You and your 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.
Pairing : You (AFAB) x Aemond Targaryen, You x Myro (no smut between you)
Word Count : 2,091
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 (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 Seven
The days turn into weeks. Council meetings, a visit to Driftmark to see Rhaenys, walks in the gardens, stolen moments in the library with a silver-haired prince who grows less guarded each time you meet. Viserys fades a little more with each day. A fortnight, the maesters say. Perhaps a moon.
This morning, the training ground is empty save for two figures circling each other with familiar ease. You and Myro. Your Xylos-Kala sits heavy in your grip, the curved hardwood warm against your palm.
Across from you, Myro twirls his own weapon once, a cocky grin splitting his face. "Ready to lose, Mel’dari?"
You don't answer. You lunge. The crack of wood against wood echoes across the yard. You're both breathing hard, moving in patterns learned since childhood, the weight of the weapons singing through your arms. Myro is faster, but you're sharper. You know his tells, the way his shoulder dips before a strike.
From the edge of the yard, silver hair catches your eye. Aemond stands in the shadow of the colonnade, arms crossed, watching. The heat of his gaze settles low in your belly.
"Distracted, little river?” Myro's voice cuts through the morning air, laced with mockery. He feints left, then swings right. You catch it on your Xylos-Kala, the impact jarring up your arm. "You're staring.” He presses the advantage, driving you back two steps. "He's just standing there," Myro continues, circling. "Watching. Very intensely. Like a hawk eyeing a mouse.”
You grit your teeth, pivoting to face him. "I'm not distracted.”
"No?" He lunges.
You sidestep, but his club catches your shoulder. You can feel the heat creeping up your neck. Damn him.
Myro grins, wide and insufferable, and drops into a lower stance. "If you want to stare at your prince, stare at your prince. But don't expect me to go easy on you because he's watching.” He attacks again. A flurry of strikes.
You block, dodge, parry. The wood cracks against wood, the sound echoing off the stone walls. From the corner of your eye, you catch Aemond shifting his weight. You misstep.
Myro's club catches your ribs enough to knock the breath from your lungs. You stumble sideways, gasping. "That's what I mean." Myro straightens, resting his weapon on his shoulder. There's no cruelty in his voice, only fond exasperation. "He'll still be there when we're done. One-eyed and brooding. I promise.” He jerks his chin toward the colonnade. "Go. Say hello. Get it out of your system. Then come back and actually fight me."
You step back, rolling your shoulder where his club caught you. The sting fades. You plant your feet, adjust your grip on the Xylos-Kala, and meet Myro's gaze. "I'm fine. Again.”
Myro's grin softens into something more serious. He recognises the shift in your stance. The way you drop your weight, the stillness that settles into your shoulders. He's seen it a thousand times. It means you've stopped thinking and started being.
"There she is," he says. He circles.
You pivot with him, matching his pace.
There's only the space between you and him. The familiar dance. Myro strikes first. You see it in his shoulder a heartbeat before he moves. That same tell you've known since childhood. You slide left, let his club whistle past your ear, and drive the butt of your Xylos-Kala into his ribs.
He grunts, stumbles, then recovers. "Good."He comes at you again, faster now. You meet him blow for blow. Your arms sing with the impact. You feint high, drop low, hook your club behind his knee and pull. He goes down hard. For a moment, on the ground, staring up at the grey sky. Then he laughs. "Alright. You've still got it.” He holds out his hand. You take it, haul him to his feet. He clasps your shoulder, squeezing once. "Better. Much better.”
You're both breathing hard, and from the colonnade, Aemond still watches. You grip your Xylos-Kala in one hand and wipe the sweat from your brow with the other, then cross to the colonnade.
Aemond doesn't move as you approach.He stands with his arms still crossed. He watches you come with that unreadable intensity he wears like a second skin.
You stop a few feet from him. Up close, you catch the faint scent of leather and dragon. "You've been watching.”
"I have.” His gaze drops to the Xylos-Kala in your hand, then rises back to your face. "You fight well. Different from what I'm used to seeing. Where did you learn to fight like that?”
Behind you, you hear Myro drinking from a waterskin, deliberately giving you space.
Aemond is not just making conversation. He genuinely wants to know.
"The Ocotli. My people taught me," you say, hefting the Xylos-Kala in your grip. "These are usually not meant to kill. Only to incapacitate."
Aemond's brow furrows slightly. His gaze drops to the weapon in your hand. The curved hardwood, the heavy stone ball at its end. "Then why carry them at all? You come from a people who carry weapons designed for mercy, and yet you're here, seeking dragons. Weapons designed for conquest.”
Behind you, you hear Myro packing up his gear. Giving you privacy.
"This weapon isn't used much these days. It was to take people for sacrifice." You shift. "To answer your question, I've been both. I'm good at killing. Whether I'm sent to kill someone, or as a form of execution, or on the battlefield. I'm good at it." You don't flinch. You've never seen the point in hiding what you are. The Ocotli don't raise warriors who lie about their hands.
“Good. I'm glad you're good at it.” His hand lifts and brushes a strand of hair from your face. His fingers linger at your temple. "This world doesn't reward soft hands. It rewards capable ones." His thumb traces the line of your cheekbone, something that Alicent would surely hear about. "I'm glad yours are capable." He drops his hand. "Walk with me. There's a view of the bay I want to show you." He leads you through the colonnade. He doesn't speak, and you don't press.
The corridor turns, narrows, opens into a small courtyard you've never seen before. A single, ancient weirwood tree. Its carved face stares out with eyes of dried red sap, watching you pass. You go up some stairs. The stairs open onto a small parapet, high above the keep. The bay spreads before you.
Aemond stands at the edge, one hand resting on the battlements. The wind moves through his silver hair.
"I found this place the year I claimed Vhagar. I needed somewhere no one would look for me. Somewhere I could breathe.” He turns his head, meeting your gaze. "No one else seems to know it exists.”
You move closer to him, closing the distance between you until there's barely a hand's breadth between your shoulders. "Why me?”
Aemond's jaw tightens. He looks back out at the bay. For a long moment, he doesn't answer. "I've been asking myself that since the day you arrived.” His voice is quieter now. Less certain. "I don't know why you. I don't know why it's you. I only know that when I close my eyes, I see your face. When I read, I wonder what you'd think of the passage. When I fly, I wish you were on Vhagar's back in front of me."
He turns to face you fully. His eye is unguarded in a way you've never seen before. "I've spent my entire life being told who I am. The second son. The one-eyed prince. No one has ever looked at me and asked who I wanted to be.” He reaches out, his fingers brushing yours. A request. "You do.” Aemond Targaryen stands before you, stripped of every mask he's ever worn.
You take his hand.
His fingers curl around yours like it's the most natural thing in the world.
"I do.” You lean in, slowly. Your lips meet his.
His hand comes up to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. The kiss deepens until you break away. "I have a request.”
“Ask."
You lift your free hand, your fingers hovering near the leather strap of his eyepatch. You don't touch it. "I want to see you. All of you." You meet his gaze steadily. "But you don't have to. Showing me this place is enough.”
His jaw works, muscles tensing beneath the pale skin. For a long pause, he's still. Then he lifts his own hand. His fingers find the buckle at the back of his head. He works it loose with deliberate slowness, giving himself time to change his mind. The leather falls away. The sapphire catches the light. Deep blue, faceted, embedded in the hollow of his eye socket. The gem is beautiful. The wound that holds it is brutal.
"You asked to see me." His voice is rough. "This is me."
You lift your hand slowly, giving him every chance to pull away. “May I?”
He gives you a slight nod.
You trace the line where the blade caught him, from brow to cheekbone, following the path of the wound that took his eye. “Gevie." (Valyrian - ‘Beautiful.’) The words leave you without thought.
Aemond's eye searches yours, looking for pity, for revulsion, for the flinch he's spent years training himself to expect. He finds none.
“Beautiful. No one has ever called me that.” His hand comes up, covering yours against his cheek.
"I meant it," you say.
His eye closes. Just for a moment. He leans into your palm, his jaw tight, and you feel the fine tremor running through him, a man unaccustomed to being touched with tenderness. When he opens his eye again, it's wet at the corner.
"I don't know what to do with this," he admits, his voice rough. "With you. With any of this.” He turns his head, pressing a kiss to your palm before lowering your hand. He holds it between both of his. "But I don't want it to stop."
"Me either.” You still hold his hand. "What are you afraid of when it comes to us— If it does?” It comes out as a whisper. ”I'll tell you what I'm afraid of.” You pause to breathe. “I’m afraid this war that's coming will take you from me." You hold his gaze. "Because they will try to build alliances. A prince for a daughter is the quickest route to securing power. Your mother, your grandfather… They’ll want to wed you to some lord's daughter, some highborn lady with a fleet or an army at her back.” You say it without pleading. "And I'm a foreigner from across the Sunset Sea. I have ships. I have warriors. I have the favour of your dying father." You pause. "But I don't have a name they recognize.”
Aemond steps closer, his free hand coming up to cup the back of your neck, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. "I don't give a fuck what they want." His voice is low. "I've spent my whole life being a piece in their game. Aemond the backup. Aemond the spare. If war comes, I will fight. I will burn their fleets and break their armies. But I will not let them use me as a bargaining chip to tear me away from the only person who's ever looked at me and seen something worth keeping.” He holds your gaze. Fierce and raw. "Do you understand me?"
"I understand you.” The words are simple, but you mean them with every fiber of your being. You understand the weight of being used as a piece. You understand what it means to be seen as a tool rather than a person.
He leans in, and this time the kiss is different, slower and deeper. His hand slides into your hair, cradling the back of your head. He kisses you like he's afraid he'll forget.
"I should let you go. There are matters I need to attend to before the council meets. Walk with me back to the keep?” The sun is climbing and you both have roles to play.
You slip your hand into his. Neither of you speaks. You emerge into a narrow hall.
Aemond doesn't release your hand.
At the junction where your path splits toward your chambers, he stops. He turns to face you, still holding your hand. The eyepatch is back in place. You hadn't noticed him putting it on, but there it is, the leather strap secured, his mask restored for the world. "I'll find you after the council meeting. If you're not busy being taught a lesson by that brute of yours in the yard again."
He lifts your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles. “Thank you. For today. For all of it." He releases your hand, and for a moment, he lingers. Then he turns and walks away.
You watch him until he disappears around the corner.
I enjoy Aegond reunion and that brotherly "imbecile" as much as the next girl, but why is Aemond the only one made to feel remorse and acknowledge his wrongdoings. Will Aegon and the narrative ever acknowledge Aemond was also mistreated and taken to brothel by Aegon to be SAd??? Then again there is the ambiguous Alicent/Alys scene where it's unclear if he got SAd again. But now Alys is revealed to be lonely, tortured soul, a mother cursed for trying to save her son, so we are to forget about her isolating and possibly SAing Aemond?
This whole season felt like a long humiliation ritual for Aemond. I'm glad the actor got to do more range instead of just smirking menacingly, and that Aemond got more humanising moments, but half the stuff wasn't even explored properly and just felt like "its his turn to be dismantled and shown as scared boy". I can't believe we didn't get him and Cole meet at all, or more exploration on him realizing Alicent tried to kill him. It was just short and used to make him grovel to Aegon and get him closer to Alys. And of course, he gets called an idiot, an imbecile and manipulated at every turn.
