In my fic, I’m putting Alys in. Aemond x Reader. Aemond & Reader will be separated at some point when he goes to Harrenhal. Aemond thinks Reader is dead. Also, Reader & Aemond will be reunited & Reader gets her revenge. So keep that in mind.
How should I do this?
Aemond hallucinates Reader, but it’s actually Alys. (DubCon)
Aemond hallucinates Reader, but it’s actually Alys. (“Consensual”)
So, I literally have just finished the “push and pull” storyline, I’m really proud of it if I’m being honest. The ending took me almost a day to finish cause I couldn’t stop feeling sad about ending it. I wrote it while listening to Leaving for now by Theo Haber, shouldn’t have done that.
Anyway, I just wanted to ask a favor. If you have a moment of time, please tell me whether you enjoyed it or not…cause I’m genuinely curious.
If you haven’t read it yet, here’s the link to part one.
Summary: While King Viserys fills your head with tales of legendary Targaryens, an unexpected friendship begins to bloom with House Lannister, and a childish game inside your bedchamber leads you to uncover something that was never meant to be found.
Parings: [Future Aemond x Reader]
Words: 9k
Warnings: none
Part Two
Authors note: A longer chapter bc i went missing hehe
Disclamer: (I do NOT allow anyone stealing, translating or imitating this work)
Don’t forget to reblog, like and comment!
The first signs of the King's illness were almost imperceptible.
No one spoke of them aloud, of course. The servants lowered their voices whenever the maesters crossed the corridors carrying bundles of herbs, the ladies of the court politely pretended not to notice when His Grace left a feast earlier than expected, and the Small Council continued its meetings as though the kingdom itself had decided to ignore the slow passage of time upon its ruler.
But children noticed different things.
You noticed that he no longer climbed the endless staircases of the Red Keep quite as quickly as he once had, pausing every now and then to steady himself against the carved stone walls before continuing with an apologetic smile whenever he realised you were watching.
You noticed that the sleeves of his tunics were rolled up more frequently than before, revealing angry patches of skin the maesters covered with thick green salves whose bitter smell lingered long after they had left the room. You noticed that sometimes, after sitting upon the Iron Throne, his hands trembled ever so slightly when he reached for his wine.
You never understood why, you only understood that your father was unwell. And so, without anyone ever asking you to, you simply began accompanying him.
Whenever Grand Maester Mellos announced that His Grace required another bleeding or another treatment with leeches, you would quietly toddle faithfully behind the procession of maesters, servants and guards making their way towards the King's private solar as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
At first, the adults tried persuading you to wait outside.
"It will only frighten the princess."
"The smell is rather unpleasant."
Yet every single attempt ended exactly the same way.
You would look up at your father with those enormous brown eyes of yours, already glistening with unshed tears, your tiny fingers clutching nervously at the sleeve of his robe.
"But Father..." Your voice always becomes impossibly small. "what if you need me?"
Viserys never once found the heart to refuse.
After that, it simply became another part of the routine. The maesters prepared their medicines, the servants heated fresh water, the Queen remained nearby with her embroidery watching everything in the room..
And you sat faithfully beside your father.
On that particular afternoon, shafts of golden sunlight spilled through the tall arched windows of the King's solar, illuminating thousands of tiny dust particles dancing lazily through the warm air.
The chamber smelled faintly of melted candlewax, old parchment and medicinal herbs, though beneath it all lingered another scent you had long since come to associate with Father's treatments; sharp vinegar, crushed mint and the metallic tang of fresh blood.
Grand Maester Mellos worked with slow, practiced hands, carefully placing dark leeches along the King's forearm whilst another apprentice arranged bowls of steaming water beside the chair.
By the time the Grand Maester placed the first leech upon the King's forearm, you had already settled yourself upon the thick Myrish carpet at your father's feet.
It had simply become part of the ritual.
Whenever the maesters came carrying bowls of hot water, rolls of linen and little clay jars that smelled of vinegar and herbs, everyone within the royal apartments knew the princess would appear not long afterwards, trailing behind them with determined little steps, carrying something entirely unnecessary, a folded cloth or a wooden spoon, convinced that you, too, were helping the King recover.
Grand Maester Mellos no longer protested.
He merely smiled whenever your tiny hands reached towards whichever instrument he happened to require next.
"The bowl, Princess."
You hurried to fetch it.
"The cloth."
You passed it to him with both hands.
"The water."
You lifted the little jug with all the determination your four-year-old arms could muster, managing to pour only a few drops before the maester quietly took over with an indulgent chuckle.
"Excellent," Viserys said, smiling from his chair despite the leeches already clinging to his arm. "I believe the realm has found itself another maester."
You beamed.
Across the room, Queen Alicent looked up briefly from the embroidery resting neatly upon her lap. Her lips curved into the faintest smile before she lowered her gaze once more, allowing the gentle domesticity of the moment to continue undisturbed.
She only fantasized with it for a bit. Just for a moment, she imagined you being a Septa. Far away from court, hidden, living the paceful life you were always meant to.
Maybe you could even become a Maester, she was sure they would taught you in Oldtown. Surrounded by your family, the Hightowers, you would be far away from the evil whispers of your legitimacy.
She was sure her cousin Ormund would take great care of you until you were old enough, she was sure he would be delighted to have such a well-behaved and devoted girl in his house.
However, her thoughts were cut short after sje heard the first groan of pain that scaped Viserys throat.
The King's treatments had become unpleasant over the years.
The smell of herbs lingered for hours afterwards, and sometimes the bleeding left him pale enough that even you noticed it.
So, somewhere along the way, another little ritual had appeared.
They had started months before, almost by accident.
The first time, your father had noticed how frightened you looked at the sight of blood trickling down his arm. To distract you, he had begun recounting one of the old tales of House Targaryen.
The next treatment, you had asked for another and soon, it became short of a routine you and your father had.
You wandered away from the maesters almost immediately, climbing onto your knees beside the enormous stone model of Old Valyria that dominated the centre of the room. Tiny towers rose from polished black rock, delicate bridges arched over carved rivers, and dragons scarcely larger than sparrows rested atop miniature keeps.
Your father had spent years rebuilding it piece by piece from memory, old scrolls and forgotten histories until entire streets, temples and palaces stretched across the great carved table in miniature.
Delicate towers no taller than your hand reached proudly towards the ceiling, tiny bridges crossed impossibly narrow rivers of polished obsidian, and dragons scarcely larger than your thumb rested upon rooftops as though frozen in flight.
No one was ever allowed to touch it. No one. Not servants, not councillors, not even princes. Except you.
Viserys claimed that you possessed "careful hands but Alicent privately suspected it had rather more to do with the fact that His Grace could never deny his youngest daughter anything.
You carefully lifted one of the little dragons between your fingers, making soft roaring noises beneath your breath as it circled above the city.
"Are you ready?" Viserys watched you with unmistakable fondness.
You nodded so enthusiastically that several loose strands of red hair fell onto your face.
"What story today?"
The King leaned back slightly, allowing Grand Maester Mellos to continue his work as though he scarcely noticed the leeches at all.
"Hmm..." He pretended to consider it for a long moment. "I think..." Another pause. "today, I shall tell you how Harren the Black believed stone could protect him from dragons."
"Harren The Black?" Your little dragon stopped flying immediately.
"The very one."
"He had a castle?"
"An indestructible one, so everyone believed. Harrenhal it was called"
Without another word you abandoned your game entirely, crawling back across the carpet until you sat cross-legged beside your father's chair, your elbows resting upon your knees and your chin cupped eagerly in both hands, leaving the little dragon somewhere abandoned near your.
Viserys lowered his voice, the way fathers always did when they knew every word already belonged to their child.
"Harren spent forty years building the greatest castle Westeros had ever seen. Its walls were thicker than thirty men standing shoulder to shoulder. Its towers climbed so high they vanished into the clouds. Every lord who saw it believed exactly the same thing."
He paused.
"No army shall ever conquer Harrenhal…But they had forgotten something."
You leaned closer.
"There had never been dragons in Westeros before."
Without even realising it, Grand Maester Mellos slowed his work and a servant paused while arranging fresh bandages, even Alicent's embroidery needle seemed to linger for just a heartbeat.
The King had always been a wonderful storyteller.
"So Aegon mounted Balerion..." Viserys raised his free hand slowly, tracing a wide circle through the air above your head. "...higher and higher, until Harren himself looked up from the tallest tower."
Your gaze followed his hand instinctively, as though the great Black Dread truly circled somewhere above the painted ceiling.
"And do you know what Harren did?"
You shook your head so fiercely that your braid bounced against your back.
"He laughed."
You gasped.
"He believed stone could never burn." The King's smile became almost wistful. "He was wrong."
You no longer noticed the maesters, nor the smell of herbs, nor the blood.
In your mind you were already soaring through dark clouds upon the back of the greatest dragon the world had ever known.
Viserys leaned forward just a little.
"And then..." His voice dropped almost to a whisper. "Balerion opened his jaws..." Another pause. "and the night itself caught fire."
You remained utterly still.
Grand Maester Mellos, who had been quietly gathering his instruments at the side of the room, paused for a moment as though something in it had finally aligned with a thought he had been carrying for a long time.
"You know princess, before His Grace ever sat the Iron Throne, King Viserys himself was once the rider of Balerion the Black Dread."
You blinked several times. Your mind tried, very carefully, to make sense of what you had just heard, but the idea refused to stay still. It shifted and changed every time you tried to hold it.
Your father and Balerion. Together.
The maester, unaware of the way your entire body had gone perfectly still, continued in the same calm, scholarly tone.
"It was a brief time, of course. The Black Dread was already ancient by then, and few ever dared claim him. But His Grace did, and for a short while, House Targaryen was once more united with the greatest of its dragons."
Silence settled more deeply over the room.
You turned your head very slowly. Your eyes found your father immediately, as though there had never been any doubt where they would go.
Viserys had a nostalgic smile on his face, as if he was remembering a much happier past.
"Father..." Your voice came out small, but it carried a kind of wonder that you could not contain.
"Yes, little one?" He looked at you then, and whatever distance had opened in his expression softened at once.
"The dragon..." You swallowed, your hands tightening slightly where they rested against the carved arm of his chair. "Did you really ride him?" You hesitated, because the thought felt too large to say properly.
"I did." A smile formed very slowly on his face. Not proud, not boastful, but warm in a way that made something inside your chest lift without warning.
Suddenly it meant everything you had ever imagined was not just a story your father told you. It was something he had lived.
"You rode Balerion?" Your eyes widened so much it almost hurt.
"Yes."
"The biggest dragon?"
"The very same."
A sound escaped you then, half gasp, half laugh, as if your body could not decide which emotion was stronger. You pushed yourself up slightly from the floor, leaning closer to him as though distance itself might make the truth less real.
"That means—" You stopped, searching for the right words, your thoughts tumbling over each other in excitement. "That means you were in the sky with him."
"For a time," he said softly, "Yes." Viserys' smile deepened, and for a moment the weariness that often lived in his face seemed to fade entirely.
That was all it took. Your entire face lit up at once, as though someone had placed a crown directly upon your heart.
"You were flying," you said, almost breathless now, turning the idea over and over as if it were the most wonderful thing you had ever heard. "On Balerion. The real Balerion.The Black Fury"
“The Black dread” Viserys laughed softly “But yes, the same one”
"I didn't know," you added quickly, as if this new knowledge required immediate correction of your entire understanding of the world. "You never told me."
"I thought I had told you many times." Viserys let out a quiet, almost amused breath.
"You didn't tell me that," you insisted, though there was no complaint in your voice, only awe.
"Then, I must correct that mistake." Viserys smiled at you.
You climbed onto his chair until you sat comfortably on his lap, studying his face with complete awe before looking down at the tiny dragon still clutched between your fingers.
"Father," you said again "what was it like?"
Viserys looked at you for a long moment before answering. And when he did, his voice was no longer that of a king speaking to a court. It was simply a man remembering something only he could ever truly see again.
"Like nothing else in the world," He said quietly.
“So..." You considered the matter with the solemn seriousness only a child could possess. "You were riding the biggest dragon in the whole world..." Viserys nodded. "and now you're my father." You beamed existedly.
The King's laughter echoed warmly through the solar.
For a brief, precious moment, neither the maesters nor the leeches nor the sickness mattered.
He simply hugged you tighter and kissed your head. You leaned into the embrace without hesitation, curling carefully against his side so as not to disturb the bandages or the maester's work.
Viserys rested his cheek lightly against your hair.
"That," he murmured with a smile only you could hear, "is the greatest honour I have ever had."
Long after the Grand Maester had removed the last leech and the servants had aired the King's chambers to chase away the bitter scent of vinegar and blood, your father's story refused to leave your mind.
You thought about it while your lady Lady buttoned your little green gown after supper.
You thought about it while your mother brushed one careful stroke after another until it fell in a perfectly smooth auburn curtain down your back.
You thought about it while your mother kissed your forehead with absent affection before reminding you to thank the Seven for another peaceful day.
Even as you were led towards your bedchamber by one of the Queen's ladies, your thoughts remained hundreds of years in the past.
You were no longer a little girl walking through the corridors of the Red Keep.
You were Queen Visenya, itself. You had a dragon, you had a sword, and somewhere, a great black castle was waiting to burn.
Your bedchamber had already been prepared for the night by the time the servants left. The fire crackled softly within the hearth, chasing away the chill creeping in through the narrow windows, while dozens of candles filled the room with a warm amber glow.
Heavy green curtains framed your bed, embroidered with climbing ivy and tiny seven-pointed stars, and your favourite doll had already been tucked neatly beneath the blankets by some attentive maid.
"Sleep well, Princess," your lady whispered.
"I will." You nodded dutifully.
She smiled, lowered the flame of two candles, and quietly closed the door behind her.
Silence settled over the room as you remained perfectly still beneath the blankets.
One heartbeat.
Two.
Three.
Then one eye cautiously opened. You waited a little longer, listening.
Nothing.
No footsteps beyond the corridor, no servants, no guards, no Septa returning because you had forgotten your evening prayer.
A slow smile spread across your face.
Very carefully, you pushed the blankets aside and climbed out of bed. Your bare feet landed soundlessly upon the thick Myrish rug, now the room suddenly seemed much bigger without grown-ups inside it.
You looked around until your eyes landed upon the polished brass washbasin resting beside the water pitcher.
Perfect.
With quite some effort, you lifted the empty basin with both hands before lowering it carefully onto your head. It slipped immediately over one eyebrow.
You frowned. Adjusted it, tilted it back. There, much better. Now you had your war helmet.
You hurried towards the hearth, where the long iron poker rested against the stone.
The thing was almost as tall as you were. Dragging it across the carpet with both hands required considerably more determination than dignity. But eventually you succeeded.
You planted both feet apart exactly as you imagined Queen Visenya herself might have done. The poker became Dark Sister and your bedchamber became Harrenhal.
"You shall not take my castle!" you declared in your fiercest voice. Then, remembering the story properly, you immediately corrected yourself.
"No." You shook your head. "I shall take your castle."
You charged heroically towards an unsuspecting stool. The iron poker struck one leg with an impressive clang. The stool, quite unfairly, survived.
You circled it again. This time your enemies were not Harren the Black's soldiers.
They were Dornish knights.
The stories your father had told over the years had somehow mixed together inside your imagination until every great battle of House Targaryen had become one enormous adventure.
"You'll never catch me!" you cried triumphantly, darting around the room.
The poker scraped harmlessly across the floor.
You lunged at invisible soldiers, dodged imaginary arrows, leapt over a footstool, spun around…
And accidentally struck one of the tall bronze candle stands standing beside the eastern wall.
It rocked dangerously.
"Oh!" Your eyes widened.
You lunged to catch it before it could fall. The candle stand remained upright.
You sighed with enormous relief.
Proud of yourself, you patted the bronze as though it had personally thanked you.
Then—
Click.
You froze. It had been a tiny sound. So quiet you almost thought you had imagined it.
But somewhere behind you, a low grinding murmur followed, stone against stone.
Your smile disappeared as you turned around.
The great green tapestry hanging upon the eastern wall was moving.
Not much.
Only enough for the bottom edge to sway gently away from the stone.
You stared at it. The room suddenly felt much colder, an icy breeze suddenly ran through your chamber.
You swallowed and very slowly, taking one cautious step after another, you approached the tapestry until you stood close enough to touch the embroidered ivy stitched across its surface.
Gathering every ounce of courage a five-year-old princess possessed, you reached out with trembling fingers and pulled the heavy fabric aside.
Behind it, there was no wall.
A narrow stone passage disappeared into the heart of the Red Keep, its ancient steps swallowed almost immediately by shadow. The air drifting from within was damp and impossibly cold, carrying the smell of wet earth, stale water and old stone untouched by sunlight for what felt like hundreds of years.
For a long moment, your little mind simply refused to understand what you were looking at.
Walls were supposed to stay where walls belonged. They did not simply disappear.
Your heart stopped.
"I..." Your voice came out as little more than a whisper. "I broke it."
Panic flooded every corner of your tiny body. You had broken the King's castle. You had broken the Red Keep.
Mother was going to be terribly disappointed and Father would be sad because his beautiful castle was broken. Perhaps the servants would discover it in the morning and everyone would know it had been you.
Your eyes immediately filled with tears.
"I'm sorry," you whispered to the empty room, as though the castle itself might somehow hear you. "I didn't mean to."
You couldn’t hear a thing. Only the slow, rhythmic sound of water dripping somewhere deep below the castle.
You held your breath and your eyes struggled to make sense of the darkness beyond the entrance.
For one reckless second, curiosity won. You placed one tiny foot upon the first stone step and a chill reached you instantly. Much colder than your bedchamber.
A sharp squeak echoed somewhere below and something small darted across the passage. You caught only the briefest flash of a long pink tail before it vanished deeper into the darkness.
Your courage shattered. With a frightened gasp, you stumbled backwards, nearly tripping over your own feet before turning and running as fast as your little legs could carry you.
You scrambled beneath your blankets so quickly that the brass basin still sat crooked upon your head.
Only then did you realise you were still clutching the iron poker. You immediately shoved it beneath the bed as though hiding the evidence of a terrible crime.
Then you pulled the blankets over your head.
Sleep never truly came.
Whenever your eyes finally drifted shut, another creak somewhere within the ancient walls of the Red Keep startled you awake again.
The castle had always made noises, wood settling beneath the night's chill, distant doors opening somewhere far below, servants crossing empty corridors; but never before had you listened to them so carefully.
Now every sound meant the same thing. Someone had found the broken wall.
Someone was coming for you.
Twice you gathered enough courage to peek above the blankets, only to find the heavy tapestry hanging perfectly still against the opposite wall. Nothing emerged from the darkness behind it.
Or at least...
You hoped nothing had.
At some point, exhaustion finally claimed you.
It could not have been for very long.
The first thing you felt the following morning was sunlight warming your face.
The second was someone gently stroking your hair.
"There she is." Your mother's voice was soft enough that it almost belonged to a dream.
You blinked several times before managing to focus.
Queen Alicent sat upon the edge of your bed, already dressed for the day in one of her dark emerald gowns embroidered with delicate golden vines. Every strand of her long auburn hair had been arranged flawlessly beneath a modest headdress, and yet there remained something unmistakably maternal about the way her fingers carefully brushed a loose silver lock away from your face.
"You've scarcely moved all night."
You opened your mouth to answer but nothing came out.
Only then did Alicent notice the deep shadows beneath your eyes.
She frowned.
"My sweet girl..." Her cool fingertips rested briefly against your forehead. "No fever."
"I'm sorry." You lowered your gaze immediately.
"What are you apologising for?"
"I..." You hesitated.
Because you could hardly tell your mother that you had accidentally broken one of the walls of the Red Keep.
"...I don't know."
Alicent studied your face for another long moment before sighing almost imperceptibly.
"I thought as much." She smiled, though it carried the quiet weariness only your mother possessed. "I believe your father has been filling your head with too many heroic tales."
"No." You looked up at once.
"He has."
"No, Mother."
"You scarcely slept."
"I wasn't dreaming."
"No?"
You shook your head perhaps a little too quickly.
"I just..." Your words caught in your throat.
You could not tell her, you simply could not.
The Queen mistook your silence for embarrassment.
Her expression softened.
"Stories are wonderful things" She reached for the silver brush resting upon your bedside table and slowly began drawing it through your long dark hair with practiced strokes.
"But stories have a habit of following children into their dreams."
"I wasn't dreaming," you repeated in an almost inaudible whisper.
"No?"
You hesitated again and then looked very seriously into your mother's eyes.
"Mother..."
"Yes?"
"If..." You paused for a moment. "If someone broke something..." Alicent continued brushing your hair as you spoke "They should tell the truth."
"Always."
"...even if it's very big?"
The brush stopped for the briefest moment before continuing again.
"Especially then."
You swallowed, your eyes drifted almost involuntarily towards the tapestry hanging peacefully across the room, still hiding the enormous hole behind it.
Your stomach twisted before you answered with a small "I see."
Alicent noticed the direction of your gaze.
"You keep looking at that wall."
You froze, your heart hammering so loud you were certain she must hear it. For one dreadful moment you were convinced she had discovered everything.
Instead, she merely smiled faintly.
"I believe those stories have frightened you more than I realised." She leaned down and kissed your hair "I shall speak to your father."
"No!" Your eyes widened as you screamed.
The answer came so quickly that even you seemed surprised by it.
"I liked the story." You spoke again, this time softer and immediately lowered your head.
The Queen could not help smiling.
"I know you did."
She placed the brush aside before helping you down from the bed, smoothing the little green gown that one of your ladies had already laid out for the morning.
"Come." She offered you her hand. "The Small Council meets shortly, and His Grace wishes to break his fast with us beforehand."
You slipped your tiny fingers into hers.
For a moment, you almost told her. You almost confessed everything. That there was a great dark hole behind the tapestry and that perhaps the castle was falling apart because of you.
But the words refused to come.
As Alicent led you towards the door, your eyes wandered back one last time. The tapestry remained perfectly still.
Waiting.
And somehow, that frightened you far more than the hole itself had the night before.
The first time you ever spoke to Lord Tyland Lannister, he was quite convinced you had come to ask him something important.
It was, after all, the middle of a royal feast.
The Great Hall glittered beneath hundreds of candles suspended from wrought-iron chandeliers, their golden light dancing across polished goblets, silver platters and richly coloured banners hanging proudly from the vaulted ceiling.
Music drifted lazily from one end of the hall while servants threaded effortlessly between nobles carrying roasted pheasant, honeyed apples and warm loaves of bread still steaming from the kitchens.
The members of the Small Council occupied places close to the royal table, deep in conversation over taxes, harvests and ships from the Free Cities.
You understood absolutely none of it.
After finishing your supper, which consisted mostly of picking the berries out of your tart and feeding the crust to whichever hound happened to wander close enough, you slid quietly from your chair.
Queen Alicent was speaking with one of her ladies and your father was laughing with one of the lords.
No one seemed to notice as you slipped away.
You wandered around the edge of the royal table with the slow determination of a child following a very important mission, until you stopped beside Lord Tyland Lannister.
He did not notice you immediately. His attention remained fixed upon a parchment Lord Lyonel Strong had just passed across the table.
Patiently, you reached both hands upwards and wrapped them around the carved lion decorating the arm of his chair.
Then you waited.
It took perhaps half a minute before Tyland finally glanced sideways.
He blinked several times looking down as he found two enormous brown eyes staring expectantly back at him.
For perhaps the first time in many years, the Master of Ships had absolutely no idea what to do.
"Princess?"
"Good evening, Lord Tyland." You smiled politely, exactly as Septa Marlow had taught you.
"Good evening, Princess." He inclined his head automatically.
You continued staring at him and Tyland waited nervously, not knowing what you wanted from him.
Surely the daughter of the King had approached him for a reason, perhaps she carried a message from Her Grace, perhaps His Majesty wished to summon him.
Perhaps—
"How many lions do you have?"
"...I beg your pardon?" Tyland tried to fight the surprise on his voice as he answered.
"At Casterly Rock." You pointed towards the great golden lion embroidered proudly across his doublet. "How many?"
For several painfully long seconds Tyland simply looked at you. Then, almost instinctively, his eyes lifted towards the King.
Viserys had already noticed. Far from rescuing him, however, the King merely hid an amused smile behind his wine cup before giving the smallest, almost imperceptible nod, silently encouraging him to indulge whatever conversation his daughter had begun.
Tyland looked back at you, you were still waiting, looking entirely serious.
"Well," he said slowly, "quite a few."
"Really?" Your face lit up.
"Oh, yes."
"More than one?"
He pretended to think just for a moment. "I should certainly hope so."
"Five?"
"At least."
"Six?" You gasped.
"It would not surprise me."
Your mouth fell open with surprise. Tyland could see how you were almost jumping in your place, your little feet tippy tapping while your shoulders shook with excitement.
Tyland bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself smiling.
"Do they all live inside the castle?" You leaned closer, lowering your voice into a conspiratorial whisper.
"They do."
"They don't eat people?"
"Only occasionally."
"They do?" Your eyes widened in horror.
Tyland allowed the silence to linger for exactly one heartbeat before the corner of his mouth betrayed him.
"I'm joking." He smiled at you kindly.
You exhaled so dramatically that even Viserys laughed aloud from further along the table.
"They mostly eat deer."
"Oh." You considered that very carefully. Then another question immediately arrived. "Can they climb stairs?"
"They prefer not to."
"What if they have to?"
"They complain dreadfully."
You nodded as though that made perfect sense.
"I think dragons probably don't complain."
"No," Tyland agreed solemnly. "I think they shall simply burn the staircase instead."
Your laughter rang so brightly across the hall that several nearby lords turned to look.
Queen Alicent finally noticed where you had disappeared to. For one alarming moment she seemed ready to apologise profusely for whatever trouble her daughter was undoubtedly causing.
Instead she found Lord Tyland engaged in what appeared to be the most serious discussion imaginable concerning the habits of lions.
Viserys caught her eye. He merely sent her a smile and Alicent sighed quietly to herself. Then returned to her conversation.
However, many moons had passed since that first conversation.
Long enough for Lord Tyland to discover that, no matter how many matters of state brought him before the King, there was always one conversation that awaited him before any meeting of the Small Council could begin.
It never concerned ships, nor coin, nor the affairs of the realm. It concerned lions. Tyland Lannister had promised you that, the next time he came back to Casterly Rock, he would bring you your own lion.
From that very first feast onward, every time the Master of Ships returned to King's Landing after visiting Casterly Rock, you somehow seemed to know.
No servant ever announced his arrival to you. No messenger ever came running through the corridors. Yet, sooner or later, you always found him.
Sometimes outside the Small Council chamber, sometimes crossing the galleries overlooking the courtyard, sometimes halfway through the gardens.
It never seemed to matter.
The moment your little auburn head caught sight of the golden lions embroidered across his cloak, you came running.
This particular morning proved no different.
Tyland had scarcely crossed the outer gallery when he heard hurried little footsteps echoing across the stone floor behind him.
"Lord Tyland!"
He turned just in time to see a blur of green silk and auburn hair racing towards him as quickly as five-year-old legs could possibly manage.
The corners of his mouth lifted before he could stop them, he had been expecting this.
You finally reached him, slightly out of breath, your cheeks pink from running through half the castle.
"You came back!"
"I did."
Without wasting another second, you looked immediately behind him, to one side and then to the other. Your eyes searched the corridor with growing confusion.
Finally, you looked back up at him.
"...Where is he?"
"Who?" The Master of Ships pretended not to understand.
"The lion." You said it with complete certainty, as though there could not possibly be any other answer. "You said the next time you came you would bring a lion!"
Tyland crouched until he was level with your eyes.
"I'm afraid we had a rather unexpected problem." His expression became wonderfully solemn.
"What happened?" Your face immediately fell.
"The youngest lion refused to come."
"Why?"
"He says Casterly Rock is much too important to leave unattended."
"But... he's only a baby." You frowned deeply.
"A cub, yes. That was precisely what I told him."
"Did he listen?"
"Not in the slightest." Tyland sighed with exaggerated disappointment.
"He should listen to his elders." You thought about that for several moments and finally, you nodded.
"I quite agree."
"And next time? Maybe you can bring an older lion!"
"I shall try again."
Your smile returned almost immediately.
"I think..." You leaned closer, lowering your voice into an important whisper. "Perhaps you should ask his father."
"His father?" Tyland blinked.
"Yes." You nodded confidently. "Grown-up lions always know what to do."
For perhaps the hundredth time since becoming Master of Ships, Tyland found himself losing an argument to a four-year-old.
"I suspect," he admitted gravely, "that is an excellent idea." He answered quite seriously, nodding as he tried to fight the smile on his face.
"I knew it." You beamed.
He watched you smile for another heartbeat before reaching slowly inside the folds of his cloak.
"Although..." He continued taking something small out of his cloak "One little fellow insisted upon making the journey."
He opened his hand. Resting upon his palm lay a tiny golden lion, no larger than your own hand, its mane carved so delicately that each strand seemed to catch the morning light.
You stared at it in complete silence.
"I told him," Tyland continued gently, "that Princesses usually prefer dragons." He smiled at you "But he disagreed."
Very carefully, he placed the little lion into your waiting hands.
"He says he would much rather belong to someone who truly likes lions."
You looked down at the tiny figure as though it were alive, your fingers closed around it with extraordinary care.
"So..." You whispered. "He's mine now?"
"If you'll have him." Tyland smiled.
"Of course I will!” You hugged the little lion tightly against your chest.
Behind the two of you, His Grace happened to glance up from his conversation with Lord Beesbury.
He saw his youngest daughter smiling as though she had just been handed the greatest treasure in the Seven Kingdoms.
His eyes met Tyland's only briefly and he offered the smallest nod, a silent thank you.
Tyland answered with one of quiet respect before continuing towards the council chamber, leaving behind one very happy little princess who spent the rest of the morning introducing her new lion to every servant unfortunate enough to cross her path.
You had scarcely thanked Lord Tyland three times before turning on your heel and racing away again.
"My lady—!"
One of your mother's ladies called after you in alarm, but you were already gone, your little slippers pattering hurriedly across the polished stone floors of the Red Keep.
The tiny golden lion remained clutched safely between both hands, held so carefully against your chest that one might have believed you were carrying a living creature.
You simply had to show Aegon. He would understand, he would be just as excited as you were.
The sound of steel reached you long before you reached the training yard.
The sharp ring of wooden practice swords echoed rhythmically against the ancient stone walls while Ser Criston Cole strode between four young boys with his hands clasped neatly behind his back, correcting a stance here, adjusting a grip there with the quiet authority expected of the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.
Prince Aegon moved with the easy confidence of someone for whom swordplay came naturally.
Beside him, Prince Aemond's expression remained intensely focused, his jaw set with stubborn determination as he repeated the same movement again and again with meticulous precision.
A little further away, Princes Jacaerys and Lucerys attempted to imitate the exercise with considerably more enthusiasm than discipline.
"Again," Ser Criston ordered calmly.
The four boys obediently resumed their practice.
Then—
"Aegon!" The shrill voice of an excited little girl rang across the entire yard.
Ser Criston's head snapped around so quickly that the movement was almost instinctive.
For one dreadful heartbeat his heart lurched painfully against his ribs that something had happened to the Princess.
He had heard panic in children's voices too many times during tournaments and hunts not to react before thinking. His hand had already moved towards the hilt of his sword before his eyes found the source of the cry.
You.
Running as fast as your tiny legs could carry you.
Your skirts bounced awkwardly around your knees, several loose strands of auburn hair had escaped their usual perfectly bruised place, and your cheeks glowed bright pink from having crossed nearly half the castle without stopping.
The moment Ser Criston realised you were not frightened but positively radiant, the tension disappeared from his shoulders almost immediately.
A smile, small enough that no one else seemed to notice, appeared upon his face before vanishing just as quickly beneath the stern composure expected of the Lord Commander.
"There you are." Aegon smiled as lowered his practice sword at once.
You almost collided with him, stopping so abruptly that you had to take two tiny stumbling steps backwards to keep your balance.
"I have something!" The words tumbled out so quickly they almost became one.
"You have to see! Lord Tyland brought him! He really did! I told you he would!"
"What did he bring?" Aegon crouched until he was level with you.
Instead of answering, you opened both hands with the solemn ceremony of someone unveiling the Crown of Aegon the Conqueror.
Nestled upon your palms rested the tiny golden lion.
The morning sun caught its carefully carved mane, scattering little flecks of golden light across your fingers.
Aegon's eyes widened theatrically.
"Well..." He leaned in closer, pretending to inspect the little creature from every possible angle. "Would you look at that?"
"He came all the way from Casterly Rock," You explained breathlessly. "Lord Tyland said he wanted to come."
"Did he now?" Aegon murmures with a kind smile.
You nodded so enthusiastically that your hair bounced against your back.
"He looks terribly fierce!" You exclaimed.
"I can see that." Aegon stroked his chin with exaggerated seriousness.
"And brave!"
"The bravest lion I've ever seen." Aegon nodded his head.
"I knew you'd understand." You beamed so brightly that it seemed impossible for any child to contain so much happiness.
By then, the others had wandered over as well.
Jacaerys immediately leaned forward to examine the tiny figure adn Lucerys stood beside him, trying to peek over his brother's shoulder.
"...That's your lion?" Luke asked.
"My lion." You nodded proudly.
"He's very small." Jace smiled despite himself.
"Well..." You drew yourself up as proudly as your tiny height allowed. "So am I."
Luke snorted and Jace elbowed him lightly, though he, too, struggled to keep a straight face.
You either failed to notice or chose not to. It hardly mattered, you were far too delighted.
"Now I have one too."
The four boys looked at you blankly.
"One what?" Aegon asked.
"A beast." You hugged the little lion proudly against your chest. "You all have dragons." You pointed towards Jace then to Luke. "You too. Helaena already has Dreamfyre."
Finally your finger stopped upon Aemond.
"And..." You thought very hard for a moment. "...perhaps Lord Tyland can bring you a lion too."
For perhaps two seconds complete silence reigned. Then Luke burst into laughter, not cruel laughter but simply the helpless laughter of a little boy who found the idea wonderfully ridiculous.
Jace covered his mouth, trying very hard to behave like the older brother he imagined himself to be.
You frowned, genuinely confused. You looked towards your older brother, still unable to understand why everyone suddenly seemed so amused.
Aemond had not laughed, not once. His violet eyes remained fixed first upon the little lion in your hands then upon Jace and Luke and his expression hardened almost imperceptibly.
He, too, thought comparing a carved lion to a dragon was absurd. Of course it was. Dragons were fire made flesh, the greatest creatures ever to soar across the skies. A little golden lion no bigger than your hand could never compare.
His sister was being childish, ridiculously childish. She sounded exactly like what she was: a little girl. But she was his little sister.
And for reasons he could not quite explain, he found her boring normality far more infinitely easier to tolerate than hearing the Velaryon boys laughing at her.
His grip tightened around the wooden practice sword. Neither Jacaerys nor Lucerys noticed.
You looked from one face to another, your brow furrowing ever so slightly. You did not understand, had you said something funny? You hugged the little lion a little closer against your chest.
Aemond was the first to speak.
"I don't want a lion." His voice was sharper than before, sharper than you had ever heard him use with you."I want a dragon."
"I know..."
"A lion isn't a dragon." His violet eyes settled briefly upon the tiny golden figure resting safely in your hands. "It never will be."
Your smile faltered.
You looked down at the lion as though searching for whatever fault your brother had found in him.
"...I know," you murmured quietly. "I only thought..." You hesitated. "...that then we would all have one."
Without even realising it, you took a tiny step sideways until your shoulder brushed lightly against Aegon's side.
The older prince immediately noticed. He said nothing, he simply remained where he was.
Luke, however, could not help himself. He let out another laugh.
"Careful, Aemond." Jace smiled behind his hand as his brother continued speaking "At this rate, your little sister will find you a lion before you ever find a dragon." Luke grinned. "I think the lion might suit you better."
The smile vanished from Aemond's face altogether. His fingers tightened around the wooden practice sword until his knuckles turned pale.
Before he could answer, Aegon stepped forward. It was only a single pace, just enough to place himself naturally between you and the Velaryon boys.
"What did you say?" His voice remained light, but there was something beneath it that made both Jace and Luke hesitate.
"I only—" Luke opened his mouth.
"You only what?" The grin had disappeared from Aegon's face now. "You seem awfully interested in my brother's dragon."
Silence settled over the yard. The four boys stared at one another. You looked from Aegon to Aemond and back again, completely bewildered. Had someone done something wrong?
You looked down at your lion, perhaps it had been the lion.
Before another word could be spoken, Ser Criston stepped smoothly between the princes with the ease of a man who had interrupted more quarrels than he cared to count.
"Enough." His voice was calm, the sort of voice that required no repetition.
Once the boys fell silent, only then did Ser Criston turn towards you. The severity disappeared from his expression almost at once.
"My Princess."
You looked up immediately.
"I believe Lord Tyland told you that your little lion travelled all the way from Casterly Rock."
"He did." You nodded earnestly.
"That is a very long journey."
"It is."
"Then I imagine he must be terribly tired." Ser Criston inclined his head thoughtfully towards the tiny lion nestled safely in your hands.
"Oh..." Your eyes widened.
"I hadn't even thought about that." You looked down at him with genuine concern, you murmured.
"Perhaps you ought to take him to your chambers and let him rest while Their Highnesses finish today's lesson." The faintest smile touched the corner of the Lord Commander's mouth.
"You're right." You nodded at once.
Very carefully, as though afraid of waking him, you cradled the little lion against your chest. Before leaving, however, you suddenly wrapped your arms around Aegon in a quick, impulsive hug.
"Thank you for liking him." You murmured against his clothes, hugging him tighter.
"I like him very much." Aegon smiled down at you and he laughed softly, resting a hand upon your hair before kissing your forehead.
"Go on."
"I'll make sure no one bothers him while he's sleeping." Your face lit up once more. "I'll come back later!"
Then, with one final wave, you hurried away across the yard, your tiny slippers pattering against the ancient stones until the sound slowly disappeared into the corridors of the Red Keep.
Only after you were gone did Ser Criston's gaze return to the four princes. The warmth vanished from his face as though it had never been there.
"Back to your stances."
No one argued, wooden swords were raised once more.
Yet, for the rest of the lesson, Aemond's eyes found themselves drifting more than once towards the empty archway through which his little sister had disappeared.
Several hours had slipped quietly by.
The warmth of the afternoon sun had begun to soften, spilling long golden beams through the tall windows of the Red Keep and stretching them across the polished stone floors like ribbons of molten gold.
The bustle of the morning had faded into the calmer rhythm of court life. Lords disappeared into council chambers, servants hurried silently through hidden corridors, and the distant sound of practice swords had long since given way to the murmur of conversations echoing through the castle.
Your own lessons had finally come to an end.
The septa had spent what had felt like an eternity correcting your handwriting before moving on to prayers, numbers, and the names of long-dead Andal kings you were quite certain nobody remembered anymore.
By the time she finally dismissed you, your little fingers were stained with ink, your shoulders ached from sitting so straight, and all you could think about was whether your tiny lion had enjoyed his nap.
Queen Alicent held your hand as the two of you walked through one of the quieter galleries overlooking the inner courtyards.
She looked, as she always did, perfectly composed.
Not a single strand of auburn hair had escaped the intricate braids beneath her veil, her emerald gown swept elegantly across the stone floor, and every servant who crossed her path immediately lowered their head in respectful greeting.
You tried very hard to imitate her.
Your own little green dress had been chosen to resemble your mother's as closely as possible, and although your tiny steps were considerably less graceful, you lifted your chin exactly as she did whenever someone bowed.
Alicent noticed.
The corner of her mouth almost smiled.
Almost.
Then–
The rhythmic sound of a cane echoed softly against the floor.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
You recognised it before you recognised the man.
Your little fingers tightened instinctively around your mother's hand.
At the far end of the gallery walked Lord Larys Strong.
He moved slowly, leaning upon his carved cane with effortless familiarity, his uneven gait never hurried, never flustered. His dark robes seemed to swallow the afternoon light rather than reflect it, and while every other lord in court spoke loudly or laughed too easily, Lord Larys always appeared wrapped in silence.
To a little girl of four, he looked like someone who belonged inside the stories Aegon whispered after sunset.
The sort of mysterious stranger who lived in forgotten towers, who always knew things he should not know.
As he approached, you found yourself edging a little closer to your mother. By the time he reached you both, you had hidden almost half your body behind the folds of Alicent's skirts.
Larys bowed with perfect courtesy.
"Your Grace." Larys bowed with perfect courtesy.
"Lord Larys." Alicent inclined her head with her usual quiet dignity.
"It is always a pleasure."
"The pleasure is mine."
Only then did his pale eyes drift towards you. For a moment, they lingered upon your face with unreadable amusement.
"And Her Grace's little princess." His smile was gentle and almost kind. "You grow more beautiful every time I see you."
You did not answer. Instead, you lowered your head and clung just a little tighter to your mother's gown.
"The Princess has been shy today." Alicent gave your hand the faintest reassuring squeeze.
"I can see that."
Larys did not appear offended in the slightest but quite the opposite. His smile widened ever so slightly, as though your silence amused him.
"Children are curious creatures." He tilted his head. "They have a remarkable talent for finding places the rest of us overlook."
Your heart stopped for a moment as he continued speaking.
"...Though," he continued softly, almost absent-mindedly, "some corridors are only ever found by those who were never looking for them."
Your eyes flew open and the colour drained from your face.
He knows.
The thought struck with all the certainty only a frightened child could possess.
He knows I broke the wall.
You stared at him, unable to breathe. Images of the previous night flashed through your mind in an instant—the fallen candelabrum, the moving wall, the darkness beyond, the enormous rat disappearing into the shadows.
He knows, he knows.
Without another thought, you buried yourself behind your mother's skirts, clutching the rich green fabric so tightly your tiny knuckles turned white.
Alicent looked down in surprise.
"My sweet girl..." She frowned before looking apologetically towards Larys. "I beg your pardon, my Lord. I do not know what has come over her."
"There is nothing to forgive." Larys' voice remained as calm as still water. "Castles are very large places." His gaze lingered for one brief moment upon the frightened little glimpse of auburn hair peeking from behind the Queen's skirts. "And children often imagine there are monsters hiding inside their walls."
You squeezed your eyes shut. He definitely knew, you were sure of it.
Alicent rested a comforting hand upon your shoulder.
"Princess." Her voice was gentle, but carried that familiar firmness every royal child knew. "You must not hide. It is impolite"
Slowly, reluctantly, you peeked around the folds of her gown. Larys met your eyes once more and then, to your complete surprise, he simply smiled.
"I hope," he said with a courteous inclination of his head, "that we shall speak again soon." He bowed once more. "Your Grace. My Princess."
Then he continued on his way, the steady rhythm of his cane echoing through the gallery.
You did not move until the sound had disappeared entirely, you kept looking anxiously back down the empty corridor where Lord Larys had vanished.
Alicent did not speak immediately. For a moment, she simply studied the way you were still half-hidden in her skirts and the way your fingers clung to the fabric as though the stone walls themselves might swallow you whole.
When she finally spoke, her voice was calm but firm in a way you recognised all too well.
"Come here."
You hesitated, then stepped out just enough for her to take your chin gently between her fingers and lift your face towards her.
"This is not how I have taught you to behave."
You lowered your gaze but Alicent’s expression did not soften.
"You are a princess of the realm." Her hand fell from your chin, only to smooth your hair back into place with careful precision. "You do not hide from lords of the court. You shall greet them properly."
Your lips parted slightly, but no words came. The Queen’s gaze held yours, steady and unwavering.
"I will not have you shrinking away in fear every time someone enters a room." Her tone lowered just a fraction. "Do you understand me?"
You nodded quickly and Alicent studied you for another moment, as though making sure the lesson had truly settled.
Then, finally, she released you.
"Good." She turned slightly, already beginning to walk again. "And you will remember it next time."
You followed silently at her side, your small hand once again finding hers but this time, your grip was more careful.
And you did not look back down the corridor again.
Night had settled gently over the Red Keep.
The corridors that only hours before had echoed with the voices of courtiers and servants now lay wrapped in silence, broken only by the distant crackle of torches and the occasional call of a sentry somewhere upon the walls. Moonlight filtered through the narrow windows of Maegor's Holdfast, casting pale ribbons of silver across the stone floor of your bedchamber.
Everything was quiet.
Too quiet.
After your mother had finished your nightly ritual, your lady had tucked you into bed some time ago, carefully pulling the heavy woollen blankets up beneath your chin before extinguishing every candle save the one that burned softly beside the door. She had wished you sweet dreams, kissed your forehead, and disappeared into the corridor with the silent certainty that every little princess was now fast asleep.
You were not. You lay perfectly still beneath the covers, your eyes fixed upon the far side of the chamber.
By daylight the tapestry had always been your favourite. It stretched almost from floor to ceiling, woven in rich crimson and black threads that told the tale of Aegon the Conqueror descending upon Harrenhal atop mighty Balerion.
Great towers melted beneath dragonfire, soldiers fled in terror across embroidered fields, and above them all the Black Dread spread his enormous wings across half the cloth, stitched so masterfully that, as a child, you had often been convinced they moved whenever candlelight danced across them.
Tonight, It no longer looked like a story. It looked tortuous, screaming at you from across the room knowing that behind it the wall was broken.
At least, you thought it was.
You squeezed your blankets a little tighter beneath your chin. Perhaps something was already standing behind it, perhaps the enormous rat had come back, perhaps there were more, thousands of them, perhaps monsters truly did live inside castle walls, just as old stories claimed.
You hugged your litte lion close to your chest. For a moment you tried to imagine it. You lion jumping out of your bed and running towards the dark tunnel behind the tapestry. How he would roar fiercely to protect you, scaring away all the rats and other monters that hid behind the walls.
Your eyes remained fixed upon the tapestry, certain that, at any moment, it would move. Certain that something would step through the hole you had made.
Minutes passed or perhaps an hour, you could no longer tell. But eventually, curiosity became stronger than fear.
Very slowly, you slipped one foot out from beneath the blankets. The stone floor would have been freezing beneath bare feet, had it not been for the thick Myrish carpets spread throughout the chamber. Their soft woven patterns muffled every tiny step as you crept cautiously across the room, clutching your nightgown tightly in one small fist.
You stopped before the tapestry.
For a moment, you looked at it.
Then, gathering every ounce of courage your four-year-old heart possessed, you reached out with trembling fingers and carefully lifted the heavy cloth aside.
You froze.
The hole had vanished. Before you stood nothing but an ordinary stone wall. Every stone sat neatly upon the next.
No crack, no opening, no darkness beyond. Nothing.
You blinked several times and your little mouth slowly fell open.
"They fixed it..." The whisper escaped almost without your noticing.
Someone had repaired the wall. In a single day.
The thought should have comforted you. Instead, a fresh wave of panic settled inside your tiny chest. If someone had fixed it, then someone had seen it. Someone knew you broke the wall.
Your eyes grew impossibly wide.
Lord Larys.
The memory of his gentle smile returned with frightening clarity.
"Some corridors are only ever found by those who were never looking for them."
Your breathing quickened.
He knew, he had known all along.
Without another glance, you let the tapestry fall back into place and scrambled hurriedly into bed, pulling the blankets over your head until not even a strand of red hair remained visible.
Only after several long moments did your frightened heartbeat begin to slow.
Outside your little fortress of blankets, the chamber was perfectly still. The tapestry no longer moved, the wall stood exactly where it always had. Safe, silent, and whole.
You never learned the truth until years later. The wall had never been repaired. Nothing had been rebuilt.
Behind the tapestry, hidden within the ancient stones of Maegor's Holdfast, the passage still existed exactly as it always had for generations.
Only its entrance had been closed once more and somewhere within the Red Keep someone already knew that the King's little daughter had found it.
You and your bonded partner, Myro Smoak, have secrets you should take to your graves, but you're desperate. However, a war is brewing and you get caught in the middle of it. You discover the truth of Valyrian magic & dragons and try to save both through research and friends.
Chapter Six follows the growing connection between you and Aemond as your time in King’s Landing deepens amid the looming conflict between the Blacks and Greens. Myro warns you that Aemond is dangerous but recognises the intense interest between you, while you and Aemond continue meeting in secret and discover an inexplicable bond through shared dreams, memories, and the magic of dragons and merfolk.
Pairing : You (AFAB) x Aemond Targaryen, You x Myro (no smut between you)
Word Count : 5,073
WARNINGS : No use of Y/N, somewhat ooc Aemond (I had to make him more romantic and obsessed with you), smut, violence, alcohol, bonded mates (You x Myro no smut between you, but it’s implied), slow burn, potential infertility, my fic does not follow the TV or book canon timeline because Aemond is 21 and claimed Vhagar at 12,
Savages Masterlist
Chapter Six
It has been one and a half moons since Myro & you arrived. The intelligent Prince Aemond has been haunting your thoughts in ways you haven't felt since you were a girl. You often wonder if he felt the same things you felt that night you showed him Vhagar’s memory.
You find Myro in your chambers, cluttered with scrolls and maps. He's staring out the window at the sprawl of King's Landing below.
"The Red Keep has ears in the walls," you say, closing the door behind you.
He doesn't turn. "And spiders in the ceilings. I counted three this morning."
"You've been counting spiders?"
"Counting enemies." He twists to look at you. "The Hand's men followed me to the armoury. Pretended to be squires.”
Myro studies you. "What's on your mind, Mel’dari?" His smirk falters, a flicker you'd miss if you hadn't spent many years reading his face. "The prince." He says it finally, testing the word. "Which one? The one who stares at your tits? The one-eyed dragon rider who stares at your soul when he thinks no one's watching?"
"You know which one."
Myro leans back. He runs a hand over his jaw, considering. "I think he's dangerous. Not in the way his brother is. Aegon will hurt you carelessly, thoughtlessly, because he's too drunk to know better. But Aemond?" A pause. "He'd hurt you deliberately. For a cause. For a purpose he believes in." He holds up a hand before you can speak. "But I also think he looks at you like you're the first interesting thing he's seen in nine years of wearing that eyepatch." Myro's voice softens. "The people I’ve been able to talk to are calling Rhaenyra’s side the Blacks and Aegon’s side the Greens. King Viserys is dying. Everyone in this castle knows it. The question is what happens when he does." Myro's eyes meet yours. "His named heir is on Dragonstone with her dragons. His wife and her father have been stacking the small council with their own people for years. That's not a recipe for peace. That's kindling waiting for a spark.”
"And the prince?" you ask.
"Aemond Targaryen rides the largest living dragon in the world. He's trained for war since he was old enough to hold a sword. If there's a fight, he'll be at the center of it." He tilts his head. “The question is which side you'll be on when the time comes. We came here for a reason, Mel’dari. Our people need protection." His shoulder brushes yours. "If dragons can help us, we can't just sail home because the politics here are ugly.
“Politics are ugly everywhere.”
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Two moons have passed since you arrived in King's Landing.
You've spent hours with Aemond. In the library. On the walls overlooking the bay. In forgotten corners where no one thinks to look. You've told him of your home. The blue-green sea so clear you can see the corals from the surface, the fish that swim in colors no painter could capture, the way the merlings sing at dawn.
The library is tucked away in a tower overlooking the bay. You've come to know the path well over the past month. Inside, the air smells of old parchment. Shelves stretch from floor to ceiling, crammed with scrolls and tomes in languages you're still learning to read. You're not alone.
Aemond stands at the far end of the room. He’s holding a book. He hasn't turned around yet, but you know he's heard you. Then Aemond speaks without turning. ”You're up early."
You step further into the room. He still hasn't turned to face you. But you see the subtle shift in his posture. The way his head tilts slightly as you approach.
"Couldn't sleep," you say, stopping a few paces away. "Thought I'd find something to read about the Stepstones. Or the Doom. Anything to occupy my mind.”
Aemond turns a page. "The Doom is well documented here. Three separate accounts from eyewitnesses who survived the fires." A pause. "Though memory is unreliable."
You watch his profile. The sharp line of his jaw, the way his fingers trace the edge of the parchment. "Is that what you're reading now?”
He finally turns. His eye meets yours. "No." He closes the book and holds it out, offering it to you. "I was reading about the merfolk.” He holds your gaze, steady and unreadable. "The library has very little. Only fragments from sailors' logs and old wives' tales, but I wanted to understand what you are. What they are.”
"And what have you learned?” You stop beside him, close enough that you can see the title of the book he's holding. On the Denizens of the Deep and Their Customs.
Aemond's eye lingers on you for a beat before he looks down at the book in his hands. He flips it open to a marked page. "That they are rarely seen," he reads aloud, “'and that those who claim to have seen them are often dismissed as madmen or liars. That they sing in a language that sounds like the sea. That they can hold their breath for hours, dive deeper than any man, and call storms to their aid. And that they are hunted.” He closes the book. "None of this tells me anything I didn't already know, by your accounts. Which means the only useful source of information on the subject is standing in front of me." He holds your gaze for a long moment, then sets the book down on the nearest table. "So, tell me something true about yourself, my lady. Something that isn't in any book."
"I hear their songs in my dreams.”
Aemond's eye sharpens on you. He just waits, letting the silence fill the space between you like rising tide.
You look down at your hands. "Every night since I was seven years old. The same song. Rising from somewhere so deep I can't see the bottom, like a voice stretched across centuries. When I was chosen, they told me the gift would change how I perceive the world. They didn't tell me I'd never sleep in silence again."
You see the shift in his expression. ”And what do they say to you? The songs.”
You meet his eye. "They remember everything the sea has ever touched. Every ship that sank. Every voice that drowned. Every secret thrown overboard." A pause. "I learned about the Doom from a song before I ever read a book about it.”
He reaches out slowly and brushes a strand of hair from your face. His fingers trail across your temple. “Hm. Then you carry the weight of an ocean."
"The weight is lighter when I'm with you.” You forgot your guard for just a moment.
For a time, Aemond is still. Then something shifts. The faintest softening around his mouth. His hand, still lingering near your face, falls slowly back to his side. He turns back to the window. ”You shouldn't say things like that to a man you barely know. Not in King's Landing. Not to anyone.” A moment passes. "But you're not wrong.”
You step closer, close enough that you could reach out and touch his arm if you wanted to. You don't. Not yet. "I know what I said. And I meant it.”
He's silent for a long time. "I dreamed of you last night. Before you told me about the songs. I dreamed of you standing in the shallows of a blue sea, and the water was singing.” He turns his head, just enough to meet your eye. "What does that mean?"
"When I showed you Vhagar's memory, I could feel you in my head. Last night I dreamed of dragonsong. They were newly hatched, still wet from the egg, but they were singing.”
Aemond has gone still. The kind of stillness that belongs to a hunter who's caught a scent he doesn't yet trust.
You hold his gaze. "It means we're connected, somehow. Whether we like it or not.”
Aemond's jaw tightens. He looks away in defense. His hand rests on the windowsill, fingers splayed against the stone. "I felt you too. In Vhagar's memory. You were there, in my mind-not as a trespasser, but as..." He stops. Searches for the word. "As a presence I couldn't explain.” He turns back to you, and there's something raw in his expression, quickly masked. "I don't believe in fate, my lady. I believe in what I can see. What I can hold. What I can fight for."
He steps closer, the space between you shrinking to the width of his arm. "But I cannot explain what happened when you touched my hand and showed me a dragonrider who died over a hundred years before I was born.” His eye searches yours. "Tell me I imagined it."
"What are you so afraid of? You can't see your bond with Vhagar, but you still believe in it. You wouldn't have bothered claiming a dragon if you didn’t."
Aemond's eye narrows. "That's different.”
"Is it?”
He holds your gaze, and for a moment you see something. Irritation, but also something more fragile. He doesn't like being cornered. You already knew that. "Vhagar is a dragon. I climbed onto her back and she didn't burn me alive. That is proof enough." His voice is clipped, controlled. "You are asking me to trust something I cannot touch, cannot command.”
"And yet." You hold your ground. "You dreamed of me before I told you about the songs. You felt me in your head when I shared the memory.”
He speaks quietly. "I am not accustomed to being known. I spent my entire childhood being overlooked. Underestimated. Dismissed. I carved myself into someone worth noticing through steel and will alone. And now you walk into my city, touch my mind, and tell me there is a bond I cannot see, cannot prove, cannot earn through effort. What am I supposed to do with that?"
You hold his gaze for a long moment, and then you let out a breath. "I couldn't say. Because I don't know either.” You turn to leave.
“My lady.”
You halt. You don't turn around.
When his voice comes again, it's quieter. Less armoured. "I didn't say I didn't believe you. I said I don’t know what to do with it. Those are different things.”
You turn, just enough to see him over your shoulder. He hasn't moved from the window. But he's watching you with that single blue eye. "I'm not asking you to do anything. I’m not asking you to trust it. Or me. I'm just telling you what I believe.”
He doesn't answer. But he doesn't look away, either. Footsteps approach. A servant's voice, calling for someone. Aemond's expression smooths back into its familiar mask.
"We can continue this conversation elsewhere. Tonight. The gardens, after supper." A pause. "If you want."
You nod once and Aemond inclines his head. You leave the library without looking back.
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The gardens are quiet at this hour. He's standing with his back to you, hands clasped behind him. He doesn't turn when you approach. "You came.”
You stop a few paces away.
Aemond turns. The fading light catches his face, softening the sharp angles of his jaw, the hollow beneath his cheekbone. "I've been thinking about what you said all day. About the connection. About the dreams.” He takes a step closer. "I want to understand it.”
You take a breath. “I’ll tell you what I know from what I’ve been told. In my homeland, we have a concept called Zal'tha. A soulmate. Not the kind whispered about in songs or dreamed of by maidens. It's a bond recognized by the merfolk and my people. When two souls are connected, the merfolk sing to them both. In dreams.” You watch his face. He's listening. Truly listening, making you feel like he's weighing every syllable. "I didn't believe it existed until I met you. I still don't fully believe it. Myro and I were bonded by the merfolk. Even if I did believe in soulmates before, it wouldn’t have been in my plan. But I can't explain what happened between us. I can't explain why I dreamed of dragonsong after I touched your mind, why I feel your presence even when you're not in the room.
"You barely know me."
"The sea doesn't wait until you're ready to understand its tides before it pulls you under.”
"You're asking me to accept that I'm bound to someone I've only known for two moons.”
"I'm not asking you to accept anything." A step closer. "I'm telling you what I know. What you do with it is your choice.”
"And if I don't want to fight it?”
The question hangs between you, fragile as glass.
You feel him. That familiar pull, like a riptide beneath calm water. But when you try to read him, to slip into his thoughts the way you do with others, there's nothing. Just silence. Just him.
"I feel you, but I can't read you the way I read other people. It's unsettling. For me." You hold his gaze. "What do you want?”
Aemond is quiet for long enough that you think he might deflect, might retreat behind that careful mask he wears. But he doesn't.
He steps closer. Close enough that you can see the individual strands of silver at his temple, the scar that disappears beneath his eyepatch. "I want to know if this is real." His voice is low, stripped of its usual composure. "I want to know if what I feel when I'm near you is something I chose or something that was chosen for me.” He searches your face, and for a moment, you see the boy he must have been. Before Vhagar, before the eye, before the cruelty of his brother wore him into steel. "Because if it's the latter," he continues. "I need to decide if I care.” The prince who never shows weakness waits.
"Does it matter?" you ask quietly. “Whether it was choice or fate? If it feels real, then it is real.”
His eye searches yours. "I suppose we'll find out."
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Three nights later, the Red Keep hosts a feast in honour of your continued presence. A gesture of goodwill from the increasingly bedridden king, or perhaps from Otto Hightower, who still hasn't decided whether you're an asset or a threat. The court is drunk on wine and the illusion of peace. You sit beside Myro, watching the dancers.
Aegon, predictably, has been staring at you all evening. He rises from his seat, goblet in hand, and makes his way toward you with an unsteady confidence. "My lady." He bows. "You look radiant tonight. Though I imagine you look radiant every night. I simply haven't had the pleasure of noticing.” He slides into the seat beside you, far too close. "You know," he says, leaning in. "My brother has been insufferable since you arrived. All brooding and staring. But I have to wonder… What does a woman like you see in a man with one eye?" A pause, his gaze dragging down your body. "I have two. And I'd use them both to appreciate you properly.”
Myro's hand tightens on his cup.
You smile. It takes effort. You let the smile touch your lips, easy and practiced, the same expression you've worn while negotiating with warlords and pirate queens who thought a woman from the west would be easy to intimidate. "You flatter me, Prince Aegon. Though I imagine your wife might feel differently about where your eyes wander.”
Aegon grins, sloppy and unrepentant. "Helaena doesn't mind. We have an understanding.” He waves a hand dismissively. "She has her bugs. I have my... interests." His gaze drops to your chest again. "And you've become quite the interest, my lady.”
Beside you, Myro sets down his cup with a deliberate clink.
Aegon leans closer. "Come now. Surely a woman like you knows how to have fun. All this talk of merfolk and alliances grows tedious." He lowers his voice. "I know a place. Private. We could—“
"I think," you interrupt. “You’ve had enough wine for one evening, my prince."
Aegon opens his mouth to respond, but a hand clamps down on his shoulder.
Aemond. "Brother. Mother is looking for you." Aemond's eye flickers to you, and something passes between you in that brief exchange. I know what you're doing.
Aegon looks between the two of you, his expression souring as he realizes he's being dismissed. "I wasn't finished speaking to the lady," he says, shrugging off Aemond's hand.
"You were." The kind of tone that expects no argument.
For a moment, Aegon's jaw tightens. Then he laughs and raises his cup in a mock toast. "Enjoying the feast, brother?" He drains the last of his wine and stands, swaying slightly. "I know you prefer more…solitary pursuits." His gaze slides back to you. "We'll continue this conversation another time, my lady.” He saunters off.
Aemond watches him go, then turns to you. "You handled that better than most."
“I didn’t think it wise to strike a prince in his homeland. Or his home, for that matter.”
The court continues to swirl around you, oblivious. Myro, beside you, has finally released his cup. He says something in your ear about needing air and slips away, leaving you alone with Aemond. He sits in the vacated seat. "He won't stop. Not after one rebuff. Aegon doesn't understand refusal."
"What would you do in my place?”
Aemond's considers the question with the same gravity he might give a war council. "Slap him.”
You blink.
"Publicly. Hard enough to leave a mark." He says it without humour. "Aegon responds to shame. He'll avoid you afterward, because he can't stand being reminded of his humiliation. Why do you look surprised?" His tone carries amusement. "You asked what I would do. I told you.” Couples drift onto the dance floor. Aemond watches them with detached interest, then returns his gaze to you. "My methods may not be subtle, but they are effective."
"You make a compelling case for violence.”
"I've had years to perfect it. Though, I suspect you don't need my counsel on the matter. You've survived long enough to cross an ocean and earn an audience with a dying king. Aegon is hardly your first nuisance."
"He's predictable. Drunk men always are.”
"Predictable men are still dangerous when they hold power they don't deserve.”
His voice drops lower, meant only for your ears. "If he pushes further, if he corners you somewhere private, send word to me. Or to Ser Criston. Or simply break his nose. I'll back whatever story you tell.” The offer is matter-of-fact.
Aemond's gaze lingers on you a moment longer, and then he stands, extending his hand. "Dance with me."
“I haven’t had time to learn any of your dances.”
“Come with me, then.”
You take his hand. His palm is warm, calloused from sword work. The hand of a man who's spent years turning himself into a weapon. He leads you onto a balcony. You feel everyone’s eyes on you as you leave. The foreign woman, the guest of the dying king, now walking away from her feast with the prince with one eye and the largest dragon in the world. You look up at the stars together, then you watch Aemond’s profile.
”You're staring.”
"You're worth staring at.”
Lord Strong watches from the edge of the light, past Alicent's sharp gaze from the high table, past the whispers that ripple through the hall.
Aemond leans closer, his mouth near your ear. "You've made yourself a target tonight. Every woman in this room is wondering who you are. Every man is wondering if you're available. And my brother is wondering how quickly he can get you into his bed. I'd advise you to choose your next move carefully."
"And what makes you think I haven't already chosen? The difference between you and every other man in this room," you continue, voice low enough that only he can hear. "Is that I don't care what they're wondering. I care what you're wondering.”
"You're bold," he says.
"You're evasive. Besides, my boldness got your attention.” You tilt your head at him. “I don’t often share myself or my dreams. Or…” You trail off, not wanting to bring your feelings into it. “I can’t seem to help myself with you. You bring out both my competitive side and a side of myself that I haven’t explored for many years. So? What are you wondering?”
"I'm wondering how someone can look at me the way you do. Without flinching. Without pretending I'm someone else.” His eye holds yours. "And I'm wondering if I deserve to."
You don’t know if it’s the pull he has on you or if you what you felt that night with Vhagar, when Aemond’s consciousness intermingled with yours. "I think you do. Let me keep looking.”
Aemond's eye holds yours. For a moment there's only him, and the space between you. He doesn't speak. But his hand is at your waist and he pulls you, just enough that you feel the heat of him through the fabric of your tunic.
You're slightly aware of eyes on you. Alicent’s sharp gaze from the high table, the whispers of the ladies-in-waiting, the curious stares of the courtiers who've never seen their prince hold anyone like this. But you don't look away from him.
"You're making a spectacle of yourself.”
“So are you. Let them talk.”
"And what will they say tomorrow?" he asks. "That the foreign woman has ensnared the one-eyed prince?"
"Would that be so terrible?”
"You don't know what you're asking for.”
"Then tell me.”
"After the feast," he says, low enough that only you can hear. "The library.
When the castle sleeps.” He holds your gaze. "Come find me."
Aemond releases you slowly and steps back, inclines his head, and disappears into the crowd without another word.
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The library is dim. And there, by the window overlooking the bay, stands Aemond. He doesn't turn until you're close enough to see the reflection of moonlight in his eye.
"You told Myro."
“I tell him almost everything.”
"And what did he say?”
You hold his gaze. "He told me to be careful, but he won’t stand in the way of this.”
"And you came.”
"I did."
He takes a step closer. "I don't know what I'm doing," he admits. "I don't know what this is. I don't know if I believe in soulmates or bonds or any of it. But I couldn't stop thinking about you. About your hand in mine. About the way you looked at me like I wasn't a monster.” His hand lifts, hesitates, then settles against your cheek. His palm is warm and gentle in a way that seems incongruous with everything you know about him. "Tell me what to do with that."
Your gaze drops to his lips. Just a glance. Lingering enough that he notices. "What do you want to do?”
"I want to stop thinking. Just for a moment. I want to stop weighing every word, every gesture, every possible outcome.” He leans closer. His forehead nearly touches yours. "I want to know what you taste like."
Heat poured to your core at the words.
His hand slides from your cheek to the curve of your jaw, tilting your face up. His breath is warm against your lips. "But I need to hear you say it first. I need to know this is what you want. Not politics. Not curiosity. Me.” The library is silent around you. His eye holds yours, patient and burning.
“I want you. I have wanted you since I first saw you.” You're learning to read him, learning the small languages his body speaks when his mouth won’t. His hand at your jaw tightens slightly. Not enough to hurt. Enough to anchor himself.
"Before you knew what they say about me in the corridors?” He searches your face. "And you walked into this library tonight.”
"I did.”
His forehead presses against yours, gentle, his eye closing.
"I don't deserve this," he says. "I don't deserve you. But I'm too selfish to let you go.”
When he opens his eye again, it's dark and bright all at once. His gaze drops to your lips. He says your name. Just your name. But the way he says it, like a prayer, like a man who's spent his whole life alone and has finally found someone worth the wait.
He closes the distance. His lips meet yours. Soft at first, questioning. A test. His hand slides from your jaw into your hair, fingers threading through the strands. He kisses you like you're something he's dreamed and doesn't trust himself not to wake.
You deepen the kiss. Your hand finds the front of his doublet, pulling him closer.
Aemond makes a sound against your mouth. Low. Surprised. As if he hadn't expected you to stay, to press forward, to want him back. His other hand finds your waist, pulling you against him. The kiss turns hungry, desperate. A dam breaking after years of careful restraint. His fingers dig into your hip, like you might slip away if he doesn't hold tight enough.
You feel it in the way his chest rises and falls against yours. In the way his mouth moves over yours like he's been starving. In the way his hand slides from your hair to cup the back of your neck, thumb brushing the line of your jaw.
He breaks the kiss just long enough to breathe, forehead pressed to yours, his breath ragged. "I didn't know it could feel like this.” His voice is stripped of composure. He kisses you again. Slower. When he pulls back, his thumb brushes your lower lip, gentle. "If I had known, I would have found you sooner.”
"I don't want to leave.”
His lips press to your temple, soft and lingering. "Then stay," he says against your skin. "A little longer.” He leads you to the alcove at the window and you sit with each other.
The fire has burned low, orange embers pulsing in the fireplace. Moonlight spills across the floor in silver. The castle is quiet around you. Aemond's hand traces slow patterns on your lower back. "I've spent my whole life alone. Even in rooms full of people. Even at my own table. Alone.” His hand stills. "Tonight, for the first time, I'm not.” He pulls back just enough to look at you. His thumb brushes your cheek. "You don't have to leave until you want to.”
You stay. You don't speak. There's no need.
He doesn't look at you, but his head tilts slightly, his temple resting against your hair. Minutes pass. Or an hour. Time moves strangely in the quiet.
You feel the way his hand tightens fractionally on your waist when a distant door slams somewhere in the castle, and then relaxes again when the silence returns. "I used to come here as a boy," he says eventually. "After my father sent me to bed without supper. After my brother's jests cut too deep. I'd hide among the shelves and read about dragons I couldn't have. I never imagined I'd bring anyone here. And I certainly never imagined this.” He turns his head, pressing his lips to your hair. "You've ruined my library for me, my lady. Every time I walk through those doors, I'll think of you standing in the moonlight."
You look into his eye, holding his gaze. "You say such pretty things for a man with sharp edges.”
His eye widens in surprise. The corner of his mouth twitches, and this time, it does become a smile. Small. Genuine. "Pretty things." He repeats. "I don't think anyone has ever accused me of saying pretty things before.” His hand slides from your waist to your hand, lifting it. He turns your palm upward, studying the lines there in the dim light. His thumb traces a slow path across your lifeline. "Perhaps you're a bad influence." He lifts your hand to his lips and presses a kiss to the center of your palm. His eye never leaves yours. "Or perhaps, you've simply found the crack in my armour.” He lowers your hand but doesn't release it. "I should let you sleep," he says, though his grip doesn't loosen. "You have meetings in the morning. Lords who want to measure you. My mother, who will be looking at you differently after tonight. I find myself reluctant to let you go."
"One more kiss, and then I'll go.”
Aemond's thumb traces the line of your jaw. "One more," he repeats, and there's something almost reverent in the way he says it. He leans in slowly. His lips meet yours. A kiss that isn't hungry or desperate, but deliberate. A kiss that says ‘I'll remember this.’ His hand cups your cheek. His mouth moves against yours with a tenderness that seems impossible. “Tomorrow, will you walk with me? Before the council meets. There's a place I want to show you. By the godswood.”
His thumb brushes your cheek one last time before he releases you reluctantly.
"Go. Before I change my mind and keep you here until dawn."
You pause at the threshold. You turn. One last look.
His lips part, as if he might say something. Then they close again. He gives you the barest incline of his head.
You hold his gaze for one heartbeat longer. Then you push the door open and step into the corridor.
Pairing ⊹ ࣪ ˖ Enemies & Lovers (They don't cross a bridge from hate to love—they burn on both ends at once.)
tw ⊹ ࣪ ˖ slow burn, a little fluff, power imbalance/captivity, dubious choice/coercion dynamics, war & violence references, desperate kissing, angst & emotional manipulation, Aemond is very in character
Summary ⊹ ࣪ ˖ When a misunderstanding drives you to pull away, Prince Aemond finds his composure unraveling against your sudden coldness. Unable to tolerate the distance, he binds your fates together through a vow of protection—a promise he tests by placing you into the arena of the Small Council. But as your unexpected partnership alters the realm's war, it also exposes you both to court scrutiny.
Word count ⊹ ࣪ ˖ a little over 4k again!
Notes ⊹ ࣪ ˖ Part 2 is finally hereee after 3 days of writing, I'm exhausted. I tried so hard to have Aemond act like canon Aemond instead of making him OOC so hope you guys can feel it that way too! Reblogs & comments are greatly appreciated, love u all
Time proved kinder to flesh than it did to memory. The angry purple beneath his skin softened to yellow before disappearing altogether, until there was no injury left for you to tend.
You tucked the last strip of clean linen onto yourself instead of reaching for his wrist. And the small gesture felt strangely final.
The wound had been their permission—his excuse to come, your reason to touch. Now that it was gone, neither of them knew what was meant to fill the empty space it left behind.
Aemond, on the other hand, stayed put.
Some mornings it was a book he insisted had been mistranslated. Other days it was a map spread across the table because he claimed the Riverlands' borders were drawn incorrectly. Once, he spent nearly half an hour criticizing the embroidery on a cushion before admitting, that it was not the stitching at all that had kept him there.
The maps became the most frequent excuse.
At first, you thought nothing of it. The prince had always been a creature of knowledge—of histories, battles, and the careful study of men who had lived and died before him. If he wished to complain about the mistakes of some long-dead cartographer, you had little reason to stop him.
On one evening, when he pushed the parchment toward you and said, "This road cannot be correct."
You glanced down at the ink markings. The route was familiar. "It is correct," you answered.
Aemond raised his head. Not offended but curious. "You disagree?"
"I do."
Few people disagreed with Prince Aemond. Fewer still did so while looking him straight in the eye.
"The crossing here," you continued, pointing to the marked river passage, "will not serve as a reliable route for your men."
His brow furrowed by a bit. "Why?"
"Because it floods after heavy rain. The villages surrounding it have old alliances with one another. A force traveling through this road would be seen long before they reached the first village." A second later, you realized he was no longer looking at the map but at you.
"How do you know this?"
"Because it used to be my home."
The answer should have been obvious. Yet somehow, he had spent weeks looking at the Riverlands without once seeing the people who lived upon it.
To him, it was territory. To you, it was memory.
After that evening, the maps returned often. Though, they were no longer brought only for correction.
Soon, the turning point did not come from Aemond, but from the Hand of the King. Whispers bled through the servants that Lord Otto had begun questioning the usefulness of keeping a nameless hostage whose house no longer possessed lands worth bargaining for. To Otto, you were a problem to be exported, married off to a landless knight in the Reach and there to be forgotten.
But Queen Alicent understood the optics of mercy—and the danger of her son's withdrawn, deepening obsession.
You were summoned to the Queen Dowager's solar on a Tuesday.
Alicent did not look at you with warmth, but with the calculated care of a woman moving a vulnerable piece out of harm's way. A ward of the crown had an expiration date; a servant of the Queen did not.
She had seen the way Aemond silenced her father at the council table—a single "She remains" that left no room for debate. Left unchecked, Aemond's refusal to surrender you would harbor a scandal that tore the court apart.
"You cannot remain a prisoner in the shadows," Alicent had said, her rings clicking together as she laced her fingers. "It serves neither the Crown's dignity nor our grace. From today, you shall reside in the Maidenvault and serve Queen Helaena. You are her Lady-in-Waiting now."
Just like that, the iron locks of your captivity were removed.
Lush satin and muted silk replaced the spun wool of confinement. Freedom, it seemed, could be tailored as carefully as imprisonment. You were given a stipend, a schedule, and the privilege to walk the manicured gardens and lit halls of the royal wing. To the court, you were a shining testament to the Queen's devotion.
Unintentionally, Alicent had placed you within his reach. And perhaps that was the cruelest part. You were no longer his prisoner. So now, before the eyes of the court, you were simply what they believed you to be.
A prince and his lady-in-waiting.
Queen Helaena had not yet learned what to make of you. She did not know what to do with a new lady-in-waiting, especially one who bore the weight of the Riverlands in her eyes. When the Queen Dowager's older ladies invited Helaena to walk the lower gardens, she had accepted with a distant nod, leaving you behind in the sunlight of her solar.
Left alone, you did the only thing you knew how to do: you made yourself useful.
Princess Jaehaera had spent the morning on the matted floor, leaving a scattered trail of carved wooden dragons, brass rattles, and tangled spools of embroidery silk in her wake. You dropped to your knees, gathering the painted toys into a wicker basket, your skirt pooling around you on the floor.
With a creak, the door opened.
You assumed it was a returning maid or a servant and didn't glance up right away. Then, though, you heard the sound of steady boots hitting the ground—a measured stride that always told you the presence of a certain someone.
The boots stopped precisely a step away from your knee.
Your attention followed the line of black leather up to a riding coat, past the silver glint of his sword...until your eyes met a burning violet eye looking down at you.
Prince Aemond.
Not a single sound had crossed the distance between you in a week.
An entire seven days of learning the strange halls of the Maidenvault, of memorizing the faces of servants who knew your name but not your story, and wondering whether the fragile understanding between you had existed anywhere beyond your own imagination.
He smelled of cold rain, oiled leather, and the unmistakable bite of dragon-smoke.
"The Queen is in the gardens," you said, your voice breaking the tension. You remained on your knees, holding a tiny wooden dragon in your palm. "She took the Princess with her."
"I know," Aemond murmured. His tone was gravelly from a week spent riding hard or shouting orders over the roar of Vhagar's wings.
"Then you came to see her rooms?"
"My sister," he corrected too quickly. But he didn't move toward the door. He stood in the same place with his shadow blocking out the warm afternoon sun streaming through the arched window.
Your eyes moved back down to the basket, reaching for a tangled mess of Helaena's green silk thread. "She will return before the afternoon light fails."
You started trying to pull the silk apart, but your fingers—suddenly warm and clumsy under his unblinking stare—only pulled the knot tighter.
Before you could react, Aemond knelt down.
The sheer size of him flooded your space, his knee hitting the matted floor beside yours. He reached out, his long fingers closing over yours to stop your useless picking at the thread.
"You're making it worse," he muttered.
"I was trying to fix it."
He didn't take his hand away, but his eye stayed fixed on the tangled silk between your hands.
It was quiet. Too quiet.
"You were gone a long while," you said. Not accusatory. Just...the truth.
He didn't even look up. "I was occupied."
"Clearly."
One word. That was all. But it carried just enough sting to cut through the air. Aemond felt the implication as he finished loosening one knot, "did you require something?"
You hesitated, attempting to pull back slightly against his grip. "...No."
"You managed well without me."
He was trying to convince himself, to establish the cold logic he lived by. But you couldn't help yourself. Almost under your breath—an involuntary mumble only meant for the floor—you breathed: "It changed more than you suppose."
"Repeat yourself."
"Nothing."
"No, you meant something," His hand stopped moving.
You turned away from his sight, flustered because you hadn't meant to invite an interrogation. "It does not matter."
"It mattered enough to say."
"I merely thought..." you uttered, brushing your thumb over the tangled thread around your finger.
"What did you think?"
"That...perhaps you might have sent word."
It was such a quiet, reasonable expectation. And that was why it landed like a strike to his chest. The truth was plain and exposing: he hadn't thought to send word.
"I am not required to send ravens to my sister's ladies regarding my whereabouts," he responded, his voice dropping to a regal bite. "You forget yourself."
You lowered your head, but you didn't bow down. "No. It is you who has forgotten."
Aemond blinked, clearly taken aback. No one in the Red Keep spoke to him that way.
"You granted me these rooms," you continued, the words breaking into fractured pieces. "These gowns. This title."
You nodded once, a bitter gesture. "You did."
Then came the blow: "And then you had vanished."
Suddenly, speech deserted him.
"I know no one here," your voice trembled—not from tears, but from the burden of your isolation. "I do not know the Queen. I scarcely know Princess Helaena. I have no home to return to."
You looked at him with an honesty that stripped away his title, his armor, and his dragon. "You brought me here."
Aemond forgot the thread as it hung loose between them.
You became responsible for me.
You began to shift, preparing to stand up and leave the solar, to put distance between your foolish confession and the prince.
For once, pride yielded to instinct, and Aemond darted forward.
His calloused fingers caught the trailing edge of the green silk sash tied around your waist—the very fabric of the gown he had granted you. Then the softness slipped slowly through his fingers as you stopped, he didn't pull. He barely held it at all.
And only then did he understand.
"I did not know..." he admitted. I didn't know you waited. I didn't know I mattered.
But before he could say any further, the lingering sound of Helaena's voice echoed down the outer gallery, accompanied by the gentle patter of Jaehaera's tiny steps.
"Look at the beetles, sweetling...it has gold on its back..."
Aemond's fingers reluctantly let go of your sash. He stood up in one fluid motion, his coat sweeping around his boots just as the solar door swung open. "Sister...I was ensuring the guards were posted outside your doors."
Those pale eyes of Helaena switched between her brother's hand, to the loosened silk, then back to his face. She offered a dreamy smile. "The guards are very loud today, Aemond. They sound like storm clouds."
The prince returned his sister a fleeting nod, and stepped out of the room without another word. He did not look back until the door had closed between them.
"Have you taken a vow of silence?"
The question came from behind you, level and unmistakable. Your fingers did not falter as you continued separating the dried purple stems into neat bundles upon the worktable. "No, my prince."
"Then why have I heard barely a word from your these last three days?"
You picked for another stem, keeping your gaze fixed on the rough timber beneath your hands. "I am occupied."
Silence followed—the heavy kind that bear the load of an unsheathed blade.
"I lost an eye," he said at last. "Not my sight."
You closed your eyes briefly. Of course he had noticed.
Three days earlier—you had replayed the agonizing exchange on the solar floor so many times that the words had ceased to sound like your own.
You brought me here.
You became responsible for me.
How painfully naïve those words seemed now. You had spoken as though there were some unwritten agreement between you—some stupid promise that existed only because you had been desperate enough to wish it into being. He had looked down at you as if you were speaking a language he had yet to learn, his pride raising before anything softer could reach the surface.
And then, before you could speak any further—"the guards are very loud today, Aemond."
He had stood, wiped his face clean of every human emotion, and left without looking back. Not once had he sought you out afterward. Not once had he sent for you, or looked for you in the Maidenvault, or offered even the smallest sign that he had heard the horror in your confession.
The realization brewed slowly over those three long days, like dusts settling upon the forgotten furniture in an empty keep.
So, when he crossed the courtyards, you walked another way. When his stride sounded outside Helaena's solar, you found a reason to slip into the nursery. When duty forced you into the same space, you bowed deep, answered only what court rules demanded, and gave him nothing more.
Least of all the intimacy your eyes can give.
And for now: "You are avoiding me."
"I serve the Queen."
"You avoid me while serving the Queen."
Despite the hollow ache in your chest, you allowed yourself the smallest breath of amusement. "I did not know Your Grace had begun keeping count."
His expression shifted—barely—the muscle flexing taut against his pale skin. Before his arrogance could catch it and pull it back, the words rushed from his mouth. "I have."
At last, he let out an angry exhale—the sound he always made when he felt cornered by his own actions. "Cease your sulking. I have been judged unfairly," he growled.
A brittle laugh escaped you before you could stop it. "Have you?"
The pale scar pulled him tight against his cheek. "You misunderstand me."
Right when you gathered your lavender to step away. In one effortless step, Aemond covered the last distance. He didn't give you room to retreat. Instead of seizing you, instead of trapping you with his body, his hands slammed down onto the timber worktable on either side of your waist.
The wood sunk under his weight. He didn't touch an inch of your skin, but he caged you completely, his shoulders blocking out the light from flowing through.
He leaned down, his face inches from yours. "You think you are abandoned," he rasped, looking genuinely rattled. "You think you are at the mercy of this keep."
His arms braced like iron pillars as he fought the overwhelming impulse to reach out and flush you against him. "Listen to me. You entered this castle beneath my name. No one in this keep decides your fate while I breathe."
He tilted his head down slightly, his breath brushing across your lips, smelling faintly of winter mint. He was so close you could feel the erratic thud of his chest, yet he kept his hands to the wood, choosing not to touch you.
"I do not write letters," he said, pausing as if the words were being dragged out of him against his will. "I do not...speak prettily."
He looked almost annoyed with himself—annoyed by the absurd weight of what he was about to say.
"But you will be cared for. No harm will come to you," he whispered, the sentence unpolished and jagged. "Not while I live."
It wasn't flirtation. It was a vow carved in dragon-fire and blood—an oath sworn before a court of empty air and dried lavender.
The promise altered very little at first.
Aemond did not become gentler. He did not suddenly discover easy conversation, nor did he begin lingering at your door with flowers or apologies. He stayed the same impossible prince who spoke in commands more often than questions, moving through the Red Keep like a storm waiting to break.
And still, everything had changed.
The shift was subtle, felt only in the space where his protection fell over you. Lords who had once looked through you in the galleries bowed their heads as you passed. Servants moved with brisk efficiency whenever you requested anything.
In the days that followed, his promise revealed itself in an unexpected way.
A messenger arrived at the Queen's solar just after noon. You expected a summons from Helaena or a request from the seamstresses, but the guard bore the seal of the Prince Regent.
"The Lord Regent requires your presence," the guard announced, "in the council chamber."
A strange tremor ran down your spine. The Small Council Chamber was the heart of the Green war effort—a room off limits to everyone except grand maesters, kingsguard, and powerful lords.
When the doors were pushed open for you, the atmosphere inside was thick with mounting tension.
Around the long table sat the ruling core of the Realm. King Aegon II sat at the head, slouched lazily in his padded chair with a goblet resting on his chest, looking bored and flushed with drink. Ser Otto Hightower sat to his right, his lean face carved from stone, tapping a quill on the map of the Riverlands. The Dowager Queen Alicent sat beside him, her rosary beads weaving through her fingers.
And at the far end stood Aemond.
He was leaning over the table, shoulders squared, both hands planted flat over the wood as he stared down at the Hand of the King.
"...a fool's errant," Aegon was whining as you stepped across the threshold, his voice slurred and grating. "Why send men into the Marches when we can just burn Harrenhal and be done with it?"
"Because Harrenhal is not an empty castle, Your Grace," Otto replied, sounding impatient. "It commands the supply lines from the Blackwater. If we march blindly without securing the river crossings—"
"We lose the grain," Aemond interrupted.
Every eye at the table snapped to you when the doors clicked shut behind you.
Aegon squinted, leaning forward in his chair with an ugly grin spreading across his face. "What is this? Aemond, did you order a cupbearer?"
Ser Otto didn't laugh. He only lifted his head, his eyes settling on you, then moving back to Aemond. "Prince Aemond."
Just that.
Aemond didn't look up from where his eye was at. "The Hand believes Lord Vance will pull his archers back toward the whispering wood. I disagree."
Alicent did not object. She stilled her rosary, her brown eyes switching between her son's rigid shoulders to your pale face, observing. Trying to understand.
Aemond finally raise his head, fixing his gaze to you with authority. "The question was directed to her," he said.
Aegon's grin faded just as Otto's quill stopped above the parchment.
He didn't explain why you were there. He offered no defense, no title, no justification to his King or the Hand. He simply established the law of the room: she is allowed to speak because I say so.
You stepped forward, stopping a pace away from his left shoulder. The burden of the room pressed down on you like steel. Your throat closed up. The knowledge was there—you were aware of every hidden track, every flooded crossing, and every vantage point along the Red Fork because you had grown up riding those hills—but under the dismissive stare of Ser Otto, you hesitated.
Aemond never turned to you and kept himself fixed on the map resting on the timber table.
Slowly, his hand fell behind his back. He didn't need to look. He would not give them the satisfaction of seeing that he needed to reassure you. But his palm remained there, waiting.
It was the closest thing to comfort Aemond Targaryen knew how to offer.
And without drawing a single eye at the table, you slipped your fingers into his open palm quietly. You kept your fingers resting in his secret hold behind his back. A silent agreement passed between you.
Speak. You will not be silenced.
"The Hand is mistaken, Your Grace," your voice ringing out surprisingly clear across the chamber. "Lord Vance will not retreat into the wood," you added, keeping your gaze on the map.
"The autumn rains flood the lower pass by the third turn of the moon. If he moves his archers there, they will be trapped against the mud. He will hold the high ridge near the old watchtower. It is the only ground that remains dry enough for horses."
Aemond resumed to study the map as you spoke, nodding once—not as if he were being convincing, but as if you were confirming what he already knew to be true.
Ser Otto looked down at the parchment, dipping his quill, tracing the narrow line of the high ridge near the watchtower. The Hand of the King didn't argue nor mock you.
But the unsettling realization dawned in the old man's eyes.
Aemond slowly released your hand behind his back. He didn't gloat. He didn't boast. He didn't say a single word of triumph to his brother.
The Prince Regent simply picked up a bronze marker, placed it firmly on the ridge, and moved on to the next order of business, leaving the silence to speak for itself.
The council chamber emptied bit by bit.
You were escorted back toward Helaena's apartments by a pair of Kingsguard, leaving Aemond behind with the maps still spread across the oak table.
Only the Dowager Queen stayed behind.
She stood near the tall window, her hands fidgeting through her green rosary beads as the last footsteps faded down the stone corridor. She waited until the doors closed shut before turning her attention onto her son.
"Aemond."
He knew that tone—calm and layered with the weight of the Crown.
Aemond didn't look up from the map. "If you wish to discuss the grain stores, Mother, Ser Otto has already taken the ledgers."
"You cannot continue this," she said softly.
His hand hovering above the timber as he went still. He looked at her then, his face completely unreadable. "Continue what?"
Alicent offered him the look of a mother who had already unraveled every thread of his mind. "Bringing her into council. Defending her standing before your brother. Giving her access to matters that concern the Crown."
"She knows the Riverlands," Aemond replied, "better than our scouts."
"You know I did not mean that."
The words hung between them, cold and unavoidable. Alicent moved closer, the rustle of her heavy silk filling the room.
"The court is already talking, Aemond. " Her tone dropping into a urgent, maternal whisper. "She is a captive from a defeated house. You are a prince of the realm, acting as Lord Regent. You have granted her an unprecedented amount of favor—and people are beginning to assume an understanding exists between you."
The pale scar pulled taut as his mouth set into a grim line, a fleeting flicker of tension crossing his features.
"You are not a free boy to marry according to affection," Alicent resumed. "Your marriage must serve the realm. Lord Borros has four daughters at Storm's End. A match with Floris Baratheon would secure the stormlands permanently, strengthen the King's position, and—most importantly—she would not give the lords of this court another reason to question your judgement."
She paused, taking a slow breath as she delivered the last ruinous truth.
"You cannot make a wife of a girl whose family you helped destroy."
He never blinked, nor did his voice betray the slightest tremor of heat of defense as he met his mother's eyes.
"I heard you," came his low, even reply.
Alicent searched his pale face, hunting for any trace of the boy who might still submit, but saw only a wall of detachment. With a resigned nod, she turned and retreated, abandoning him to the fading amber light.
Night fell over King's Landing, dead and breathless, bringing no sleep with it.
Slumped in a chair by the fading fire, you pulled the heavy shawl tighter around you, your mind trapped in the memory of his hand—a fierce claim that had anchored you to him before the King.
A tentative knock sounded at your door. The guards outside were under orders not to disturb you after dusk. But still, setting your shawl aside, you pulled the oak door open.
Aemond stood in the threshold.
He was still in his coat and high leather boots, but his silver hair was loose, cascading over his shoulders in slight disarray, as though he had spent the last three hours pacing his chambers unable to settle.
"My prince?"
"My mother is displeased," he rasped.
You stepped back, opening the door wider to let him step into the quiet sanctuary of your room. "With me?"
"With me bringing you to the council."
He couldn't sit. He walked to the center of the room, standing tall and imposing amidst the faint shadows, his hands resting naturally on the hilt of his dagger.
"She believes the court will talk,"his tone was almost distant. "She insists I take a highborn wife before the whispers become something more difficult to silence."
You already knew what you were supposed to be—a captive, a lady-in-waiting, a ghost in his keep. You knew how the world worked outside these stone walls.
"Is it Floris Baratheon?"
"Yes."
"She would be a good match," forcing your voice to remain gracious and steady. "Storm's End is a crucial alliance. It is...politically sensible."
Aemond's chest rose and fell in a distant rhythm. "Would you like me to?" he asked.
"Like you to what?"
He stepped into your space with purpose, bringing the towering warmth of his body against the cold air surrounding you.
"Marry Floris Baratheon."
He wasn't asking if you were hurt. He wasn't asking if you loved him, nor was he offering a romantic line. He was asking whether he should make the choice the Realm expected of him.
"I do not want you to marry her," you admitted.
"That is not what I asked."
You looked straight to his eye, refusing to hide behind courtesy any longer. "I know."
"If I refuse my mother's wishes, there will be consequences."
"That, I am aware of as well."
"The court will talk."
"Will you let them?" you questioned.
Something in his expression changed. You had answered every warning with the same quiet certainty. The tension in his posture gave way to a quiet clarity, as though he had finally been asked a question he had been too proud to ask.
His hand rose, rough and weathered, pausing for a second as if bracing for rejection. You didn't take a step back, meeting his gaze without a doubt. As his fingers rested against your cheek, he leaned down and claimed your lips in a long-denied surrender.
His lips were dry and warm, pressing on yours with pressure—committing the feel of you to memory, sealing the bargain you had both just struck in the dark. A groan broke the back of his throat as he parted your lips, taking your breath, your protests, and your air all at once.
A low moan escaped through his lips as he deepened the kiss, one hand remaining on your cheek while the other settled at your waist.
He didn't pull you violently or push you toward the bed. He held you there, at the exact precipice where political duty ended and forbidden truth began, taking your breath and giving you his own in return.
When he finally pulled back, it was only by an inch.
His forehead rested against yours, deep and grounding, his single eye half-lidded. His hand stayed on your face, his thumb still resting against your skin.
There was no oath left to recite, no political excuse left to hide behind.
Aemond took one last breath, lingering in the warmth of your skin for a second longer before his hand slid down your cheek, brushing your neck gently before dropping to his side.
His eye clear and unwavering in the dying firelight, before turning toward the door and stepping silently back out into the shadowed corridor.
You remained standing where he had left you, your lips still tasting of winter mint beneath your trembling fingers. From the time since he had brought you to King's Landing, you had no idea what came next.
Summary ⊹ ࣪ ˖ In the aftermath of war, grief is supposed to be quiet. But standing as a captive in the Red Keep, you bring Prince Aemond to a complete standstill—not with hatred or defiance, but with a silence he cannot conquer. As the weeks bleed together, a series of unspoken moments begin to shift the tide between captor and prisoner.
Word count ⊹ ࣪ ˖ a little over 4k
Notes ⊹ ࣪ ˖ This might be a slow burn. There surely will be a part 2 and I'm convinced you guys will love it. And I see those requests! I'm working on em ♡ I'd also recommend listening to Maula Mere Maula - Roopkumar Rathod as I wrote this while listening to that. Again, thank you for reading. Reblogs & comments are greatly appreciated
He had prepared himself to become the villain of another story.
When the shadow of Vhagar blotted out the sun over the courtyard, Prince Aemond Targaryen had expected terror. He had expected curses hurled at his head, weeping maidens, and a desperate daughter who would throw herself between his blade and her father's dying throne. He was a warrior by birth, conditioned to meet hatred with harsh, ruthless efficiency.
Aemond stepped through the scorched archway of the Great Hall, dark leather armor gleaming, hand resting heavy on the pommel of his sword.
He had walked through castles reduced to cinders before. None had ever felt this quiet.
Instead of screaming, he found stillness.
You were sitting in a high-backed carved chair beside the dais, your posture impossibly straight, hands folded tightly in your lap. You weren't wearing armor or grand silks—just a simple, muted gown of a house whose glory had quietly bled out over generations.
Your eyes were red-rimmed, the skin beneath them swollen and discolored. A single, frantic tremor ran through your fingers before you forced them still, burying them in the folds of your skirts.
You weren't fearless. You were simply a girl who had already lost everything, standing in the cold ashes of her world.
Aemond's stride faltered. The metallic thud of his boots echoed against the stone, his single eye narrowing as he took in the silence of the hall. His jaw set, searching your face for the panic that was supposed to be there.
"Your house has failed to send word to the King," Aemond gritted out, his voice a raspy threat that usually made grown men tremble. "By order of the Crown, this holdfast is—"
"Could you please lower your voice?"
The words were soft, almost a breath.
The One-Eyed Prince froze mid-sentence. His fingers tightened around the pommel of his blade. "Hmm?"
You couldn’t bring yourself to turn to him. Your gaze remained fixed on your father's still form in the chair beside you, whose pale, cold hand you had been holding for hours.
"My father is asleep," you whispered, your voice shaking at the edges, thick with a shock so deep it left no room for terror. You swallowed hard, finally turning your swollen eyes to the prince looming before you, your gaze lowered to the floor. "And...you're tracking ash into the hall."
Aemond kept still in the center of the room.
He had come to end a bloodline. He was meant to burn the stone and leave nothing behind. Yet as he stared down at you—grieving, composed, and asking him to wipe his boots—the Prince of the Realm found himself with no words prepared.
His hand remained on the hilt of his sword. He didn't draw the blade. He didn't order his men forward.
Instead, he reached out, caught you by the elbow with force and pulled you along with him out of the cold room.
He told himself she was a hostage. Nothing more.
As Vhagar lowered her great, leathery neck, he dragged you ahead of him, securing the iron safety chains around your waist with practiced knots.
You did not resist. You did not plead.
Only once—just once—did you look back.
Not at the castle and nor the burning banners. At the open doors of the hall. As though some part of you still expected your father to wake and call you home.
When Vhagar's shadow swallowed the courtyard once more, it was not victory that followed Aemond into the sky.
It was a question.
Sweat and melted wax clung to the close air of the Small Council chamber, though nothing cut deeper than the blank smiles trading glances around the mahogany.
"A new whore for the dragon's lair, brother?" Aegon sneered from the head of the table, swirling his goblet as a mocking grin spread across his face. "I sent you to wipe out a traitor's line, and you drag back a sad little lamb in dusty velvet. What is she meant to be? Your personal prize?"
Aemond didn't look at his brother. His posture stood rigid, while the pale fingers of his danced a weighty gold coin across his knuckles. "She is a ward of the Crown," he responded, the subtle threat in his voice vibrating through the room.
"A ward with no gold, no army, and no family," Alicent cut in, her voice tight, clutching her Seven-Pointed Star. Her son's stone face was inspected by her dark eyes. "What is her purpose here, Aemond? Aegon is right to question. If she is no longer a hostage, and she is not an ally...what is she?"
The Prince offered no answer. He simply turned on his heel and strode from the room.
The hefty wood door of her quarters didn't slam; it swung open with a slow weight.
Aemond brought the chilling draft of the corridors into the room, along with the lingering tension of the Small Council chamber. Aegon's mocking laughter still rung in his ears. Alicent's pleading eyes still buried in his mind.
"What is her purpose here, Aemond?"
He had nothing to say. For the first time in his life, he had done something he could not justify.
The motion drained from his limbs as he crossed the room in long strides.
You didn't move as he closed the distance. You sat by the narrow window, your hands folded over a blank sheet of parchment. When the shadow of his tall frame fell over you, you merely turned your head.
Aemond's gloved hand caught the front of your collar, dragging you to your feet. The polished steel of his dagger pressed flush against your throat.
Just inches from your ear, he spoke in a hoarse whisper.
"Give me one reason," his lone eye searched your face as he clinched his teeth. "Give me one reason why I should not cut off your head right now."
The blade bit just enough to leave a small red bead.
He waited for the flinch, waited for you to reach for his wrist, and plead for the mercy of the Crown.
A shuddering breath heaved through your chest. Trembling, your fingers gripped your skirts, but you didn't resist his hold. You looked at the steel, parting your lips as your swallowed hard.
"I do not have one, my prince," as your lashes lowered to the thin ribbon of blood slipping toward the toe of his boot. "Forgive me...you'll stain your boots."
Held by a hand that had killed men without a second thought, the knife rested at your neck. But his fingers felt unbearably heavy.
Aemond let out a frustrated groan from the back of his throat—a sound of pure, bitter defeat.
He yanked the dagger back, sheathing it in one precise motion. He turned his back on you and paced towards the door.
In the weeks that followed, Aemond established a rule: he did not cross her threshold.
He had placed a buffer between them—an older maiden named Elsie, commanded to attend to your needs and report to him. It was a practical arrangement. It allowed him to manage a ward of the Crown without standing before the only person who consistently left him without an answer.
He trained and studied history. He sparred with Ser Criston Cole until his palms were raw. Everything in his life remained disciplined.
Except for the end of every evening.
At dusk, his steps carried him down the dark corridor of the Maidenvault. He stopped two paces from the posted guard, and waited for Elsie to step into the hall.
At first, the inquiries were plain and straight to the point.
"Has she taken supper?"
"No, my lord. A few sips of broth, nothing more."
After a fortnight, he stood in the exact spot, his eye fixed on the grain of the wood. "Has she left her chambers?"
"Not yet, my lord."
"Has she spoken?"
"Only to thank the servants when they clear the hearth."
He absorbed the answer in silence, pivoting on his heel before the maid could read his face.
Soon enough, the questions became second nature. "Did she sleep?"
"I believe so, my lord. She asked whether your arm still pained you."
Aemond's movement locked in his shoulders. "What?"
"She asked about your arm," Elsie repeated. "I did not know what she meant."
His fingers twitched against his side. He had sprained his wrist against Cole's shield three days ago and told no one, hiding the joint stiff beneath his sleeve.
Yet behind a closed door, staring out at the bay...you had noticed.
He carried that shift with him through another long week of council meetings. Standing in the hallway once more by the fourth week, weary and stripped of his usual composure, the question escaped his lips before his mind could filter it.
"Has she smiled?"
The maid blinked, silent for a long beat as she looked at the prince.
Aemond caught himself. His jaw clenched as the realization of what he had just asked striking him like cold water. He didn't wait for an answer. He turned and strode away before the maid could speak.
The boundary between them did not shatter; it eroded, stone by stone.
One evening, after a terrible session in the yard where his mind had been elsewhere, Aemond walked the corridor again. He lingered outside your chamber.
He did not call for the maid. He only stood in the dimness, staring at the door, wrestling with an urge to step through.
Inside, you heard footsteps halt outside.
You only wrapped your shawl tighter around your shoulders, attention fixed on the bay. When Elsie opened the door a crack, you saw the prince's shadow disappearing around the corner.
"Was that the prince?"
"Yes.”
You turned back toward the window, a faint crease appearing between your brows. "Did he need something?"
Elsie looked around the empty corridor, letting out a knowing sigh. "I don't believe he knows, my lady."
By then, grief had started to change its shape.
You did not leave the Maidenvault out of defiance, nor out of a sudden desire to explore the labyrinths of the Red Keep. You walked because your room had ceased to feel like a refuge and had become a cage.
So you drifted. Aimlessly.
The servants stepped aside when you passed. The guards posted along the covered archways did not stop you—their orders from the prince had been strict: Do not restrict her within the walls, but keep her within sight.
It took three days for word to reach Aemond.
He was in the armory, adjusting the leather straps over his forearm, when Elsie brought the report.
"She had begun taking walks through the lower courtyards, my lord."
His response was fast and dismissive, "Let her walk. So long as she remains within the Keep, it is of no consequence."
He pretended not to care. Aemond forced himself through his usual routine, stepping into the brisk afternoon air with his sword heavy at his hip as he made for the outer training yard.
He didn't expect to see you.
You were standing under the shade of the grand, arched colonnade overlooking the yard, wrapped in a plain cloak. You stood with your head tilted, watching the dust rise from the dirt pit.
You had only followed the sound of steel.
The ring of iron against iron was a sound that belonged to every castle in the Seven Kingdoms. It was the rhythm of your childhood—the sound of your father's men sparring in the early morning, the scrape of armor being polished, and the grounding background noise of a home that no longer existed.
In the center of the yard, Aemond was in the middle of a fast-paced match with Ser Criston Cole. He moved swiftly, his long blade whistling through the air, parrying Cole's experienced blows with sharp focus. The yard was alive around them—guards cheering, weapons clattering.
Then, as Cole backed off to reset his stance, Aemond turned his head.
Through the subtle haze of dust and sunlight, his lone eye caught you standing under the arches.
You were somewhere you had never been before. Out of your chamber. Just out in the open air, staring directly into the yard.
Aemond didn't call to you. He didn't break his stance as he forced his eye back to Criston Cole, trying to pretend he hadn't seen you.
However, he had lost his pace.
His strike landed an inch too far to the left. He was a second behind in his footwork. Ser Criston spotted the hesitancy immediately. The Lord Commander struck Aemond's ribs with his blunted practice sword in a quick, blinding arc.
The dull thud rang through the yard. Aemond stumbled back, his breath hitching as a harsh sting shot through his side.
Criston's eyes tracked the prince for only a beat before returning. "Again," he said.
Aemond's hold on the blade stiffened as he straightened his back, but his sight uncontrollably returned to the colonnade.
By the time the match ended and the weapons were cleared, you had prepared to leave, your boots making no sound over the flagstones as you walked back toward the inner Keep.
Using the back of his glove to wipe the sweat off his brow, Aemond headed out of the pit and crossed the gallery path. He stopped you just as the colonnade gave way to the narrow doorway, stepping into your path with enough weight to get you to halt rather than blocking you.
The scent of sweat and steel clung to him as he spoke, "Why were you watching?
"I heard the swords," you responded as you raised your eyes to meet his.
"And?"
You looked past his shoulder, toward the empty dirt pit where the guards were sweeping up the dried leaves. "It reminded me of home. My father's men used to spar at noon."
The words settled quietly between them.
Something felt tightening sharply in his chest. You hadn't come to watch him or had been captivated by his skill. You were just listening to a sound that made you think of a dead man and a burned castle.
He stared down at you, searching your face. "Are you afraid of me?" He questioned gently.
You considered the question carefully without answering right away. Your gaze strayed to the armor over his chest, at the hilt of his sword, and then back to his face.
"I think..." you whispered, your voice quieting slightly against the afternoon breeze. "I think I was."
I was. Not I am.
He parted his lips to speak, but before he could, your attention dropped to his right forearm. You paused, fingers clutching tightly at the edge of your woolen cloak. "Does your arm still pain you, my prince?"
For a long moment, Aemond only looked at you.
Five weeks.
Five weeks of asking after you through closed doors. Whether you had eaten. Whether you had slept. Whether you had smiled.
You had never once asked anything of him. Up until now.
"It no longer troubles me," he heard himself answer. The words left his tongue before he realized they weren't true.
You gave a tiny, almost unnoticeable nod. "I am glad."
Moving past him, your skirts rustling lightly over the stone as you continued down the sunlit hallway toward the Maidenvault.
Long after your footsteps had faded, Aemond was still looking at the place where you had been.
The invitation came at dawn, before the sun had fully burned the gray fog from the Red Keep's lower walkways.
When you opened the door to your chambers, expecting Elsie with morning tea, you found Prince Aemond standing in the pathway instead. He was dressed in his riding coat with his silver strands catching the subtle torchlight.
He didn't greet you or ask you how you had slept.
"Walk with me," he said. It was not a question but a demand, yet it lacked his usual authority.
After a few seconds of doubt, you nodded quietly, wrapping your shawl around your shoulders, and went out into the hall next to him.
It was the closest you had been to him without a blade or a dragon between you.
As you turned the corner near the lower battlements, two guards carrying an iron-bound chest came marching around the archway, moving too fast through the gray mist.
"Out of the way—" one called out ahead, turning abruptly.
Before you had the chance to step back, Aemond's right arm shot out. His hand caught your forearm, pulling you firmly back against his side out of the guards' path as they hurried past.
You quickly reached out and grasped his right arm to balance yourself as you stumbled a bit on the wet ground.
A short, strained breath came from Aemond's lips as soon as your fingers pressed into the coat of his sleeve. His hold on you loosened at once. His teeth clenched so hard the muscles in his cheek twitched as a tense flash of pain rushed through his injured arm.
You fell silent right away.
You kept your palm on him and felt the tremble passing through his arm. You glanced up from his sleeve to his face—noticing his pale lips drawn into a thin line, and the slight trickle of sweat on his brow.
"Your arm still troubles you," you whispered, pulling your hand back slowly.
Yesterday, when he had stood under the training archway, he had told you it no longer pained him. You had believed him. You had even begun to think that perhaps behind the Prince of the Realm was simply a man who spoke plainly.
"Why did you lie to me?" you asked, your voice holding a wounded weight. "Why would you—"
You held yourself back when you saw that look in his lone violet eye—struck, defensive, and completely exposed.
Swallowing hard, you suddenly remembered who he was, where you were, and the great sea of blood and war that separated your home from his. The brief appearance of trust was as fleeting as it had been.
You took a step back, lowering your head down to the muddy walkway.
"Excuse me, my prince. I have taken enough of your time." You left before he could process the words, the hem of your skirt swaying around the corner as you walked back, leaving him alone in the fog.
Five seconds. Ten seconds. Twenty.
Until the last sound of your footfall vanished into the wall, the emptiness on the rampart stretched dark and repressive. The first time you had looked at him with something other than grief...he had answered it with a lie.
Aemond reached with his left hand, unbuckling the vambrace from his wounded arm, and threw it into the fog in a single, impulsive move.
The crash of iron against stone echoed across the mist-veiled yard.
Then—total silence.
His anger rashly shifted inward as he stared at the place where the padded guard had landed, his eye fixed on the discarded vambrace, his chest pounding. He had spent weeks holding himself to strict discipline, and in a single moment of weak pride, he had frightened you away again.
Aemond leaned on his heel and headed straight down the hall in the direction of the Maidenvault.
Ten minutes later, when Elsie stepped out of your room carrying a pitcher of stale water, she found Prince Aemond standing outside the wooden door. His hand was unlacing his right sleeve with awkward fingers as he sank back on the cold wall, his faded curls wet from the mist.
The maid stopped, bowing her head in surprise. "My lord?"
"Bring hot water and clean linen to her room," he commanded, avoiding the maid's eyes entirely.
Elsie paused in confusion, "For the lady? She is not injured—"
"For my arm," the prince interrupted, the words clipped.
"Shall I send for the maester?"
"No." The answer came too quickly.
Elsie noticed—his stiff posture, the faint flush climbing his neck, and the way he steadfastly avoided looking at her. A wordless understanding passed through the older woman's mind.
"Tell her the binding has come loose."
"I shall inform her at once, my prince," Elsie murmured quickly.
Aemond stood outside the threshold he had sworn not to cross, waiting in silence for an answer that might never come.
Inside your chambers, the mist clung to the arched window like a shroud.
You sat at the edge of the wooden bench, your fingers laced in your lap, studying the floorboards. The sting of your departure still burned in your chest—the sound of your own voice calling him out on the ramparts.
When the iron latch clacked open, you didn't look up. You assumed it was Elsie returning with morning tea.
Instead, the maid set a bronze basin of steamy water and a stack of clean linen cloths onto the side table. Her movements were unnervingly calculated and slow.
"The prince's binding has come loose," Elsie replied.
You nodded politely, picking up a strip of clean linen, folding it with neat motions, and preparing it for the maid to take back out into the hall.
Elsie didn't take the cloth. "My lady..." she muttered, "he requested no maester."
Your hands hovered over the folded linen.
"He is waiting outside," the older woman added softly.
He lied. He was the Prince of the Realm. The man whose dragon had scorched your home. The man who had dragged you to King's Landing in chains.
But his arm really was hurting.
You ignored the lump rising in your throat, your knuckles turning pale against the soft cloth. "Why me?"
Elsie raised her head in response, her eyes filled with a solemn honesty. "Because he asked for you."
The room fell silent again.
You got up slowly, stepping over to the bronze washbasin to dip your hands into the warm water, soaping away the chill of the morning. You picked up the folded linens and a small jar of apothecary salve.
Every second seemed to drag on forever.
Beyond the door, he waited.
When you finally unlatched the heavy door, it gave a low creak against the stone frame.
Aemond was not standing anymore. With his knees bent and his back to the cold wall, he sat on the damp flagstones. His right sleeve was pushed up over his elbow, exposing the terrible, angry flesh below his unbuttoned coat. He appeared less like the prince the kingdom feared and more like a weary young man with his head resting back upon the wall.
He then heard the creak of the wood.
His eye softly rose to meet yours. His shoulders stiffened the moment he saw you standing in the doorway, and he lifted himself to his feet by pushing his left hand into the ground.
"Please don't," you spoke carefully.
His eye was locked onto yours. Then, deliberately, the tension drained from his shoulders, and he sank back down to the ground.
Carrying the warm bowl and the cloths, you knelt on the flagstones beside his right side. Your palm hovered above the rough bruising for a moment before setting around his wrist.
Up close, the injury was dreadful—deep, mottling shades of purple and sickly yellow bruised the pale skin around his wrist. "This should have been seen by a maester," said quietly.
Aemond looked straight ahead at the opposite wall, his voice still flat and defensive. "It is not broken."
You dipped a cloth into the warm water, wringing it out with care. "That was not what I said."
He looked offended, but he offered no retort.
The heat radiating from the swollen joint surprised you, "this will sting," you warned softly.
He didn't pull away as his gaze flickered down to your face.
"I'm going to move your wrist," you murmured a bit later, cradling his hand gently in yours. "Tell me if it's too much."
You took his quietness as permission.
With a steady gesture, you applied the soothing salve over the swollen area, wrapping clean linen around his forearm before binding the joint securely.
After tying the last knot, you picked the bronze basin and gathered the dirty rags. You rose gracefully to your feet, turning back toward the open doorway of your chambers.
"Why?" The single word cut through the quiet hall.
"Why what, my prince?"
The wind whistled through the outer arrow slits, carrying the scent of rain when there was a passing lull between you.
"Why did you help me?"
You looked at the white bandages covering his arm, then back up into his eye. "Because you're hurting."
The pulse in Aemond's throat went rigid.
You stepped back through the threshold, and the door clicked shut behind you.
Aemond stayed where he was. His newly bound arm rested across his knee. He turned his wrist once, feeling the linen wrapped around the joint.
Then, very carefully, as though afraid it might somehow come undone...he touched the knot with his fingertips.
A Comforting Touch (Aemond Targaryen x Childhood friend!reader)
Wordcount: 3.7k
Genre: fluff, smut, angst, truly the best of all worlds, childhood friends to lovers
Summary: Aemond is miserable, attending the banquet held in his brother's honor, while the lost prospect of his childhood haunts him. But an unexpected attendee, a lady, changes the outcome of his night for the better, and has him realizing that not all is lost in the hazy fog of his past.
Warnings: SMUT MDNI, soft soft soft aemond, skinny dipping, public sex (but no one witnesses), they do it in a pond? trust me on this please, fingering, penetration, clit play, creampie, kissing, aaaaangst
If hatred has a face, it is currently placed upon the neck of Aemond Targaryen.
Banquets do not simply tire him, they enrage him. Especially when held with his cunt of a brother in mind. Aegon, who knows not but one comprehensible phrase of High Valyrian, that isn’t a dragon command. Aegon, who hasn’t one battlescar on his pale body. Aegon, who must wear the crown. Aegon, who must find a queen.
Many years ago, he did enjoy nights like these. When the prospect of the crown seemed such a long road ahead, they could simply trudge along the path and enjoy the journey, without a care in the world. The quiet joy before the storm of tragedy that eventually befell his family.
He does not remember much of the time before. He remembers playing. All the kids in the castle, running through the courtyards and the halls. He recalls young dragons, newly hatched. He remembers a hand. Belonging to someone faceless, reaching out to offer a comforting touch to the creature. Unaware, or perhaps simply unwilling to see, the immense danger it would one day grow into. Did the hand ever reach for him? Yes indeed, for he was sad. So sad and fragile. He remembers swatting the hand away, and giving a warning, afraid the dragon would bare its teeth, or spew its fire, though he knew the creature was much too young to display such an act of violence. He remembers friends. He remembers laughs. Neither has graced the halls of The Red Keep for years.
And that won’t change tonight. All the feasts, banners, fiddlers and wine in the world, could not turn The Red Keep into a home. Ladies from all over the realm, along with their chaperones, pack the throne room like cattle for butchery. That is what the castle has come to. A slaughterhouse, where girls are lured in with food and warmth only to be sacrificed and consumed to satisfy the hunger of the crown.
“He seems to be enjoying himself.”
Somehow, in his hazy anger, Aemond has completely shut out the ability to detect a stranger standing next to him. He looks to you. Like every lady present, you are dressed as if prepared for the gods themselves to make an unannounced appearance. Your hair is twisted, braided and adorned with pins shaped into symbols Aemond assumes have to do with your house. Your dress is embroidered with those very same symbols, in sparkly silver and gold threads and beads that shimmer in the fire lighting up the room.
“How could he not? All this, it’s all for him”, Aemond replies curtly, but he looks not to his brother sitting at the long table placed at the end of the room. He’s busy trying to figure out who you are. Aemond is a learned man, and having studied his history of the many houses of Westeros, the symbol looks familiar, no doubt. Still he cannot recall the name usually written above your family sigil, though he seems to remember the colours you are wearing belonging to-
“I don’t think you heard me.”
His musings are interrupted by you returning his gaze. You nod your head towards Aegon’s seat of honor. Aemond watches as Aegon leans his head in his hands, slouching in his chair as a woman talks enthusiastically to him, no doubt trying to win his approval.
And his brother has the absolute audacity to look bored.
Aemond scoffs, as he repeats your words in his mind, and discovers the tone of sarcasm carefully weaved into them.
“He may be king, but I somehow find it difficult to accept him as any more than a child. A babe, whose only thoughts are of sleep and tits.”
The insult comes to him quicker than the realization that he is speaking to a complete stranger. A stranger who has mocked the crown.
A stranger who he feels inclined to be truthful to.
And truthfully, he does not care who insults his monster of a brother. He is very aware that with one word, he could have you locked up for the rest of your days for simply implying dissatisfaction towards the king. Instead, a sigh of relief escapes his lips as the heavy burden of hatred towards Aegon can now be shared between him and you.
But How? Why? Why are you, this fair and unfamiliar lady, willing to divide this foul weight between you two?
“I would laugh if I didn't think it would cost me my head, your grace.”
So your sarcasm was not a matter of humor, but survival.
“Clever girl.”
The nickname turns your stomach into knots.
Aemond watches you stiffen. Something about your tensing jaw, your eyes fixating on a spot in front of you, delights him. Not in a way that is cruel. He does not revel in your discomfort, for he does not think you uncomfortable at all.
He thinks you are flattered.
The smirk adorning the Prince’s face radiates from him like rays from the sun. You know not what to make of yourself. Suddenly your palms are dripping sweat, your corset feels too tightly stringed and your skin underneath feels as if shrunken. You reach for your gown, just to do something with all the nerves, grasping the fabric tightly.
Aemond’s gaze drifts southwards. You scrunch and rub your hands against the skirts and your fingers are adorned with-
Rings.
He expects to see another jewel decorated with the unrecognizable symbol of your house.
Instead he is met with the image of a three-headed dragon.
On instinct he grabs your wrist, and pulls it closer. Indeed, the sigil of the Targaryens is delicately engraved into the golden jewelry. Has his brother already found his betrothed? Are you a thief, who has exploited the festivities to go unnoticed into the families’ private chambers?
Your response is not that of a thief’s. You are calm. Aemond’s touch has not heightened your nerves, rather it seems to have comforted you.
A comforting touch. A hand. A reach.
A girl.
“You.”
His voice is barely a whisper as memories turn to thoughts and thoughts turn to words, too many words that get stuck on the back of his tongue.
He remembers a hand, wearing a ring. His ring. Like himself, you did not feel at home in The Red Keep. You had travelled far. Everything you knew, you would forget in a couple years time, so he had given you the ring. To make you feel like something more than a ward, a simple visitor. To make you feel as if you belonged.
It was silly, given Aemond didn’t belong either. But he believed you could.
But you never forgot. How could you ever forget that adorable, delicate boy and his sensitivities. His need for a common soul. His affinity for romantics and kind gestures, that you recognized from the dog-eared pages of the books he buried himself in.
“Clever boy.”, you answer, as the very same hand from his newly resurfaced memories, once again, reaches for him. Your knuckles skim the surface of his cheek.
“What have they done to you?”
You reach for his eyepatch.
He flinches.
“Don’t. It isn’t- You shouldn’t have to look upon it.”
He swats your hand away, and like the retracting eyes of a snail, you withdraw it. You take a step back, and his field of vision widens now that you aren’t occupying it on your own. His senses return, and Aemond is now all too aware of the eyes that are on him. Lords and ladies whisper and look over their shoulders at the two of you.
“Meet me in the gardens. Wait a while, people are looking.”
With that he makes his way through the crowd, exciting the banquet.
Perhaps it was a mistake, letting himself be with his own thoughts like this.
A while feels like an eternity as he waits for you in the empty gardens. He writhes his mind like a wet cloth, in an attempt to extract more memories of you, but all he remembers is that day, here amongst the flowers and the bees, with the newly born dragons.
“I always liked this place”, your voice emerges from the shadows, followed by your form approaching him by the pond. “Felt like you were seeing more of the world out here, than you would inside.”
Aemond sits down at the edge of the pond, looking to the water only to find his own reflection staring back at him. He chooses to look at you instead.
“Tell me what you remember.” The truth is he’s afraid of the stories you’ll tell. He’s afraid of what you’ll have to tell about him. But it’ll drive him to madness, to keep roaming his own empty palace of memories. “I’ve tried to recall…Something, anything from our time together but it seems- It’s lost on me.”
You join him by the water, drumming your fingers against the stone edge and furrowing your brows.
“Hm. Let’s see…I remember this the best. And the courtyard, because that was where we were allowed to play, mostly. Mostly, I remember you. And a little bit of Aegon and his torment, but I work hard to not dwell on those memories.”
You look at him. Aemond knows it, though he does not return your gaze.
“I remember the day I met the dragons”, you continue.
“So do I, it’s the only thing i-”
“I don’t think you remember it, the way I do”, you interrupt, before scooting closer to him.
“Everyone was so thrilled. Me included. I had never gotten to be so close to a dragon, let alone touch one. I had been talking about it for weeks before they had even hatched, and you…You had the kindness in your heart to entertain it. You were so devastated, that one of them wasn't yours, and yet you smiled and jumped and laughed along with me at the prospect of them.”
This is exactly what he feared most. That you would remember a happy child of the past only to be met with the truth of the present.
“And look at me now.”
Without warning he rips off the eyepatch, and for the first time in years, he looks at you with a complete gaze.
“Aemond”, you whisper, as your eyes widen at the sight of the gleaming sapphire and the scar framing it.
“The boy you knew, is gone. This is what I am now. A scared man. A monster”, he spews with a voice laced with hurt and anger. You respond with a shake of your head.
“You’re beautiful.”
Aemond watches a gentle smile spread across your face, followed by a familiar sparkle in your eye that he knows means an idea.
“You know what else I seem to remember?”
It’s Aemond’s turn to shake his head.
“Bathing in this pond.”
It takes a little while before your words transform into memories in his mind. Memories of you and him, sneaking out of your chamber and into this very garden, bare feet pitter pattering against the stones before reaching the pond where you would-
Oh.
You turn your back to him, pulling your hair away to allow him access to the buttons on your gown.
“No, we shouldn’t, with everyone insi-”
“You’ve revealed yourself to me. Now let me do the same.” You look over your shoulder. “I can’t reach, Aemond. Won’t you help me? Please?”
Gods, your voice. The way it practically drips with a sweetness incomparable to the juiciest of fruits hanging from the branches above you, puts a pit in Aemond's stomach.
Shaky fingers undo your gown, and let it fall to the damp stones at the edge of the pond. He continues the work on your corset. It’s tedious work, seeing as Aemond’s usual nimbleness and impeccable hand-eye coordination has been lost to the intimacy of this moment.
“I apologize, this might take a while”, he mumbles, embarrassment clouding his ability to speak clearly.
“I’m in no hurry”, you reply, sitting still as the marble statues scattered throughout the gardens, leaving yourself completely in his hesitant control, silently telling him I’ll take you as you are, trembling hands and all.
Eventually your corset is loose enough that you can slip it off and let it join the rest of your gowns on the stones beneath you. You rise to your feet, standing tall over Aemond, as you take your first steps into the water. It’s freezing cold, but you continue your descent, the frigid water soaking your white undergarments, turning them slightly translucent. Upon the discovery that they will do nothing for your modesty, you begin to peel the last of your clothing from your body. Aemond looks away on complete instinct, but finds himself tempted. He can hear you swimming around behind him, the water creating waves with your movements.
“Won’t you join me?”, you finally speak. “Just as when we were children.”
Without thinking, Aemond whips his head around, and before the thought of apologizing for looking can even enter his mind, he realizes you are up to your neck in black water that shields your body from his gaze. His answer is to undress himself, mimicking your earlier doings by entering the water in his white undershirt and pants, only removing them once the water hides his body.
You swim over to him, the proximity of your body to his practically radiating warmth, that heats up the entire pond.
“We are going to get sick”, is the best he can come up with, as the space between you and him shrinks.
“Yes, well. We will be sick together”, you speak with a breath that nearly mixes with his, that’s how close you are now.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Risk yourself for me.”, he sighs.
Your eyes glaze over with something that looks like concern, but is in reality pity.
“Aemond…”, you whisper, as your hand emerges from the depths of the water, once again reaching for his face. And once again, he evades it, by whipping his head to the side.
“Please let me touch you.”
All the confidence from earlier, has evaporated from Aemonds body. Now that he knows who you are, knows you are not simply some too-forward lady fighting for his brother's hand in marriage, he has shrunken and wrinkled like the moist tips of his fingers absorbing the water.
You tilt your head, attempting to meet his avoidant gaze.
“You won’t hurt me, Aemond.”
Something in Aemond’s eyes shifts. His eyebrows cease tensing, his jaw falls slightly slack, and an audible sigh escaping him, as he meets your gaze, his sapphire eye simply a dark orb in the nighttime blackness. The Aemond you knew as a child, is looking at you.
With that, you reach out again, and this time, he leans in. Practically begs for it. Your hand meets his cheek, and he lets the weight of his head rest heavy in your palm. Then your lips meet his. Only briefly, a shadow of a kiss.
“Where did you go?”, he asks against your mouth. You smile.
“Doesn’t matter now, does it? I waited. I came back.” It's his turn to lean in for a kiss, a little longer, a little deeper, a little more desperate this time.
“You came home.”
You shake your head in response.
“I came to you.”
The third kiss has no restraints. Unhinged, free’d like the horse leasing the stables. Aemond holds you flush against him, afraid you will disappear as before, that your physical being as well as the memory of you will escape his grasp.
His hardening cock pokes your thigh mercilessly, yet you grant him leniency by wrapping your fingers around him.
Your hands. They did always hold a certain place in his heart.
He doesn’t endure your ministrations long though, as he pushes your weightless body to the nearest wall of the pond.
“I have wanted you. Needed you. All this time-“
His speaking is without reason or control, the words spilling from him like they are the very water that encompasses you.
“-I’ve needed you, and I hadn’t got a clue.”
You are deaf with want, as Aemond’s hand snake up your thigh, to your cunt. He slides his fingers between your folds, and you’re convinced it is not simply the water making you so wet. Not yet does he gift you your desire. All these years of torment, of living without your precious presence blessing his memories. It will never happen again. He must map out every curve, every wrinkle and spot on your body.
“Shhh, darling. Behave”, he whispers in your ear as you writhe and wail in front of him. He is most sorry of how torturous this must be for you, but there is no helping it.
The shushing is of no aid. Must he follow it with that nickname, and that tone? A moan echoes through the gardens, and Aemonds hand flies to cover your mouth.
“Do you want us to be discovered, hm?”
You breathe heavily against his palm, his other hand still rubbing deliberate circles through your folds, never entering where you need him most. There is a glimmer of mischief in your eyes.
“Oh? Oh. Clever girl wants them all to know. Is that it?”
His words are followed by a single finger entering your cunt. Your mouth falls open, though it is still shielded by his palm.
“Go on, let them know our love.”
He lifts his hand from your mouth, and simultaneously shoves another finger inside of you. Your moans flow freely, letting all the trees, flowers and creatures of the night hear you.
The pace of his fingers remains steady, though not haste, as he continues whispering sweet nothings in your ear, that are not for the trees or even the air to hear.
But as your climax nears, only one sound falls from your lips.
“Aemond, Aemond…Aemond-“
As if you have missed saying his name.
With a final outcry for him, you come undone his fingers, body shaking not just from the cold of the water, but the pleasure washing over you.
Aemond himself can barely hold it together as he watches you scrunch your face in ecstasy, and if he can’t have you now, tomorrow and forever, he knows he will never be truly happy.
“Wrap your legs around me”, he urges, grabbing ahold of your thighs and lifting you so your hips meet with his. You oblige, locking your angles behind his back, resting your arms on his broad shoulders. For a moment you simply stand there, looking into his eyes, relishing in the fact that you are here.
“I have thought of you every day”, you confess, like a filthy secret. Your hands come to cup his face.
“And night. You have no idea, the ways I've touched myself. The way I’ve died small deaths every night, to the memory of you.”
Your face is so full of utter joy, as you look upon him, but it is not an attitude he can return.
“I’m sorry”, he says. “I’m sorry that you have lived as such, while I have existed in forgetfulness.”
You are about to object, but Aemond is quicker.
“But I will make it up to you. I will make up for all these years wasted apart.”
He seals the promise with a kiss so committed, so deep that you nearly forget to enjoy the feeling of his cock entering you. A moan is shared between your lips, and his strong arms wrap around the small of your back, as well as your one thigh. Aemond thinks he might really die from how warm and delightful you feel wrapped around him. Not just your cunt around his cock, but your fingers tangled in his hair, your calves around his hips and the way you are devouring him with your all encompassing body. You are everywhere, occupying every corner of his mind, and after all these years deprived of thought of you, he can think of no better feeling. You have apparently been imagining this moment more than one can count, but for him, it’s all as if being born anew.
The water barely feels cold anymore, the heat from both your bodies shielding you from the freezing pond. The ends of your hair are dripping, your lips turning blue, but you don’t have a care in the world. Sensitive from your previous high, you’re already close to coming on his cock, though you find yourself wanting this moment to never end. This moment where Aemond is pounding into you, nails burning half-spheres into the flesh of your thigh, and he looks just as desperate for release as you do.
“Fuck, I- I’m not going to last much longer”, Aemond manages between gritted teeth.
You nod to him as if to say me neither, but what comes out is simply a string of curses and moans. Aemond reaches for your clit, rubbing circles on it, in order so that you may reach your high together.
We will be sick together, he recalls.
Sickly devoted, surely.
You clench around him as soon as the pads of his fingers make contact with your sensitive prompt, and Aemond can no longer hold it. He spills into your tight cunt, prompting your own climax, as you hold onto his biceps for leverage. You don’t know who’s moans are who's, who’s slick is dripping down your thighs and into the rippling waters beneath you, and you don’t care to find out.
“Was it as you had imagined?”, says Aemond after a moment of silence, between kisses going from the column of your throat to your clavicle. Your comb your fingers through his silver locks, resting them at the nape of his neck and pulling him closer.
“Better”, you mumble into his hair, planting whispery kisses against his scalp and hairline.
“You’ll never leave again”, he speaks against your jaw. “Right?”
You grab his hand, holding it to your lips and kissing his knuckles. His head rests against your chest now, as he pears up at you with the eyes of a starved cub.
