay asked as he grabbed at you, you were unable to comprehend his motives. Forced against the bathing chambers wall, your ankles almost buckled beneath you.

“Doubt you?” You said, incredulous in the way your body jolted with defiance, pushing your face right into his. You twisted in his grip, the sleeves around your arms jumbling up in an uncomfortable crumple that would stay long after he let you go -if, he let you go.

In turn, you held nothing but sour in your voice. Ramsay responded with something close to kind, in his mind.

"She is not worthy of you." Was the forcible indignity he made before you looked at him with those questioning eyes and lips, as though you did not understand or rather, you could not fathom his words.

In your silence you did not grant him what he sought.

“She does not deserve you!” For a moment he sounded like a petulant child unable to get his way. “I wish only for her womb to spout doomed flowers and your seed to be a corpse if it so means that I do not have to see such a wretched child, birthed from a man who does not know what he wants and seeks the wrong person –a woman.” He spat the words out like they burned his throat, like they upset his stomach as much as the wine did yours.

“Do you not understand?” Your eyes beamed wide and long daggers at him, you did not know if you were more surprised by his cruel words or his outright confession of devotion –to you, a man, long past his reckless years of youth. “You have to let it go, Ramsay.” You demanded it, your body ramming against his hands.

“I will not!” He grew more aggressive, more angry at your words, more possessive, and louder, and hysterical.

You were forced to push your hand harshly against his mouth, suppressing the voice that came through it, your eyes wide and searching, not wanting the others to hear.

Ramsay's blue flashed with a wild, manic fury as you tried to silence him. He shook his head harshly, letting go of one of your arms to grab your wrist and force it down despite your resistance. “You cannot stop me!” He drew back his mouth and you knew what came next would not be good. “That woman is unworthy of your affection! She is nothing compared to you, to us!”

The skin on your face was stretched thin in alert and in a panic, your half-free body shot forward and you muffled the sound of his continuous complaint, this time with your other hand holding the back of his head forcefully. The two of you grunted and tussled for a bit, but eventually, Ramsay's body collided where yours once was.

“That is enough!” You demanded in a low shout. “I will not have this senseless display of disrespect and delusional rambling continue on any longer.”

For a long moment, the two of you could only stay locked in this position, staring at one another. Neither of you able to completely understand what was happening.

The air was thick, your bodies hot, and your breaths heavy.

Ramsay's eyes bored into your face, you met him with a steely gaze, and somewhere, some time in that long, drawn out contest of dominance, something shifted in the blue and what appeared amongst all the pitiful chaos was akin to fright.

He tried once more to pull away, pull away from the dread and uncertainty, his heart hammering against his chest, but it was to no avail. You held fast against his movements, too distracted to see the newfound hesitation in them, a sense that perhaps he was considering he'd gone too far.

As he looked at you, he could not help but see the son of a warrior. In so many ways, you were as adept as your mother and as firm and stubborn as your father. You were, perhaps, the epitome of discipline. So much so that it did not matter much what your heart craved. Sometimes, he thinks that you just might be the closest thing left alive to the feeling of a Targaryen presence –intimidating, crazed.

And he was beginning to realize that perhaps he crossed a line from which there was no return.

“It was a mistake.” You said the words as though you felt nothing from them. “The indulgences of our childhood are to be forgotten.” You leaned in closer, breath hefty with the smell of poison. “If you dare threaten the well being of my family, of our home, with your– repulsive desires, I will make certain that you remain the bastard you are in name and in nature and that the life you so wish to seek shall be no longer in reach of your fleecing, foul fingers.”

At last, you removed your hands from him.

Backing away.

Straightening your clothing.

“A dead man can do little.”

A turn of your heel sends you bolting for the door.

“It is done.”

[scentedpepper]

Hello! I wanted to put in some personal requests so I'm wondering if you have matched any of these:

-Castlevania and Castlevania: Nocturne

-The Last Kingdom

-The 100

-Greys Anatomy

-You

And if you've watched any anime:

-Food Wars

-Attack on Titan

-Bleach

Hello!! Many of these I recognize, and many more of them are on my long list of things I need to watch, but unfortunately, I've only gotten around to a few (I need to lock in). I've watched You and Attack On Titan all the way through! Limited options, sorry about that 💔 But thank you for asking, and hopefully, I'll see some requests from you!!

[hamuda10]

My brother. Abd must leave for treatment. The crossings have been opened for humanitarian cases. Save my brother before he becomes paralyzed. Please donate, even if it is $5, it will make a big difference.

Gaza must be evacuated for treatment

Vetted

Vetted

My name is Muhammad yassir . I live in Gaza City 25. Old years . I hope you … Hamouda Ibrahim needs your support for A chef in Palestine He

Save my brother before it's too late 🥺🙏

[hamudaaaa-deactivated20250517]

I still need 2000$ 🙏🏻

Please share or donate

We are close to achieving the goal

[scentedpepper]

The Cockcrow of Dalliance

AEGON II TARGARYEN X SERVANT! GN READER

Part 1: Guilty Pleasures

Synopsis: Aegon II Targaryen's servant finds that dancing in the fire of the dragon's is but a natural state in which they exist.

Content Warnings: Violence (may be reminiscent of DV, see below), Implied and Explicit Sexual Speech/Themes, Implied Mention of SA, Aegon II Targaryen, Verbal Abuse (Mother to Child), Threatening, Toxic Household Dynamics, Aemond Targaryen, Toxic Power Dynamics, Violence Against Objects During Argument (?)

Other Pairings: Aemond Targaryen x Servant! GN Reader

AUTHOR NOTE(S):

Yes, yes it's finally here guys

Edited this mid dissociation so if you see any mistakes no you didn't

Told my bsf I was gonna have this out last night (I lied)

Aegons crying again

Debated splitting this into two parts but decided to save that torture for another day

For those of you who haven't read part 1: Guilty Pleasures

Regrading the DV content warning above, given that reader lives and has lived and grew up with Aegon + the weird relationship they have goin' on I thought their interaction in this fic might feel like something similar to DV,, just a moment of consideration

That's all, have fun guys

------------------------------------

"You broke the plates?"

The Prince Aemond is neither impressed nor pleased when the serene violet of his eye pops over the pages of a book he clutches to look at you. His sober drawl has hardly faltered from neutral, in fact, you think he may even be disappointed or rather– expecting.

He has always known, you think, of you and Aegon.

Your steps in the room pause and white pages with ancient scroll on them turn upside down as your hand falls. "My Prince, was that truly your takeaway?"

"It was one of many, " he says and folds the pages, a sign you know is to show his patience –which usually runs thin when it comes to anything, but especially his brother. "Now tell me."

"Would you like a report or an apology?"

You look at him with something that's grown familiar and yet, at times, feels gnawing. Even in his youth his parents indulged his mind and, thus, his tongue was sharp, capable, and used, to the great benefit of others and perhaps his own. And one such end happened to be your position. Though as to how that is of the most benefit is only debatable.

"Whichever you find necessary," he sighs, tucking away a page marker between his fingertips, "but you often mutter apologies by rote so perhaps, dare I ask, would you start the report instead?”

Your chest squeezes in defiance though, you know it is true. Your heart pounds harshly as you recall the way you've trained yourself to begrudgingly bend in reverence in the direction of royalty such as the man before you. The castle walls creak loudly each time, ringing in the back of your ears like a tired, pained groan.

You open your mouth to speak but you feel it close all over again as the prince moves, shifts and your eyes watch him oh so very carefully.

He unfolds his left leg from his right and suddenly becomes more pristine than his previous lax position. He sets the book down with a thud, the ancient leather-bound pages now bent.

“Start at the beginning.” He says, eye peeling away from the book heavy table beside him to look at you, he leans forward, forearms resting on each side of the creaky, old chair that almost scorns the perfect black leather of his clothing. “Tell me exactly what transpired. Don't leave out any details.”

You find that this nature often becomes of the prince when he discovers an encounter you've had with his brother. Restless, antsy, though feigning a lack of care at the start. Much like Aegon, he is a creature of habit. Cycles. Gratingly so.

You tilt your head at him, a curious glaze in your eyes that he does not like but knows you cannot help.

He returns the gesture with a placid face.

Unmoving and unmotivated, unenviable to the nature of your being.

He knows you know what he does not want you to know.

Your knowledge is ever expansive in his eye, crossing the vast walls of the Keep, simultaneously surveying the walls of the North. You are but a pigeon, fulfilling the duties of your master and yet, you view everything from all different directions.

And when you cast your keen eye upon him, oh, he knows, you only see the jealous boy you grew alongside. The same one who came running to you after his eye was taken, removed. The same one who was undeniably fitful at any one of your moves that did not include him, especially after the tragedy. The same one who grew cold, distant, like ice in which you could stab your prickly little pigeon claws in and deepen the cracks of his resolve.

His foot shifts.

It catches your attention.

He clears his throat.

“Prince Aegon was drunk when he found me. Stumbling from the dark and speaking of aid I was not privy to, at the start.”

The Prince Aemond leans back in his chair, one eyebrow arched slightly as he listens to your report. His violet eye glints in the candlelight, the other socket a shadowed hollow. His steepled fingers press into each other as he regards you thoughtfully.

“The wine had clearly become of him, My Prince, you are much aware of how he succumbs.”

He hums in agreement, eye blinking softly.

His foot taps lightly, almost imperceptibly, against the floor. The sound is a gentle reminder of his growing impatience, despite his otherwise calm demeanor. "Go on." Aemond prompts, his voice a low rumble. "What aid did he require of you, exactly?"

You hesitate, your gaze flickering to the closed door of the library. The castle seems to hold its breath around you, the usual bustle of servants and courtiers hushed. It's as if the very stones are straining to hear your next words.

"It was not– clear, at first, what he desired. He begged mostly, for a time, and slung his body about my own."

There is a tightening around his eye, a pain in his chest as his next breath is trapped there.

“Did he attempt to, force himself upon you, in any way?" He speaks, the words rough, restrained, like they're being dragged up from a dark, hidden, knowing place.

You pause, eyes exchanging a shared sentiment with the prince. "I did not need to defend myself, if that is what you are asking.”

Aemond studies you carefully, searching your face for any hint of falsehood. He finds none. But there is something about your words, the way you phrase them, that pricks at him like a thorn buried too deep to remove.

His lips press into a thin line. "That is not what I asked."

Your jaw tenses, but you hold his gaze. There’s an understanding, unspoken yet suffocating in its presence. Aegon, for all his drunken indulgences, is a creature of impulse. Aemond, for all his calculated discipline, is a creature of control. And you, caught between them, are something else entirely.

"He was pitiful," you say finally. "Swaying like a ship battered by storm winds, clutching at me as though I could anchor him." Your voice does not waver, but your fingers flex at your sides. "I let him cling for a time, as one does with a child who has not yet learned how to stand on his own."

Aemond exhales sharply through his nose. There is something bitter in his amusement, something dry and humorless. "How generous of you."

You tilt your head, watching him with eyes that see too much. He knows you and he knows you won’t stop here.

“Do you resent me for it, My Prince?”

The tension in the room is a live thing, writhing between you. Aemond's fingers tighten around each other before he releases them slowly, deliberately.

"I resent him," he says, and there’s a raw edge to his words, a crack in the ice. "For making himself something to be pitied."

You do not flinch at this admission.

Aemond wears self-sufficiency like armor, a shield against the vulnerabilities he despises most. The childhood incident that robbed him of an eye has also stripped him of any patience for frailty, in others and especially in himself. He scorns what he perceives as weakness with the same intensity that he yearns for strength, and in his mind, the two cannot coexist. To him, there is no grandeur in being pitiable, no honor in being at the mercy of one's own impulses. He has worked tirelessly to purge such blemishes from his own character, to become a perfect, unyielding sculpture of control and discipline, no matter the cost.

You know how he looks upon the spectacle his brother makes of himself, how it irks and gnaws and hangs upon his mind like a rusted, old chain that is loud enough to cause a ruckus but not strong enough to do anything at all. To be pitied in the eyes of others was of his greatest fears; to be sympathized by someone like you, who had seen him through so many phases, was tantamount to humiliation. When you speak of Aegon's antics, when you use words like child, he knows you haven't just seen one Targaryen prince crumble, but two.

And so, he masks his shame beneath pointed accusations.

“Perhaps, we shall cease this conversation, My Prince.” You suggest and when you do it is gentle, unwavering in consideration.

It makes Aemond sick.

“No.” He demands it. “Not yet.”

The severity in his voice is a tightrope, stretched thin. He shifts in his seat, eye narrowing as he searches for the words that will bring this to closure on his terms.

"Did he say anything?" Aemond presses. "Anything of use or consequence?"

You consider this, the weight of your answer hanging heavily between you like the pendulum of a clock, swinging down upon him with each delayed breath.

The answer is yes.

Yes, Aegon said many things. Yes, they would bear heavily on Aemond's mind no matter the use or the consequence and yes, you think they are better left unsaid.

Aemond is not above needing protection, not as much as he claims to be.

“Nothing that would—”

You hesitate, an uncommon occurrence. Your eyes are knowing and unreadable in equal measure, a contradictory nature he has never reconciled. “Nothing that I cared to remember.”

He studies you sharply for a moment, and you feel the force of his gaze like the glare of the sun. You cannot help but wonder if this is when you will burn.

But then he exhales, his foot finally stilling. You see him decide to accept your answer, for now.

“I see.” There’s a clipped edge to his words, a finality that rings through the room like the closing of a heavy door.

He pushes himself to standing abruptly, and you feel a twinge of unease. There's an urgency to his movement, a restlessness that crackles in the air like the precursor to a violent storm.

"Then let us leave off this conversation."

Your eyes flick up to his as he strides around the desk, to return his book to the shelf it belongs to.

“I was not aware our time here was subject to your command-”

"That will be all."

…

Aegon's quarters are neither comforting nor welcoming in the light. What the night hides ceases the moment you step over the threshold and cast your hurried eyes across the room. The floor is cluttered with emptied cups and you wonder, briefly, how neither of you tripped or sent one scurrying across the floor like a squeaking mouse last night; amongst the shadows that were cast away by the intruding moonlight, pressing a blue silk against his pale skin, making him appear nearly see-through. A weeping ghost.

It was not this though, not him, not necessarily, that drew you near again. Not his god-like skin or his small plump lips, or the way he pleads and cries and begs. Not the clouds covering his violet eyes, or the way they release tears of gold from the waterline. Not the supposed way he billows an exciting pit inside your stomach. Not your childhood bond, not your aversion to other domestic duties in which he gives you careless release to. Not the allure of his affections, not the ebb and flow of his deflections.

It is his mother–and perhaps the loud crashing–that causes you, and several other servants lingering about the halls of the royal apartments, to break ritual.

You freeze just beyond the entrance, feeling more like an intruder than a participant. Queen Alicent stands in the center of the room, a hurricane’s eye, breath heaving in her chest, lips pressed into a ferocious line. She does not notice you, not immediately.

Aegon sees you though.

He stands there, a disheveled mess of a prince with his wavy hair falling across his face. His eyes, once squeezed shut as if to ward off her words, snap open to find you. Recognition dawn's first with surprise, then with relief, and finally with a bitter, self-conscious waver.

His mouth hangs slightly open, unsure whether to greet you or to call out in an attempt to save himself from his mother’s onslaught. He does neither. Instead, his eyes lock onto yours, communicating volumes that are left silent amidst the rupturing tension. There is shame in them but also a desperate need for you to see beyond it, to perceive some deeper version of himself that escapes everyone else’s understanding. You can almost see him gearing up for an expression of bravado, an affected nonchalance he wears like a second skin, before the mirror of your presence reminds him of last night’s vulnerability. The skin cracks.

He is too exposed, too aware of you as you linger by the door, and it leaves him frayed.

"Did he call you here?" She finally turns, cutting into the words Aegon begins to form, eyes glancing at you briefly. "Is he incapable of facing me alone?” Her eyes, shifting on him, brim with palpable disdain. Her hands shake as she moves with a furious energy, upsetting the room’s chaotic order even further as she sweeps an arm across the small table beside him. More cups clatter onto the floor, a cascade of empty porcelain that makes Aegon flinch.

He does not answer. Instead, his gaze travels back to you, and for a moment, he’s like a child again. Like last night. Helpless and plaintive, caught between sobs. Caught between breaths, caught between two versions of himself. And then, finally, caught between you, who looks on from the shadows, and his mother, who storms forth with the final blow.

"Do you have any notion,” Alicent demands, “of the disgrace you bring upon yourself? Upon this family?"

You say nothing. Not to Aegon, not to the Queen, not to the situation in which you find yourself in. Again.

"Do you have any notion of what your brother tells me?" Her voice is piercing, a sharp blade of accusation that cuts the air. "You are unfit for succession! Unfit to rule over even a household servant," she spits, and her eyes flick towards you as if you were an object, a thing, another empty cup on the floor.

Aegon staggers slightly, as though each word strikes him with physical force. "Is that it then? You'd rather see Aemond crowned?" He is aghast and teary eyed.

She doesn't relent, doesn't pause, doesn't soften. "Yes. Yes, rather him than this," she gestures wildly at the room, at the mess, at him, the tangled-up prince.

He sways on his feet, her words unmooring him entirely. There is a moment, a brief flash, where you think he might collapse under the weight of it all. And then his eyes find yours again.

There is no relief in them now. Just rawness. Just bloodied pride.

“Go on then!” Aegon’s voice breaks, high and thin, like a snapped string. "Tell him to his face. Tell him you choose him. See how well he takes it."

Alicent’s eyes blaze as she turns on him once more, her fury mounting like a storm at sea. "Do you think he wants it?" Her words are a tempest, crashing down with unrestrained malice. "He knows he is not the rightful heir. He knows he is second. He knows his place."

Aegon flinches, and you feel the sting as well, the viciousness of her scorn sinking deep.

"And you?" She advances upon him, relentless. "What do you know?" Her words are knives, flung with a fury that dares him to bleed. "What have you ever known but indulgence and disgrace? You hold on to your birthright like a drunken sailor clutches an empty bottle. Pathetic and useless." Her voice is a searing brand, meant to scorch and burn away any remnants of his resolve. He stands frozen under the impact, absorbing each blow.

"You hold on to your birthright like a coward—you care for it only when it suits you, only when it eases your own suffering."

He is felled and shattered.

You see him crumble as she hurls insults with calculated precision.

"You are unworthy of it, and you know it.” A title. An inheritance.

Queen Alicent’s words rush forth like a dam unleashed, washing him—washing you—away in the flood of her contempt. Her disdain fills the air, choking it, suffocating it.

"Is this all you are made of, Aegon? Are you as hollow as your ambition? As shallow as your need for attention?" Her voice drops, lethal and low. "What are you, a shadow of a man, a shadow of a son?" There is nothing but her voice and the sting as it cleaves through him.

"Unworthy." She repeats, taking a step back, but her presence is still suffocating. She is the very storm itself, consuming everything in her wake, and you wonder how much longer he can endure it.

His breath hitches, and he stares at her with wounded bewilderment, like a kicked dog unsure of why he’s been struck.

You step forward.

“Your Grace,” you say quietly, gently, “perhaps it would be best to leave Prince Aegon to collect himself.”

The suggestion hangs in the air, soft and unassuming but somehow undeniable. Alicent looks at you, really seeing you for the first time. Her anger falters just slightly, enough for reflection to creep in through the cracks.

She draws herself up, her chest, taking in a deep inhale to suffocate the glaze in her eyes.

She looks back at Aegon, the weight of her own words settling in like an unwelcome guest.

"Very well." she says, her voice suddenly hoarse, as if worn out from the effort of sustaining such grand frustration.

She turns sharply and strides towards the door, leaving in a storm-tossed flurry of skirts. Her departure pulls the air with her, and the room feels emptier for it, less like a battlefield and more like the aftermath of one.

You stand rooted for a moment, unsure if you’re allowed to move, to speak, to breathe. Aegon remains where he is, crumpled and small, his defiance collapsed around him like a broken shield. His eyes shine too brightly as he stares at the ground where she stood moments ago.

“Did you enjoy it?”

The voice is hoarse, reeling, trembling.

Broken glass over an empty road.

You open your mouth, to say what, you don't know.

It's that dark feeling, the one that weighs on your heart and pushes a cool, wet sleeve down your throat until the words can't come out and they aren't spoken in the first place. It's a familiar suffocation, like a thick fog that clouds your vision.

So instead, your fingers twitch and bend at your sides as you watch the fire begin to form at the back of the dragon's throat.

Aegon exhales sharply through his nose, a bitter smile twisting his lips. "I asked you a question."

Your throat tightens. There it is. This moment, this tension, this awful in-between where he is neither kind nor cruel, where he asks for something you cannot give.

"My place is neither to enjoy nor suffer, My Prince."

At those words, Aegon flinches, and his control slips slightly, his eyes brimming with unshed tears. He looks at you, unfathomably sad, as if the very sight of you hurts him.

And yet, it is he who burns your skin thin, until it drips from your bones.

"Did you? Did you enjoy it?" He sounds frantic, if there was ever a word for the state he is left in.

Your ears are ringing, a familiar, disorienting sound.

Why, you think, why does everything always circle back to me?

You shift your weight, an uncomfortable, unsettled sensation growing within you.

Aegon has never made it easy. He has spent his whole life vacillating between kindness and cruelty, between moments of unguarded warmth and the kind of thoughtless indulgence that turns everything sour. And you—whatever it is you feel for him—have never been allowed to name it. In a lifetime of service, you have been powerless and forgotten, dismissed and degraded. But not now. Not here.

"Did you?" He asks, his voice barely audible.

Your tongue feels heavy. Your words die at its tip, still unformed.

For a moment, Aegon looks completely exposed, every thought and feeling laid bare before you. The usual façade, the mask of affected insouciance, has fallen away, and he is left raw and aching. There is no wine to blame this time, no easy explanation.

His expression flickers, something dark passing over it. "You won't even grant me the honesty I require of you?"

Your silence cuts into him deeper.

He grits his teeth and steels himself against it. Against you. Against everything.

You can see it clearly, how close he is to shattered.

You have seen it before.

A visage so similar to Aemonds.

And just as Aemond, he grows furious before he musters the ability to wall himself up again.

For Aemond, it will often be a curt and disinterested attitude, of a cold and numb exterior where his thoughts and feelings lie; encased and concealed, guarded lest they escape to come at you.

His was a defensive tactic.

Aegon's is an offensive one.

His eyes narrow, his mouth tenses and his nostrils flare. "Is the loyal servant too good to gratify me?" His tone drips with condescension. "So quick you are to obey my orders in the day, so willing you are to let your master take whatever he wishes by night. Was not my brother enough then, or did you find it funny to share a royal laugh at my expense? As you are used to?"

Your brows pull together but you cast your eyes to the side, away, hoping, perhaps, that your quiet may dim his light, if only for a moment.

It does not.

"Look at me!" He demands, his eyes cold and hard, his voice cracking under the strain of emotion.

A loud crash, louder than what becomes of him when he is beaten with words, startles you upright and you stare, wide eyed, at the mess he's created. He kicks against a near trunk, knocking the drawers shut and spilling across the floor the same as it once did so many years ago when he was a moody, grumpy, child, fresh to the world.

Now his emotions –his wants– consume him like a wildfire. Spitting hot embers that char and set aflame your heart and cause you to squirm and step back.

This was different.

"Must I order you once more, dear servant?"

He speaks through his teeth, mocking and cruel.

They grind and clink together, a fury all his own.

It is now that he begins to laugh. Your cheeks flame with shame and anger and disbelief and those eyes, wide open, look upon you with disgust.

“My Prince, please–”

“Please? Please what? Please stop? Please listen? Please pretend like you care?”

“I have always–”

“Always what? Always obeyed? Always served? Always stood there and let me–” He cuts himself off, breath shuddering.

You watch him carefully, watch the way his seams fall apart, brittle and begrudging. His eyes have an insanity to them, like his fingers are losing grip and he is forced to surrender to the soil that lays far below him.

“This is not the time–” You try again, voice soft, unchanging despite the nicks in your skin, within your joints. You ignore it all, pacing yourself as you take careful steps to him, drawing your warmth closer.

"And such a useless, incompetent little thing you are that all it seems you are good for is lifting my cock and licking it clean."

You stiffen. Your pride bristles at his words and you come to an abrupt halt, teeth clamping down on each other.

You suppose it is some twisted metaphor –or his dreams– meant to leave you coiled in on yourself, remind you of where you stand. Below him.

“Not the time?” He repeats, harsh and mocking, bewildered at your control, your delicately placed self. “When is the time then? When I am drunk off my arse, so you can pat me on the fur and tuck me away like a dog? When I am far too gone to know the difference between your pity and your loyalty?

“I do not pity you—”

Lies.

And Aegon knows it.

“A kind word? A brush on the head? Does it feel good? Does it make you feel safe?” He spits out the last word as if it is such a disgraceful proposition that even puts you, a servant, to shame. “Does he touch you the way I do? Do you like it best when a prince pretends you are worth something?”

Your eyes light with something akin to his own flames and the walls begin to crack around you two.

“You mistake me for one of your whores, My Prince.” You start, you voice even, calm and uneventful despite the words that so unnerve Aegon. “Do not whimper at my feet and expect me to soothe you.”

Something shatters in the violet, the facade of cruelty, cold control fractured at the edges, and you know you've hit him where he was weakest. Where the pain was most raw and uncured, where no princely title could cover his scars.

There's a split second where your chest aches and lurches for a younger version of Aegon, the one who's mother loved him yet never was able to see the boy for all his woes and inadequacies, his sadness and self loathing, his broken heart, his shame. The one who must feel a million memories of the throne room playing alongside your anger to stop you from turning your heel and saying nothing.

Instead though, you have not the time to react before you feel the collar of your shirt pulled forward with a violent tug and your body lurches forward in a stumble, mere inches from your noses touching, and then all at once, you are being pushed across the room.

Your back crackles against the wall like a brutish whip and you grunt, arms up, attempting to break the hands that hold you before you're against the wall again.

He shakes you, the anger and bitterness pouring from him like a torrent. “You think I am weak?” He sneers, his grip tightening as if trying to force an answer from your very bones. “You think me pathetic?”

Your defiance only seems to goad him further. It unleashes something feral in him, something unhinged. His words come fast and sharp, cutting into your skin. “Perhaps you have forgotten,” he snarls, inches from your face, “that my goodwill is all that stands between you and ruin.”

His grip on you fortifies. His eyes burn hotter, hotter than those of the dragon emblazoned on his tunic, than any flickering flame.

You breathe hard. A stare-off and neither of you budge.

"Perhaps," you grit through your teeth, "perhaps it is my goodwill that has made you think that."

"You dare," he spits, his voice straining with disbelief. "You dare presume to lecture me, to speak to me like—" He breaks off, his breathing ragged with the effort of controlling himself and failing. His hands tremble against your shirt, and for a moment, you see the desperation beneath the anger, the fear that drives his cruelty. He is like a caged animal, lashing out at everything and everyone, especially at you.

"You think yourself untouchable, do you?" The sheer contempt in his voice is like a physical blow. "You think yourself indispensable?" His grip loosens, just slightly, his doubt giving you the smallest advantage, the tiniest edge. But the moment is brief, and his resolve hardens again. He grips you with renewed vigor, his determination to break you more than matched by yours to withstand him.

“I could have you banished.” He says it like a promise, his voice vicious and raw and you jolt forward only to be pushed back down. “I could have you—”

“—ruined, forgotten.” You throw the words back at him, cutting him off before he can utter them himself. There is a new, dangerous edge in your voice, a fearlessness that defies his threats and mocks his power. “It is what you always say, Aegon, but there is no truth behind it.” Your chest rises deeply, falling just as hard, your talons digging.

His threats, so often wielded as weapons, seem pitiful in the face of your truth. You glare with unyielding intensity, daring him to make good on his words, daring him to follow through on promises you know he cannot keep. It is you who now has him up against the wall, pinned by the plain force of your refusal to cower. He is stunned into conflicted silence, wavering under the weight of your unflinching gaze. You see the cracks deepen and spread, his assurance buckling under the knowledge that you, more than anyone, can see through him. You watch as it undermines every defense he thought himself capable of.

Perhaps this once he will understand. Perhaps this once he will not spiral and fester. Perhaps this once he will learn.

Perhaps, you think, perhaps this once he will not come to you in an empty hall, in a vacant corridor, marching like the very soldiers you thought he was, asking if you feel proud, if you are finally happy.

“Go on, punish me for my insolence. The Crown will thank you. Your mother will kiss you on the head and call you a good boy. Your brother will tell you how wise you are, how brave. You can pretend I never was here at all, and maybe then it will be enough.”

Aegon stares at you as though he has been struck. The color drains from his face, leaving him pale and ghost-like. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse, barely more than a whisper.

"Stop," he chokes out, but there is no strength in it, no authority. It is more plea than command. His grip weakens again and this time does not recover.

“Go ahead.” You press on, relentless now that the cracks have widened into chasms. “Forget me like your family forgets you.”

He is staggered by the force of your words, eyes wide with disbelief and pain so deep it steals his breath away.

He doesn't let go as the tears began to well in his eyes. “Damn you,” he cries out, his voice breaking, uncaring if anyone hears him now. He is wild with the knowledge that you see through him, past the anger to the fear beneath. It shatters what little control he has left. “Damn you to the Seven Hells—”

In an instant, Aegon’s fury crumbles away, leaving something wrecked and desperate in its place.

“My Prince–"

Something hot and wet stains the corner of your shirt. You inhale softly, sharply, taken aback and perhaps a little repulsed but all the more so worried, for him, of how he lurches into you with both knees against your sides.

You nearly choke in reply but you suck your windpipe back into position and breathe again with enough control to not swallow your tongue.

When he speaks his voice is consumed by his own tears but you make it out clearly, recognizing the patterns of his words.

Oh, how his clutch so soon turns to a grasp.

He does not look at you but rather keeps his face buried into your neck, body weight falling loosely atop you and pinning you to the wall. You are left only to wrap your arms slowly around his trembling figure.

He is drunk on his own emotions and perhaps, you think, that is often why he does not face them sober.

"Y/N," your name comes as a slur. "I am sorry." He chokes on his own hiccups as he begs to release the words. "Sorry- I'm sorry. So sorry."

You are forced against your better judgment to cradle him against you, turning your head softly to press your cheek against his temple.

"Okay." You soothe, your hand coming up to his head as you let out a shaky breath, eyes closing briefly as if to regain whatever part of yourself you've just lost. Your fingers twine like cotton into the soft, white threads of his hair. "Okay, My Prince. Okay."

"Forgive me."

He is a mess and quite unlike his brother who was put together the last time you held him in your arms, with a slightly sound mind to match.

His grip tightens and your shirt rides up the slightest.

"I only meant to protect us," you coo against him softly as to not cause his guilt. A half-truth, the words tug the base of your heart but you force yourself not to stray. Not now, you think, not as such fragile things.

"Do not dismiss me." His voice cracks and it rings loud in your ears, as if though a screech. "Please, I will keep you beside me if I must. My brother, too." His tone wavers with uncertainty but his hold increases.

You allow him, to keep his hands where they lay; however, he wishes. They are familiar there after all, comfortable.

He does not quiet in his sobs, in his muffled cries into your neck and you must only listen to every word.

"I wish only for your comfort, for your safety. Your loyalty."

You squeeze him harder against you and still, the other servants flit and look and keep, away from the quarters.

He goes on. "My mother is blind to the wrong of it. How would she know of...how could she understand, of that sort of..."

He cannot finish his thoughts. Or perhaps, he cannot bring himself to say them, however he knows, however he feels. However she neglected to see.

His grip slips up, thumbs pressed against the curve of your ribs.

It makes your skin ignite and yet he is like ice, so much so, there is a mist that shrouds the two of you in dewy wetness.

How foolish. Aemond's warning repeats in your mind like a hammer hits the nail.

But your nails glide over his back anyway.

He tries, once more, to speak. To piece the uncharacteristic cracks and repair his voice, the only thing keeping him standing and in a role of power. "The wine dulls it, drowns it, even, my whims."

Perhaps. Or maybe, once released, he does not stop the spiral from its descent.

A whine escapes him and he exhales roughly against you, trying to stop the tears and failing.

He seems only to grow sadder as the two of you stand there, your backs straight and your thighs, beginning to ache.

His grip shifts to become ever more desperate, pleading, asking that of you when the liquor does not.

"Please."

It hits you hard, the plea, an old battle he has within and a new one you bear witness to.

Aegon seems smaller now, slacked of his fire, that same fire that licks and snaps at the ends of yours. You wonder for a moment, what his flames would even taste like.

Ash? The bitter drink, that will only make his tears wetter.

And, they are. He tastes, salt, from his own misery, spilling from the corners of his eyes and staining the neck of your shirt.

You have not the chance to respond, not a moment between his shaky breath and his hands once more, holding you tightly to his own body.

There is no ounce of space between the two of you when the door bursts open and you meet the eye of the Targaryen you have not embraced in so long.

Instead, all those thoughts, and fantasies, and ideas burn before your eyes and you are reduced to only black and grey, sweeping away with the wind.

Aemond is tall enough that he is overbearing, overshadowing, you, until all you can look at is that void filled, violet abyss that has never been shown such warmth and affection.

He closes the door swiftly at the sight, eye blown wide, wordless for a moment as he searches your expression which is a mix of pleading and acceptance.

His focus then flickers to your chests, tangled, hearts, entwined as close as possible.

Aegon has pushed himself entirely flat to you now, your back embedded into the wall behind you. It creaks loudly under your weight and leaves a scarred ring in the wood as your foot steps back from the pressure.

He does not release you either, does not flinch. Not now, not at the sight of his brother, not at the thoughts within him, rushing, filling his mind up with words and sentences together.

You watch Aemonds throat bob.

He grows more unnerved by the performance the longer he stands there and watches and does not a thing to cease such condemnable theatrics.

You shake your head at him, feeling the way Aegon's tears spread over your bare skin, your arms jolting up and down with each cry.

But Aemond does not listen to you.

When has he ever?

Your palms are sweaty by the time he finally takes action, grabbing the back of his brother's shirt harder than any strong knight ever could.

"Enough."

One tug is all it takes to begin to peel Aegon off of you, first, it is the thick, splayed head of hair, then the buttons, his fingers, the silk belt around his waist. When he has managed that, his next actions seem to please you no more, so quickly and easily the other half of his soul is discarded.

Aegon cries out as though he is a blind pup being taken from his mother's breast and he attempts to return but Aemond pulls him back so quickly by his collar, he coughs, instead.

"That is enough." Aemond repeats and his voice sounds so like yours moments ago, trying to quell the anger.

You look upon the brothers as you push yourself slowly from the wall, clearing your throat and straightening your clothing.

Aegon is red in the face, particularly his nose and his skin is wet, eyelashes dripping. Again, he carries that look of a small pet who's been scolded for the first time.

You are unable to look at him long before your bewildered brow pinches at Aemond next.

His eye is steely, face taught and lips pressed thin.

There is a hesitation in him, it is hardly noticeable and it is replaced by the very clenching of his teeth and his jaw working furiously to keep up his composure as he throws his brother onto his bed in a heap of tangled sheets.

He immediately struggles and you step away as you can only watch him, fists taut in the blanket, face planted to hide his shame.

Aemond keeps his teeth clenched down, as if to stop himself from speaking all that he wishes to.

"You are behaving like a child."

Aegon is muffled by his pillow. "Y/N understands."

You do.

But you don't speak the fact into existence.

Instead, you just step forward, deliberately quiet until you stand at Aemonds side and the both of you stare down at the crown prince for a time.

"Stay." Aemond commands and you know this much, know by his tone and expression, what he will wish of you next.

And just as dutifully, you obey him and give a curt nod.

You are the only reason his brother does not tear the room apart in a bout of rage, and as you lay a tender hand upon his shoulder, the younger Targaryen prince resigns.

"When he calms you may go." He looks down at you with a tight visage that conveys to you a silent knowledge of where he stands on the matter.

He does not want you here. In this room. With his sob ridden brother.

But he knows, with no other means, with how no other servants keep their head nor the desire or capability, you are truly the only one suitable.

It isn't in a good way either, you think.

And you can not look at the way Aemond stares at you. For only a moment but in it, the tension shatters.

"I will be outside the door should he lay a finger on you." And it is just as sharp and sour and you are quick to cast your gaze away and keep it upon the curve of Aegon's back instead. "Do you hear me, you drunk whelp?”

It is his final demand as he casts his gaze to his brothers backside again.

Aegon offers nothing in response. He simply melts and weeps and blubbers.

“Y/N leaves on my terms, the wrong touch and I shall know."

You swallow, daring not to roll your eyes, for you've grown tired of his promises to defend you and his threats to take retribution should you be put out of line or fault.

But he looks at you, sees you, and understands the funny crookedness of your lip.

"I am serious." He takes long steps across the room, eye still on you. "If it comes to the point I wish to think you foolish enough as not to realize I will remove my brother myself, Seven help me." And even in the same breath, he tugs the door open and brings it slamming shut to silence the echoes of his words.

Then it is just as quiet as the crowing of the day's start and the library aches for your return.

[scentedpepper]

HII !!! to be honest, i couldn’t stop thinking about your Aegon fic and how you captured such a complex and realistic dynamic. If you have the time, i’d be happy to read more of your thoughts and just how Aegon keeps interacting with a servant reader.

THANK YOU SO MUCH !!! in advance

HI!!!

First of all, again, I'm glad you liked it 😼 and were able to pick up on the complexities of their dynamic!! Thats usually what I try to go for when it comes to all my fics, some sort of complication, especially with characters like Aegon. HOTD is practically a breeding ground for my weird angst 😈. I also just have a general greater liking towards problematic down right horrible characters in general…

But anyway!! When it comes to Guilty Pleasures I sort of already had a thought out idea in mind. I knew I had been wanting to get a HOTD fic out on my page and I’m not sure what exactly compelled me to write for godforsaken Aegon Targaryen before I write for godforsaken Aemond Targaryen but alas here we are. The inspo behind Guilty Pleasures actually stemmed from an in-the-making-idea that I plan to implement in my fanfic, Of Crowns & Chains. It's a Aemond Targaryen x Servant Male OC and in my head, seeing as the main character not only grew up around Aemond but Aegon as well, there would have to be an interesting dynamic there. The prologue and chapter 1 are on my page if that's something you'd be interested in checking out 😛. But, I essentially implemented a similar dynamic that the main character and Aegon have and made it into Aegon x reader. The only real difference is the sexual nature of it all that we see happen with reader and Aegon.

Now, when thinking in terms of Aegon and the reader, there has to be some reason behind why he is so inclined to cling and seek out sexual favor from reader despite the nature of their circumstances. Not only that but reader is also a non-woman (ofc guilty pleasures in particular can be read by anyone especially given the gn tag but like all my fics, they are written with intent of a non-female character but i digress). In my head, Aegon would be the more sexually…robust of the family so therefore more inclined to (at first drunkenly and then not) seek whatever –and whoever– makes him feel good in the moment, both sexually and not. But the question is, why reader? Who is stopping this man from venturing out onto silk street? It's also quite well known that Aegon has eyes for the servants just –in his general vicinity cus yk, that's who he is 💀. But, as mentioned by reader, this is not the first occasion this has happened and seemingly not the last.

Not to mention, reader is, somewhat, willingly going along with Aegon and his–habits? There is a clear (at least in my head) wanting to participate in these times when the crown prince becomes so desperately out of his wits. Is it power? A servant having one reign of the dragon locked around their fingers? That must evoke some sense of pride. Especially given his wishy washy state reader constantly finds themselves involved with. There reader is, for once, bending Aegon to their will. I could go on. Reader themselves is written with their own complexity seeing as they are a servant and correspondingly, all servants have had gratingly tough lives but. —I’ll depart before I get ahead of myself.

Perhaps a part two is in order?

Guilty Pleasures

Edit: Part 2 is out :]

The Cockcrow of Dalliance

[scentedpepper]

HOTD SUBLIST

AEGON II TARGARYEN:

Guilty Pleasures The Cockcrow of Dalliance

[scentedpepper]

Guilty Pleasures

AEGON II TARGARYEN X SERVANT!GN READER

Part 2: The Cockcrow of Dalliance

Synopsis: Aegon II Targaryen seeks out his servant in the most desperately pathetic of times.

Content Warnings: Implicitly explicit sexual speech/themes, drunkeness, established relationships, complicated dynamics, may come off as reminiscent of non-con at some points(?) but was written without intent of such nature, friends (not really) with benefits (also not really), aegon ii targaryen, touch starved (reader and aegon)

Other Pairings: Aemond Targaryen x GN! Reader

AUTHOR NOTE(S):

Is this brainrot?

------------------------------------

"Please, please. "

You're not sure what about this situation perturbes you more.

The situation itself, which contains that of a drunken Prince Aegon clinging onto your red tunic in the midst of a dimly lit corridor as you attempt to carry dirtied dishes over to the others in the kitchen, falling over himself and pleading.

Or the fact that there is, inexplicably, no one around to witness this outrageous display of drunkenness occurring before the very eyes of the prince's subjects—not even the knights you'd passed on your way here, it seems, as the hall leading to the kitchen is practically empty.

There's almost a feeling of being stranded out at sea, out in a thick, harsh, uncaring, overpowering fog as you find yourself drifting aimlessly to and fro in the absence of a guiding beacon, desperate to return home; a sense that those who came down these halls are surely gone, or somewhere else altogether, but the general, indescribable loneliness this leaves one with still persists in clinging onto your skin, and it isn't a pleasant feeling.

You don't want to know how or why you're being required to look at this god-awful display, yet here you are, with the Prince himself, grabbing you and holding you closely.

You can smell his breath.

The Prince Aemond had advised you many times to stay clear of his brothers line of sight when he was like this, stupid with drunkness. It was always the same warning he'd pass quietly to your ear, gesturing from across the throne room, as if you couldn't see the wine become of him yourself.

His breath is a putrid mix of fruity, sweetened wine and rotting meat, the stench alone just about ready to have you empty your stomach right into the corridor—you want to move him off, or away, or something, but in the near darkness, he simply holds onto your clothes and lays against you, pathetically.

As you fidget to find a way to escape his steel vise grip without causing him offense, he clamps a hand to the side of your face, firmly, not a slap but rather a moment of stillness. His gaze snaps up, meeting yours and flashing his glazy, violet eyes.

You slowly come out of your squint, out of your hunch. He has only taken a very short few seconds to simply gaze through the dark at you before making a wet snort noise. A cough follows it.

A repulsive sound.

He giggles then, almost, or moans? It could be an admittance of his intoxication, as he rests his weight into your side, but the way his hands are tightening into a fist in the fabric of your tunic isn't very encouraging.

"My Prince..." You start, but he forbid you from continuing.

"Please. " He says again, swaying, sniffing, slurring. One of his hands gently traces up the material of your sleeve. "Please, Y/N. "

It is not particularly surprising that he calls your name. Despite yourself, you have come to know both princes more than you would have wished yourself to when you first came here, from Dorne. But somehow, hearing the sound of your name fall from his lips in this particular tone isn't as familiar as you'd hoped.

Nonetheless, its an otherwise strangely sober utterance from his mouth, except for the mild stumble over each syllable, and an oddly solemn cadence. You'd think by now there was not a shred of lucidity left in him, judging from his actions and words prior, but there's a certain formality to it that rings all too clear in the hazy atmosphere.

"Please. " He says again, in your silence.

And you're really not even sure what he's pleading for, anymore.

At first, you'd assumed his call had been one akin to assistance; to carry his belongings–or rather him–to his chambers and pull the covers over him, like you always did. But this has transpired into something far more...unfamiliar. And you're not certain that it should even be a possible interaction between the two of you, even if he had become thoroughly entrenched in a state of drunken obliviousness.

And you are not eager to determine the sincerity of his pleas.

"My Prince, you are much too given away. You do not know what you ask of me..." You say, gripping his wrist away from your face and furthering yourself backward as to give him space. "And I do not know what you request so vehemently from me. "

He stumbles forward and you do your best, with the dishes shifting to one arm, to catch him. The food falls from atop the pile and bounces twice and rolls to your feet as the dishes and cutlery clatter to the ground. Displeased sounds pass your lips.

"You need not worry for the plates. " He slurs, unbothered by the loud crash nor the glass crunching under his feet.

It's an awkward position; his arm locked around your neck, pulled up toward him and stumbling as if to drag you along as well. He can hardly support his own weight yet is unwilling to free himself from this strange embrace.

"My Prince. " You utter in exasperation, your arm curled around his waist. In hopes that he will be steady enough to lean on his own feet, you try to let go. But his grip only tightens. "Allow me to help you to your chambers and I can see you go undisturbed. "

"I don't want to walk. " He sniffs, bringing his face closer to yours. With your hand still wrapped around the crook of his elbow, you lean back. It was a routine situation you've found yourself in, but certainly not a pretty image that anyone would hope to stumble across.

As you lean back, so does he and his dead weight pushes you harshly into the wall. "Y/N, please. " He breathes out dramatically.

Perhaps if you remain quiet, he will tire and slip away just as he did the last dozen times.

He tries to rest his cheek on your chest, eyes growing misty and drooping, but unable to find a comfortable perch because of his drunken inclination to muss and disrupt the space he occupied.

Frustrated, you tap him lightly and try to roll out from under his weight.

He doesn't budge.

"My Prince, you burden upon me too heavily with such unseemly behavior..." And there was more you wished to say, but the burning at your cheeks and across the bridge of your nose has stifled your speech.

"I couldn't care. Less. If I tried. " The Prince mutters.

He adjusts his arm around your neck, a drunken repositioning of limbs, and tugs your head closer to his. Your skulls mingle there in the dark, cold air in the most unspeakable manner.

There is no way, no chance in all the heavens above, that your actions have been even a grain of worthy. And despite the temptation you feel for motion against the foolish, insolent, ridden of capacity to think man before you, you know nothing will come of it other than pain to be regretted for the rest of time, probably.

"You must remove yourself from me, My Prince. So that we may return to our respectable places. And not disgrace each other's positions before the palace. "

"Fuck the palace. Fuck my place. " He spits, swaying and throwing his other arm around your neck, pulling himself even closer.

It clicks then, as his body pushes fully against you.

"If you're asking for me to give you relief, My Prince, then there's nothing I can do for you–"

"Y/N. Please. It's getting painful. Please. "

"Is your hand insufficient?"

You swear, if there were light, his skin color would match perfectly with your crimson tunic.

It is such an inappropriate, improper conversation that you would scarcely wish to have. Least of all here. Where anyone could walk by.

"It would...not be the first..." His voice is weak and quiet. You can hardly hear him. "The first time you..." He doesn’t finish, too consumed by his indulgences.

"My Prince. " You reply sharply, though you wished to say so much more. "Your hand is sufficient. This is unspeakable. I have never sought you in such treacherous ways. "

And though you could not see his face, could not read the thoughts that crawled through his foggy, drunk-muddled mind, you could hear his sighs of displeasure. As if he were the one suffering through all this nonsense.

You take his silence as a plea for your goodwill and pry his hands off your neck, leaving him against the wall of the hallway while you crouch to collect the discarded tray and its broken contents.

"If that is all, My Prince, then will you not go to your chambers now?"

He stares up at you in utter defeat. His eyes are wide and vulnerable and uncertain, a stark contrast to the iron-willed royal who had dismissed you without a second glance no less than three moons ago.

He has that look in the irises, those violet pearls, that you recall seeing a handful of times in the other nobles of House Targaryen. A fleeting moment, a window into something far greater and more complex than a single second could reveal. A deeper and darker emotion that stirs within you pity. You believe the color would be similar to what is felt when someone is terribly remorseful, regretting what they said or did in a time that is long past.

"Please do not start crying, My Prince. " You say and the vexation has not left your tone. "You'll have forgotten the conversation within the hour, a tear will do you no good. "

Your tone was harsh, unkind, not quite vicious. But it is curt and strong enough, from a mere servant no less, to strike like a whip to his spirit. He blinks once, and looks away, not a sound leaves his throat as he stiffens, and waits.

And then his lips pull up, he goes rigid, and he sniffs and wipes his nose with the cuff of his blue shirt. And finally, without another word, his eyes well up and the tears burst forth and run down his face like twin waterfalls.

"My Prince. " You whisper. But he's not listening to you. He's red in the face and sobbing uncontrollably. "Stop. Why are you-please stop. "

"I've known it. " He manages out, his voice thick with mucus. "You-dislike me so much. I apologize. " His body is like a loose feather floating in the air and you know that he is soon to make it to the ground if you do not intervene.

It pains you, somewhat, to watch him unravel. It's like observing a bird unable to find its wing. Or the crumbling of a home, a castle that has stood for lifetimes but not strong enough to bear the weight that has piled upon it.

But nevertheless, you are used to such outbursts. Such grand feelings of pity.

You set the tray accompained by shards of glass down on the floor and wipe your hands off with a sigh. Wordlessly you maneuver yourself to the prince's side, scooping him gently with your arms around him and drag him toward the exit.

He whimpers at being jostled, but you suspect it's from surprise rather than true hurt. He doesn't do anything else for a long few seconds until his legs finally unlock and he manages to fumble into a somewhat coherent position beside you.

He is still crying.

"My Prince-" You say, worried, slightly alarmed, as you've heard no noises yet from the people of the palace, but the walls beg to wake them. "Please, I implore you. It would not behoove the both of us if the servants saw you like this. "

He sniffles and sniffles and lets out another trembling sob as his pace lurches a little closer to a stagger rather than a stand. "You didn't even deny it. "

"Deny what, My Prince?"

"That you hate me. "

Your frown deepens.

"My Prince, why would you presume such a thing?"

"You are so cruel. Cold, even. "

"I beg your pardon, My Prince. "

"And I cannot get it out of my head. The idea that..." He trails off and hiccups. You gently guide him away from the banister of the walkway to the stairs, pushing him softly to continue his disheveled wander.

"Shhh, " you say, "keep going, My Prince. "

"Please...can we-please ta–talk. " He stutters out.

You contemplate for a moment as his fingers dig into your arms.

"Yes, My Prince. But your chambers are more befitting this conversation. "

He seems content enough with this, for now, to shut his trap and allow you to escort him down the long, twisting path. You can feel his heart pound through his ribs against your arm. It stirs a deep, familiar, and unnerving feeling in you.

"Almost there, My Prince. "

He mumbles something under his breath, too quickly and too choked-up, to understand. You focus more on the wet sniffle his nose emits afterwards than the actual words that have passed his quivering lips.

As you guide him further in the direction of his chambers, the distance between the both of you stretching even farther, his eyes dim, and his lips curl down, and he releases a long, audible sigh. But there's no tear that follows with it; his sobbing is under control once again, even if just barely.

Thankfully, the chambers aren't as far now, it should take only a few minutes, five at most, to make it there. When you eventually see his door come into view, he stops you abruptly.

You pause momentarily and look back, taking notice of his expression as a troubled frown plagues his normally semi-collected features, giving him a more somber and saggy aura. Something in your chest feels hollowed out as he glares down at the ground, his purple eyes looking incredibly sad.

"Why...Are you forcing me to go in there...? " He mumbles, slightly dazed.

"My Prince, the night is late and all those around have gone to sleep. I am sure you are fatigued by the wine, and that is why your thoughts have become so out of order. "

He allows himself to be dragged closer to the room. You make fleeting eye contact with the knowing knight posed stiffly at Aegons doors before you release him, moving to open the oak yourself.

As he stumbles in, mumbling still under his breath, you turn to walk away but the hand that suddenly comes to snatch at the sleeve of your tunic causes you to take pause.

You glance back towards him, trying to convey a question through your unwavering eyes, but his entire attention is drawn to the floor.

"I am only closing the door, My Prince. " You say simply as the wood slides closed behind you with a loud click.

Silence.

A long silence, followed by a quick gulp, and then, at last. "Don't leave. "

But his eyes are shut, his head cast to the side as he slumps forward, barely managing to stay on his feet, leaning heavily on you for support.

"I won't leave, then. " You say and pat his shoulder sympathetically.

Still silence. Another swallow. "Good. "

"Very well, My Prince. "

You begin pulling him toward the bed; he lets you, swaying and stumbling and rubbing his eyes with his fists. As you maneuver him down onto his comfortable sheets, he lets out a weak giggle.

His eyes flutter open, cheeks rosy red and wet. He blinks twice.

"Goodnight, My Prince, " you say softly.

He is frowning.

You wipe the stray tear tracks off his face, careful not to scratch the delicate, wet skin, before bringing your hand away.

He reaches out and catches the sides of your palm.

His skin is soft and warm and slightly damp. He smiles hesitantly. His eyes slowly come up to meet yours; they're glazed and watery with tears and a deep sense of vulnerability and uncertainty as his lips quiver ever so slightly.

"You hate me, don't you?"

Your eyes close briefly as you sigh. "My Prince, this conversation can wait until you awaken with a clear mind. "

"But you hate me, " he accuses. "How can I let it be...if you hate me?" He grits through his teeth.

You remove your fingers from his, stroking his jaw instead, comfortingly. "I could never hate you, My Prince. " You say it, but it is only pleasantries and both of you know that.

"Please answer me. Please...don't..." His cheeks are wet again, fresh new lines of salty tears streaking down his red face and dripping into his collar. Your thumb catches one, halting its miserable descent.

"I must protest, " you say smoothly. "You will awaken without any recollection, any trace, any hint that I existed. We will both forget this conversation, as so much of our time has been forgotten. And my feelings will return to nothing of note, My Prince. "

"Please don't. " He shakes his head and scrunches his face, pouting. His cheeks flare darker with his pathetic frustration. "You can't...Can't tell me these things and-"

He hiccups.

You lay the hand on his cheek, tenderly, letting his face lean into it.

"Can't it just be that?" You ask him in a whisper.

He's nodding fervently, his legs quivering a little, still in a woozy state of mind; the warmth is radiating off his pale, drunk skin in strong, overwhelming waves and you bask in it while you're able. He hums after a few seconds.

"Y/N, please come closer. Please. " He pleads, quietly, urgently, his entire being seeming almost distraught at the request.

It is so hard, and yet somehow so easy, to deny him the thing he wants the most right now.

"What, My Prince?"

He doesn't speak or move.

"Will you try to kiss me again?" You wonder.

At your words, his breath hitches and he parts his lips. Though, if the flicker of violet within his gaze reveals anything, it is more a case of an impelling reluctance. His eyes dart away, anywhere else in the chamber.

"Would you permit me a kiss?"

You do not answer, and his whole body stiffens, his hand slipping to encircle your wrist. The grip itself is too tight to be truly pleasant, an unhappy emotion he can't quite reign in completely.

You think, to yourself, that it would be no use to try to speak reason to him now, even if you wanted to. It would fall upon his wine-heavy ears and make little sense.

You wrap your free hand against his back, feeling the subtle movement of muscles and the bone of his spine. His hair is soft and frizzy and nearly glossy when the two of you reach an emotional equilibrium with one another. You hold onto him, breathing slowly in tune with him, savoring the rise and fall of his chest under your touch.

Your heart beats in perfect unison with his, echoing his every breath and shiver. He's a heavy weight on your leg where he has apparently found rest, your clothes rustling against his equally silken shirt.

His arm, heavy with sleep and wine, hangs at his side as you quietly push the sleeve of your tunic over his shoulder, pressing your mouth against his forehead.

In moments, the air is silent and there is no sound except the soft breathing of the two of you. You withdraw your lips and look at him with the same, unabashed expression you always carry when he begs like this.

"A kiss for bedtime, if you'd like one. I doubt any more will stir a useful reaction from you. " You comment, amused, as the back of his skull falls against his pillows.

"Please. One more. " He requests weakly, sloppily pulling himself up against your side to meet your daunting gaze. His grip on your wrist eases a bit but it doesn't let go, nor do his eyes and only do they close briefly for a small but content sigh.

"No, I don't think so. You are beyond exhausted and drunken. A proper rest will do you well. I am not your mother, I will not sing you a song and rub your belly. " You laugh at his pout. "Though, you'd probably like that, My Prince. "

"Perhaps, if it's from you. " He stutters out a second too late.

He pushes against your wrist, and it is such a smooth, deliberate movement that you are thoroughly thrown off guard. His eyes flutter half open, a sliver of dark purple and a dash of white. His sclera, despite their usual pinkness, shine somehow brighter in the cold moonlight.

"One more. " He says. "A goodnight kiss. You're not leaving after just this. "

And how could you deny him what he was asking for? He still looked so fragile. So torn, not apart but not together, either.

He was waiting expectantly for your next move.

You press forward and push your lips to his, very gently, sliding your arm free of his grasp so that you can hold his face. His nose is cool and blunt where it presses into your cheek.

And before you can taste the strange mixture of his drink and his supper on your tongue, he pulls back and swoons.

Just before his body collapses back onto the mattress, though, you manage to nudge him with both hands. He goes willingly, letting you rearrange him onto his bed, the beddings around him, and covering him with a blanket or two.

He hums softly, smacking his lips as he gets comfortable, eyes already shut.

"Please close the curtains before you leave, Y/N. I sleep...better in the dark." He sighs out the last few words, exhaling loudly, like a long, relieved breath he'd been holding in for years.

"You ought to rest now, before you sober up and get me whipped. "

"Do not fret. " He whispers. "For you will always have a place at my side. " He lets out a puff of amusement.

"I thought I was cruel. Cold. Not fond of you in the slightest. "

"You had a..mo..men...tary lapse of poor judgment. " He says with a bit of struggle but he gets it out, nonetheless.

"Mmm. Rest now, My Prince. Your whims will be satiated tomorrow. "

He reaches out, an arm trying to cross the expanse between the two of you. An invitation, but you've never taken it, never dare to lie beneath the silk sheets beside him.

You pull away.

He lets his arm drop.

"Aegon. " He mumbles out to you.

It stops you in your tracks. Your expression smoothes. "...What did you say?"

"Aegon. You haven't called me that...long time. " His murmur is barely a coherent sentence.

You stare at him for a moment, a light sigh of resignation escaping you.

"Goodnight, Aegon. "

He watches you stride across the carpet with barely open eyes.

"Goodnight. " His voice goes soft and sweet. The mirth in it is quiet but genuine.

A smile washes away the frown he wears most days, and his eyes snap shut as soon as his head falls completely to the mattress.

Like a light being extinguished.

He'll awake just fine.

As will you.

Your duty to the family awaits, as does his.

[scentedpepper]

Indignity

THEON GREJOY X GN! READER

Synopsis: Your reunion with Theon is violent with sorrow.

Content Warnings: detailed desc. of wounds/scars, detailed desc. of inhumane treatment & effects, deeply traumatized theon, ptsd, ramsay bolton

Other Pairings: Robb Stark x GN! Reader, Robb Stark x Theon Greyjoy, Lady Catelyn & Lord Stark mentioned, Yara mentioned

AUTHOR NOTE(S):

Poorly edited, will return later

Some pretty graphic descriptions here so, pace yourself

Angst to comfort to more angst to more comfort?

Theons an emotional wreck, but so are you

_________________________________________

Dying in bed had to be one of the most luxurious ways a man could leave the world. The soft silk comfort against your body, a pillow so warm that your own bed could never hope to offer.

Dying, like you imagined Theon might if you ever let bastard Ramsay Snow capture him again, had to be ways away from anything one could consider luxury. For Theon, it would be in a cold cell of the Dreadfort, manacles keeping his malnourished hands together and biting into his wrists with every fruitless pull the man tried in his delirious, fever ridden thoughts.

Or something akin to that.

Snip.

It sounded harsher than the last and another dirtied curl fell to floor, this particular strand was so full of filth it'd turned as black as the leather boots that rested over the same patch of wood and which would never cease to remind you of the first time you met Theon.

How you'd ended up here. It was something you're sure he would question with time. After all, you were presumed dead.

Snip.

Even harsher, and this time you realized, Theon seemed to be breathing more rapidly than when you first began the process. Whether in nervousness over what could happen, the action itself, or having someone behind him in any circumstance, you were uncertain.

What you were certain of was how harsh the skin along his scalp and neck felt under your touch, calloused fingertips gently pushing him forward or turning his head side to side as you did your work. If Theon were a young child, surely you'd find amusement in trying to smooth his unruly hair flat, much to the protests of his attempts to wiggle away.

But Theon was not a child and this was certainly not a time for amusement.

He smelt worse than the slave quarters you slept in as a kid, a mixture of pungent body odors and the unwashed sheets and pillows that were usually laced about them. You wondered how Ramsay never seemed to notice the scent or how no one had suggested they bathe him before that point.

You supposed that was part of it though.

Snip.

Louder still and you swore even you felt the heat that Theon's flushed skin emanated at this point, cheeks appearing to bulge with the amount of effort it took for him not to let out a yelp of fear.

You noticed his twitching.

It was subtle, only for a moment before he recognized it in himself and was quick to steady his hands against his lap, fingers curling together as if locked in a prayer. You wondered if he even knew he was praying, if he recalled even an ounce of what Lady and Lord Stark had taught him all that time ago when he lived behind the walls that were supposed to feel more like home than anywhere else.

Like you?

Who were you kidding?

Snip.

"Theon, are you well?"

You had to ask because now he was beginning to quiver all over, faint gulps audible in the otherwise silent room. The wetness of his eyes was visible when you looked over his shoulder, locking your gaze on him as you forced a smile through the worry you felt tugging inside of you.

Gods, you'd almost completely forgotten the effect even the scissors in your hand could have on the man.

You set them down harsher than intended, and you watched as the man jumped, suppressing something beneath his next breath as his mouth clamped shut, jaw taught enough to make an artist jealous.

"Theon..." You started softly, softer than any other movements you had made. Softer than the way you'd heard his sister yell at him in the night as if any of it were his fault. Softer than anything he had heard in a while.

"Theon." More solid this time as you moved to kneel in front of him, not an order but an allowance. You wanted to pull him close, grip his wrists and pry his hands apart until he was as physically open as he ought to have been by now, telling you everything with his words instead of his eyes or a nervous shaking.

And yet —still he squirmed.

It was all he could do before you placed your hands on his face, thumbs and index fingers curled under his chin as you tugged until you were met eye to eye, his frantic search for an escape, of acceptance, of anything —halted by a lock of focus only you could provide.

"It's alright." You told the man, and you found it was the only thing you could get out before you had to stifle your own woes. The sight of the prince of pyke, always one step ahead in self-proclaimed confidence and suaveness, was now the nervous ghost of the boy you'd encountered countless years ago.

Theon seemed to have the opposite problem to you though, unable to break out of your hold, chest pushing forward in erratic breaths.

"It's alright, Theon. I am not going to hurt you." You insisted, firm against the wavering tremor of his body and hands as he still tried to flee.

You could feel him giving in however, the tears becoming visible as your thumbs continued to work against the delicate skin of his cheeks, the warmth both comforting and worrying in equal parts to you.

"Theon Greyjoy..." You were caught in a loss, holding the Ironborn in your palms like the child you recall he once was, the broken shell of what he should have become as a man. Something now damaged beyond repair that seemed more real than ever before in this moment.

His eyes held a sorrow to them you could not comprehend, not even under the moonlight that shed it's truth. A truth so frightening that Theon, a man with skin much like that of leather, with muscle to match, was seemingly nothing more than a single gust of wind away from crumbling into a pile of bones right here and now.

"Reek." The name escaped his lips, red and lively they might have seemed years earlier but with starvation and a lack of treatment, had become thin and chapped, a bloody sore present right beneath them on the left side.

"That is not your name." You immediately demanded, harsher than before as you caught his head again, moving him to tilt upwards, to stare at you with something in his eyes beyond what he presented of himself.

"You are not that man anymore. You do not have to be. "

You moved closer, forehead pressed against his to share the same breaths that managed to come out like half gasps. You could not help but stare down at the tears streaming off his face, hands wet with those spilled and dried from before.

"You are Theon, son of Balon, son of Pyke, Prince of the Iron Islands. I do not know what he did to you, but by the Old Gods and the New, he will not do it to you ever again."

Theon could not look at you in this moment, head nestled slightly to the left. You thought he might be recalling memories, running his mind over everything you'd ever been through together. The day Lady Stark took you in as a servant, helping Robb in his training all the days since.

And there you were, here, now, together.

You hoped he was anyway.

Something came to mind then, he'd done so much in terms of his own struggles. Had suffered beyond anything you could imagine at the hands of someone who had looked you in the eye, took your hand in his, shared things of humor with you when the situation called and had tried to claim the loyalty of you even after you had fled his service.

He'd conquered Winterfell in his own way, but with Ramsay? The damage was plain to see, like the cracked shell of an egg that had seen too much heartbreak. The liquid within? To leave or enter with his own consent was near impossible.

Maybe you were thinking too much into it, but as you held him in place, all you could hope is that this would bring him a step closer to reclaiming who he once was.

"Look at me, Theon. "

Gentle once more as the man was prone to lashing out –or rather flinching back in fear. You rubbed soft, prodding circles along his cheeks with the pads of your thumbs, trying to give him something akin to a peaceful smile as you saw his teary eyes open once more.

Gods, he looked so wrecked.

"All my hair..." He breathed, pained, hoarse, looking from where it scattered to the floor to your thighs, or was it your left forearm you noticed him stare at?

You weren't sure you'd ever get used to his voice.

"Don't worry, Theon." You said gently, using his real name as often as you could now. A name was an important thing. This man had enough stolen from him. Least you could offer him was the honor of what he was born with. "It'll return."

You'd never been a barber surgeon. A slave made servant made occasional sword weaver is never offered such luxuries. And yet, that didn't seem to matter to him. Though the sensation may have been overloading, Theon sat there silently.

And you rubbed your hands, albeit gently, against the newly groomed haircut he sported in the back of the room the two of you sat in. Fires lined the walls, and flickering shadows danced through the dimly lit candle splay overhead, keeping things subdued.

You did not want to startle him, so you stayed like this until he decided he was ready.

"Do you like it?" You asked softly.

A slight nod, accompanied by a curious sound. You wanted to smile but it was dark and he had always found expression difficult, so you settled with letting him lead for now.

His hand reached up, slower than you were aware someone would dare be, gingerly drawing a palm over his head, stopping to move down the back of his skull.

It was... Soft. That was what he told you, more so than the dirty, matted monstrosity you had seen him enter you room with. No pain, no flinching, just a plain acknowledgment that was both foreign and relieving to him.

"I did my best." You replied softly, still holding him by the shoulder as his hand clutched onto your forearm, the grip nervous and tightening on occasion. You were careful not to hold him too roughly, Theon was breakable and vulnerable and needed time, something you were there to offer him.

"It is bearable then?" You pushed gently, tilting his chin up once more, not quite able to hide the relief of seeing him smile, even if it was weak and struggling, it was a smile. He would thank you in a few moments after the initial shock faded. When he realized that he was already beginning to breathe somewhat normally again.

This was another one of those rare moments that reminded you both just how close the two of you had once been in years long past.

Back when Winterfell was bustling with activity, fires left unattended through the night and a little mischief along the inner walls and battlements as you enjoyed youth together.

Well, that was when you and Robb Stark were not off trying to best eachother in daily squabbles, swords gleaming in the glimmer of moonlight as Lady Catelyn would chase the two of you all about the place... When Theon would pull his own tricks, which were always followed through with childish roars of laughter.

Those had always felt like good times and the world had seemed bigger.

And now, none of your childhood remained, just Theon and the husk of your once overconfident and arrogant friend.

"Thank you."

You froze, mind whirling into a gear. Blinking yourself back into the present time, you realized he was tugging at your sleeve, eyes wide. For a moment, it looked as if you had plunged your hand into his chest, clutching at his beating heart.

How cruel of him to say.

To thank.

He'd expressed this same gratitude to you a handful of times now, and each time did as much damage to you as his broken body, lost hair and the various wounds that were inflicted into him.

"Do not thank me." You said it each time in the same breath you found the air to survive in.

Though you could tell it sounded like nothing but a gentle scold to the fragile boy in front of you, the words were anything but. You found yourself angry, tears forming at the corners of your eyes and heat swelling your chest.

You brushed your hand through his hair to hide the quiver in your breath as it hitched, other set of fingers tugging him close in a momentary display of how it ought to feel. Theon ought to have family and loved ones around him right now, supporting him, but you knew he'd thrown it all away for a conquest that had landed him here. And you swore that if he had come to you in any other form, you would have punched him straight in the face for his loss.

"Thank you," Theon uttered weakly, shakily. "For letting me stay here with you. For, for treating me the way you do..."

Stop.

You stilled in your actions, unable to continue without the risk of sobbing, choking him until he turned purple by gripping his collar too tightly, pressing him too hard against the warmth of your chest or slamming his face down into the floor in a less kind style.

Instead, you simply leaned in until your arms tightened around his shoulders, enveloping his entire body into your own.

"You do not have thank me. None of this is your fault."

But as you took the time to calm your own nerves, all you could do was listen.

There was a moment of silence then, when he stopped breathing, when he no longer resisted and relaxed somewhat.

It had almost sounded like it was the first time in his life he'd felt... comfort. That perhaps the tenderness was the very opposite of pain and even as you brushed the longer strands of his hair that you hadnt quite got to yet, unclean of all the grime and filth throughout the days, you wondered how he had not melted against you then.

The man heaved.

This time, you could hear the sobs before he jerked against you, limbs pushing into your shirt and soaking the hem in salty tears, trembling hands trying their best to cling to you like a child might it's mother.

It made you want to heave yourself, sob until you could no longer breathe.

You brushed your thumb against his cheeks with intent, catching tears and smearing the dirty tracks they'd made, wanting the image of his face scrubbed from your mind until you saw only the beautiful man you'd left him as.

"It's okay," you urged, lips pressing into the soft flesh of his temple, sliding down his face to follow the path made by tears.

"It's okay, you're alright. You're safe. It's alright."

And Theon breathed out, like his lungs were collapsing, deflating until he was resting his full weight on you.

Theon had always been smaller than you but right now he was so unbelievably fragile it was enough to make you want to wrap him in bandages and carry him away in a blanket or something if it meant stopping anyone else from ever seeing him break.

"We are going to get through this." You found the strength within you to vow then, never being as sure of a statement that had felt too weak when it was not accompanied by the deep throaty yells in a familiar voice.

You wondered if he even knew what he did to you in that moment.

"I will never let anyone harm you again. " You swore. "You have my word, I am here for you. Until the end of time. "

He nodded into your shoulder then, as if finally hearing the meaning of the words. Burying himself in as close as he could, it was then you realized you felt a firm hand clutching at the small of your back, almost tugging you towards him.

So it was your turn to hug him now, you thought lightly in contrast.

You had more to say, so many words and yet you were unsure of how he'd interpret them. Sometimes telling him he wasn't some filthy pet was easier than doing what was now your own desperate cling onto him.

Maybe it was because he looked like that with his tattered clothes, flimsy and so very breakable.

Maybe it was because in those instances you couldn't understand why in the seven hells anyone would be cruel enough to him in the first place.

Or maybe, your heart clenched then, Theon looked at you like you held his entire fucking universe in the palm of your hand.

You swallowed tightly as he let his head rest there, breaths having returned to normal, his shoulders moving with them as the two of you sat here and he settled again, the warmth of your neck radiating to his head.

"Lets get you cleaned up so you can sleep well tonight. "

You know it must've been a foreign sentence, and the way Theon looked at you, you were sure that fact was true. You watched as he parted from you again after a long few moments, and even he found himself shivering when he did so.

He nodded then, blinking a few times before gazing away, looking at the walls.

"Okay. "

You hesitated.

Theon trembled in his seat, struggling to sit still at you maneuvered his dirty clothing aside, the scissors clasped tight in your fingers as you started to snip away at what remnants of his hair still lingered.

You could feel him twitch and squirm underneath your gentle hold, even as you promised him you would not be doing the same as before, which had consisted of a lot more loudness.

"Relax..." You told him, waiting patiently for him to still in your hold again, but the thing with relaxation is that it takes time. His breath was picking up again as you removed the last layer, to reveal the various scars, of all different shapes and sizes along his body, back, stomach, as far as the eye could see.

Some more red than others, his shoulder displaying more pink scars as compared to the more prominent discolouration of one you didn't recognize before on his ankle. The more you stared the longer it seemed until you let out a hard breath, not realizing you were leaning rather close to the skin.

"Sorry. "

All you said and his eyes moved to meet yours again, finding an unusual trust in you, staring with the depths of his eyes, as deep as the sea.

"Can you remove your trousers? I'm off to fetch you new clothes but I shall return shortly. "

Theon froze at the request, nervous again and shifting to an uncomfortable air. That look of nervous anxiety returned.

"Does, does the bath.." He mumbled, trailing off immediately.

If he weren't such a frightened mess right now, you're sure Theon would've looked so, so stupid with the way he floundered. As was your resistance, the urge to tell him that there was absolutely nothing for him to fear and the least of that is a bath, lest he faint.

The gods willing you did not want to keep forcing him on though.

And he could not even blame you this time either, the stench coming off him was appalling.

Yet, he shifted, continously hesitant, wincing ever so often as if he'd been grabbed suddenly in some way and his entire back knotted in pain, tension holding him as he started to tense, fists balling into his knees in determination to say something.

"Theon.." You couldn't find the words to speak, as silent and as stuck as Theon as your eyebrows dipped in the middle and furrowed together at the top.

You had been told you had quite the expressive eyes, and you couldn't say you didn't believe it. What else would explain the small sound he let out as you blinked away your grief?

You did not want to believe the rumors had been correct.

Again, he shook and tensed.

He winced, shaking his head as his lips parted in pain. It was too soon.

"I can't. "

That was all the confirmation you had needed.

"It's okay. We will save it for another day. Remain in your small clothes for now, if it better suits you. "

The relief he breathed resigstered a tiny sound in his chest as he stared at you standing near the frame of the door, peering over with an unimaginable tenderness as you offered the familiarity of sight between the two of you. His bare chest was facing towards you, head turned halfway, giving you sidelong glimpse of his face before hiding himself all over again.

You couldn't hold back the frown this time, finding it to be far worse than you had been able to imagine on your own.

His shoulders were rounded downward, arms tucked in close by his sides, hands turned inwards to cross over his stomach like he had to keep himself from you and your worryingly intense gaze, trying to keep from shaking at the mere thought of letting anyone lay hands on him or touch him in even the smallest quantity.

You wondered if that was perhaps too oversimplified, how he'd reacted in times past with Ramsay and how helpless he probably felt on a daily occurrence.

"I'll fetch you some dry garments. "

And though Theon did not say anything in return, you know for certain he understood your tone as the creaking wooden door latched closed, the momentary relief washing through the man instantaneous. As if a brick had left his shoulders and the flood of pain exited with the crash back into reality.

You were already pulling out different clothing sets then. Ones of which could last him a number of days without seeming any need for unnecessary changing.

When you returned he had already situated himself in the warm, soothing waters of the bath, lying against the side of it with a deep seated exhaustion that was sure to hinder him in some way or another the next morning.

Pushing your way through the heat of the room, you placed the neatly folded clothing down onto the ledge by the edge and moved over, resting your arms near his own, both of which were folded and shielding part of his naked face.

He startled then, having not quite noticed your presence beside him, so you brushed aside strands of hair, humming softly.

"Your towel is here, too. " You told him, voice quiet.

He gave a meek little nod, still looking rather like a mangy pup.

You gave him a rub on the shoulder as you begin to move away from him again, feeling the thick bumps of scars brushing under your gentle touch, an ache so deep running through you that it had seemed to freeze your breath solid in your throat. But by then, he'd already squeezed his eyes shut, forehead scrunching for a second as he took his time breathing, mouth still locked from the tense expression.

Every one of your senses felt strung tightly, fingers squeezing at the air between you and that still too-tense body in front of you.

Your fingers hesitated to delatch from him, but you eventually brought yourself to.

"Very well then, I'll be back with... with food in a little bit. "

Theon let out a little noise this time, one which you doubt was meant to make the sound it made. And when he felt your hands move away from him once again he lunged out, eyes and mouth agape with a pitiful cry.

"Wait!" He sounded angry, desperate as his fingers tightened. "Don't leave me alone again. I-I need a moment. "

With the hold he had on your clothes he almost jerked you into the tub. Except, as much weight as he might have once possessed, none remained there now.

You gaped at him for a moment, at a loss for words.

Was the day to reveal just how guilty he made you feel here after all, you wondered silently.

For there was no denying what you had become to him or he to you, especially here and now.

"Do not fret. " You said gently, kneeling until both your knees were on the ground and Theon now had the opportunity to look down at you.

Even those eyes were wide and afraid, shimmering with uncertainty.

"I will stay here as long as you'd like. "

He shivered for a moment, though neither of you really knew if it had been at your words or not, his muscles tensing before he finally released his grasp on you, body relaxing the slightest it could.

When your hand reached for the untouched sponge, his eyes darted over at the momentary loss of touch, to ensure you were still there, and his hand lingered before returning to the heat of the water, fingertips drawing whirls within the ripples.

You swallowed, glancing over to see if he would give any objection, the cloth already full of suds from the soap you'd dumped into the water earlier. And as you look at the scarred skin around his neck and head, the broken veins of blood beneath, you shivered.

"Will this be okay?" Your breath wafted against his neck and the water from the sponge dripped down your fingers and ran to your elbow, the warmth of it almost stinging before you became adjusted to its touch.

He opened his eyes then, not even aware they were closed, and hummed.

"Yes. Please. "

Hearing the approval, you placed the sponge on his shoulder, dripping little white bubbles and beads of soap down his skin as you took note of his visible tensing again, legs still crossed at the knees as the water sloshed.

Only after you started scrubbing did he let himself loosen, breathing so steadily you almost found yourself doing the same in unison. But at that time, you were too focused on him. Giving his face the occasional glance to make sure he was okay.

On instinct, he drew his shoulders back, clenching his teeth in anticipation for your touch on his arms before releasing. His eyes are lowered, half-closed, and it was difficult to tell if he was nodding off.

"Theon, tell me if you find discomfort in this. It's important. "

He nodded briefly and hummed again.

"Okay. "

You moved from his arm back to his shoulder, moving upwards to the tenderness of his neck where his face turns his head away from you, and you brush the hairs aside to continue, trying your best to give him some relief as you washed behind his ears, in every crevice that he would allow.

You had to change the water twice before you could began at his hair.

By the time you reach the base of his neck for the second time, he has his eyes nearly shut, hair drenched as your fingers rub soothingly across his scalp with soap, massaging tenderly and applying just the right pressure, you want to see for yourself that you can in fact turn the corners of his lips upwards and leave them there.

"There. "

His skin was clean of any dried grease, blood, sweat, tears, any proof that he had spent a time too long so untrusted and ironically dependent that his own body felt alien to him. And the soap you'd used had worked to his own scent and filled the room with a unique aroma so that even your own lips drew upwards as you sat there with him.

His hair looked beautiful, almost reminiscent of who he once had been and would be someday again. Your chest tightened with love and adoration so passionate it kept the room tinted ever so faintly.

His head snapped up, finally back to consciousness now, although whether he had been falling asleep in the beginning, he did not quite remember.

You're not sure which were wetter anymore, his eyes or the towel used to dry him off.

He inhaled deeply as you stepped back, now in the shirt you had brought him, his voice coming from deep within him as he spoke his thanks to you.

Sputtering slightly, he was immediately all too eager to tell you everything that was on his mind, most of which you found no difficulty in attempting to listen to.

"Ah, gods...I, It feels so..."

And as his expression grew distant he lost himself in thought, likely already soaking in the hot waters yet again as if he couldn't believe he had the privilege of ever doing something like that in the first place.

Your eyes gleamed, so glad to see the spark of life in his once more.

When you led him to his bedroom his eyes were faraway as he stared between the ground and the matress before falling into the sheets with a gasp. The realization that this was finally happening and he could finally sleep returned to him suddenly and all at once.

Albeit a bit sooner than you had anticipated, one could not forget to indulge him as was meant before bedtime, though if anything it only seemed to keep him excited longer.

"What would you like me to get for you?"

His eyes snapped over to yours, so dark despite their color, begging you to close the space between the two of you on the bed and as he gazed at you sitting on the end, he swore his breath had left his lungs all over again.

"Are you hungry?"

You prompted again when it became obvious he had no real intentions of answering. It seemed to break whatever trance the man had been under because his tongue left the roof of his mouth as he swallowed and gave another little nod.

"I shall fetch you some leftovers then. "

Before you could stand, he grabbed your wrist, fingers holding with a gentleness he hadn't held in years and nor did you want to let go of, his grip merely tugging you in place.

As your heart jolted in your chest, so did his—fearful, hopeful. Both too scared to act.

So you hesitantly put your own hand atop his, drawing forth your other and pushing gently.

"I shall retun shortly. "

Another nod of reassurance followed and if that was enough to silence him for the moment, you did not mind.

In the kitchen you found some fruit had been left on the counter by Yara so you plucked it and begin to heat a simple meal atop the small fireplace, allowing it to simmer as you left to find some other assortment of delicious meats and grains to provide your prince with, or even a serving of oatmeal if not, so that his meal could be as filling as it possibly could.

When you return though, tray in hand as you stepped lightly up the stairs, you find that Theon has fallen to sleep. In his arms he holds tightly onto a nearby pillow, fingers digging and wrapped into the fabric with the bedding ruffled a little bit, a pang of fondness rushing through you at the sight of it.

It all seemed so absurd, even in the beginning of your days a servant.

You placed the tray atop the dresser, approaching his side once again, finding he had hardly shifted or moved the entire time you'd gone, though you weren't exactly expecting him to.

Your fingers, you remember, must have been icy cold as you reach a hand to brush against him, pushing his hair aside.

Theon awakens at the slight movement, still so nervous, and now with a certain drowsiness coating him, you pressed your lips together as his face scrunched and the corners of his eyes seemed to twitch with an anxious tension.

"Apologies. " You pulled your hand away at once. "I did not mean to disturb you. "

He shook his head, seemingly wanting to raise his hand before remembering where he was.

"No. I don't mind. " He croaked out, voice hoarse and raw with all his unanswered yearnings.

You looked at him curiously.

"Are you weary? I have dinner prepared for you. "

He smiled, something soft in his expression, breath catching in his throat as his head sunk back into the pillow, not quite comprehending why in the seven hell's his chest had started to burn.

You quickly filled the space.

"Would you like it now?"

He shook his head at you, feeling his face heat and flush slightly as you pushed his hair to the side again, thumb brushing his skin, still so soft and undeniably kind, the touch alone triggering some previously unknown memory to emerge inside of him.

"Later then. " You reaffirmed, giving his hair a little pat as the bed creaked beneath your shifting body, the matress now taking to the weight of you after having sat empty for so long. It wasn't exactly comfortable and not that large and not made for a pair of two, much less for a Queen or King of which had their own personal servants and attendants, but for Theon, you had made do.

He seemed to sense it too, tense a bit, though when you glanced over at him, his mouth was nearly agape as he stared at you, eyes shimmering.

His eyebrows did that strange sort of dip, eyes drawing smaller as his face morphed into something of uneasiness, lips parted but mouth shut completely as he inhaled a gentle breath and blew air outwards.

You blinked just as gently at him and it took only that for him to reach to you again, fingers trembling on your wrist.

He tried to swallow then, lips parting, before closing, a question already at the edge of his lips though he'd never ask, for it seemed the world was too cruel, even with his Lord Sister and closest companion so near him and within grasp of his own self.

With a slow motion, you turned your body closer, reaching to clasp his shaking wrist. The blankets were warm and still smelled faintly of fresh rainwater, having been cleanened prior to the Prince's arrival. And as the wind continued to howl against the shutters, you thought it was better to take extra blankets.

"Theon, what do you need?"

"Will- I just want to-" He trailed off abruptly, not knowing the words to use or what to even say at the very beginning.

And though you tried your best to hide it, the pity of your expression was never lost from view. And that sight set him off into a silent sob as his eyes watered in disgust and he turned his face into the sheets and had to be torn away from the dampened material or risk fusing to it altogether, face stained and hidden as you tried to push his hands away from him.

His whimpers grow more frequent and you frown, pulling him closer to rest on your chest, or well, the best he could. You could feel his entire body going through tremors as he breathes and nuzzled his face against you.

"Theon, please. Tell me how I can assist you. "

It takes a moment, with his fists squeezing hard and nose all wrinkled up before the dam finally bursts entirely open and floods his eyes with tears, mouth open as he gasps for air.

He was hiccuping before you could begin to address what it was that had upset him so much and just as you wrapped him in your arms, he seemed to shatter entirely, the turmoil evident. A wail clawed its way through his chest, overshadowing any sound that he had made before, until he finally started blubbering a string of unintelligible nonsense through those sobs.

"Shh, shh. I'm here. " Your fingers were almost immediately threading through the wet tangles of his scalp, allowing him to take his time to sob and cry and all that in between. "I've got you."

You repeated the soft shushing continously, soothingly along his ear, making slow strokes down his spine. The tears had begun to dampen your shirt and as best you could, you drew his quivering form tightly to you.

You held him like this until he quieted, at which point his eyes had already grown red and puffy, and you wondered absently if it was even worth trying to get him to eat now, as he still leaned over your shoulders so painfully, his breathing almost as broken as his mind, so afraid as he hiccuped in place of a lively heart beat.

You held him like this until his chest gained a rhythm no longer akin to a child frightened of shadows outside their bed, and whenever you met his gaze, as if only for a few precious second, the brokenness his eyes bore was enough to pull tears from you when he looked away, laying his head to rest.

You held him like this until his body temperature dropped and the quietest of snores elicited from his scarred face, and even as the stars and moon moved and the sun replaced them once more did you hold him there in your embrace.

You held him like this until you too fell to sleep, breaths mingling in comfort and a scent so soft and lulling with its beauty and simplicity.

[scentedpepper]

Of Crowns and Chains

TIMELINE

The One Eyed Noble

Chapter Number: 0-1

Date: The Night Before the Morning of S1E8 “The Lord of the Tides” HOTD — 130 AC

PRINCE AEMOND TARGARYEN STRUGGLES TO FIND SOLACE IN THE NIGHT. HIS BLANK EYE SOCKET SEARS HIS SOUL WITH SOMETHING MORE THAN JUST PAIN–VENGEANCE.

Coming Soon...

[scentedpepper]

Of Crowns and Chains

SUBLIST

DISCLAIMER + IMPORTANT INFO

TIMLINE

CHAPTER 0-1. The One Eyed Noble

Chapter 1-1. The Servant Without [under revision]

Chapter 1-2. Winter's Touch

[scentedpepper]

OF CROWNS AND CHAINS

WORDS FROM THE AUTHOR

DISCLAIMER:

I do not own the plot of House of the Dragon, nor do I own the characters or their plots. House of the Dragon is an original fictional work by George R.R. Martin, alongside others and is the prequel to the tv series Game of Thrones based on the book series also written by George R.R. Martin. Of Crowns and Chains is a fanfiction inspired by the House of the Dragon and Game of Thrones series. I own Emirk Starkfrost, Talia, and other original characters that have otherwise not been seen within these series. I own Emriks' plot. However, I do not own certain aspects of his plot, for instance, his birthplace, The North. I own the plot of Emrik Starkfrost and Aemond Targaryens relationship, but I do not own Aemond Targaryen or the plot points of House of the Dragon. Similarities are purely coincidental, and all rightful owners retain the ability to claim rightful ownership.

IMPORTANT NOTES BEFORE YOU READ:

-Fanfiction is an interpretation of original work, so naturally, these elements of interpretation will bleed into the canon aspects of the given world. Nonetheless, I try to maintain as many realistic traits within these characters I’m illustrating interacting with my original and inserted characters as possible. I’ve taken the liberty of psychoanalyzing a few of these characters with the scenes and knowledge we have; however, my understanding, and my interpretation, may differ from yours. Interpretation after all, is subjective—and despite my want for canon traits, I still have displayed key characters in a way that is attuned to my plot, my characters, and my desires.

-Among these differences, for the purpose of building a plot, main events within the House of the Dragon plot have been pushed to different dates or altered to maintain coherency (nothing dramatic). The following is a brief timeline of my plot and the particular episode my events would realistically (due to limited time in one day) occur in. This does not necessarily mean that the events of House of the Dragon will happen within that corresponding chapter. (Tiemline will be updated as chapters are released.)

-To my knowledge, at least for the show (which Of Crowns and Chains is based in), Aemond Targaryen, among others, does not have a confirmed age. I have seen many debate and the most common range is 16-20. I decided on a middle ground of 18 that aligns with my plot.

-Because of this uncertainty surrounding a potential minors age, there will be no explicit sexual scenes however, there will be implicit sexual or suggestively explicit themes/scenes between Aemond and Emrik. As well as general mature themes. Content warnings will be placed before each chapter when necessary.

[scentedpepper]

Of Crowns and Chains

AEMOND TARGARYEN X MALE SERVANT OC!

Masterlist

Synopsis: Prince Aemond Targaryen struggles to find solace in the night. His blank eyesocket sears his soul with something more than just pain–vengeance.

CONTENT WARNINGS: Desc. of wounds & effects

Date: The Night Before the Morning of S1E8 “The Lord of the Tides” HOTD — 130 AC

Author Notes: :p

Chapter 0-1. The One Eyed Noble

There are days in which Aemond Targaryen’s skull pounds like the beat of a drum, a sort of tribute to the lost eye, a celebration to the opulent sapphire in its place and rhythm of remembrance for the scar such a vicious dagger left behind.

Aemond, in all his years with a measly placeholder inside his socket, cannot see it like this.

The underside of his skin chars true, unadulterated black on those nights, the nights his blood runs hot because he cannot find sleep when the edges of his cracked skin nip at him, flared and biting, relentless in the ice cold shiver it leaves along his spine.

10 years. He’ll curse the world until it explodes with his vengeance. 10 years and he cannot find solace even in his own bed.

His stomach will churn with nausea as pins stick to his brain and he is branded, again and again. For hours. Turning. Spinning. Twisting. Gripping the sheets with sweaty hands. All in the name of Lucerys Velaryon.

Like many nights prior, Aemond does not ever find sleep.

He always knows when it will happen. When his body will wither with agony and splinter in dread. Where his snow white hair will splay across the dark crimson of bedding as his skin melts onto his own bones and his fingertips surge with electricity until they grow numb. How his heart seeks to purge itself, ached with evanescent collections of his polluted childhood. Who is he? And why he feels such grievances, he does not know; but oh, how he will seek to kill it until his lungs take their last breath.

Tonight, however, he soaks and drips.

Lying in nothing.

Amounting to nothing.