Comfort
summary | Aemond isn't lovable, he never has been. In his insecurity he finds you. He always finds you.
pairing | Aemond Targaryen x fem!wife!reader
tags | not proof read (when is it ever), mentions of death, grief, killing of innocents, war crimes (kinda), low-key shitting writing I'm not gonna play with ya'll. Genuinely just angst
w.c. | 1.4 k
note(s) | Loosely based off of Conan Gray's "Alley Rose". This is literally pulled from my ass cause I wanna write but I didn't know what to write so I'm just going off the dome.
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Aemond was a vice. He corrupted everything he touched and everyone he loved. He made the wind stop singing and the moon stop shining. At least, that was what everyone had told him, or made him, believe.
But you were different. Somehow in this dark and cruel world Aemond found a beacon of light. He found you. You made him feel. Anything. Everything. All at once. He felt overwhelmed with you; How could someone like you-internally unsullied and outwardly unbroken by the horrors and disappointments of life-be so comforting to him, and yet also find comfort in him.
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He laid his head on your chest, his large hands gripping your sides as you ran your fingers through his hair. He closed his eyes, sighing as he melted in the embrace. You two said nothing yet a million things at once. “You’re safe with me.” “I love you.” “You’re going to be okay.” All these things circulated Aemond’s mind instead of the normal, self deprecated thoughts that lead him to do drastic things.
He looked up at you, his eye softening as he caught you already staring at him. He breathed out slowly, his large palm stroking your sides absentmindedly.
“You keep me sane.” He whispered, staring into your eyes as he slowly trailed kisses up your naked body. “Sane…comforted…” He murmured, his eye fluttering closed at the feeling of your soft skin against his chapped lips. “Loved.” He finally breathed out, before resting his forehead against the side of your neck. He’d often do this, breathing words that seemingly didn’t make sense, but felt like small praises to you.
You smiled, looking down at your hands. You slowly laced your hands with his, admiring how they looked together-as if these two specific pairs of hands were always meant to melt into the hold of each other.
“I am glad I can be such a comfort to you, Aemond. Just as you are to me.” You breathed out, bringing his hand up and kissing his knuckles.
“Why?” He asked.
“Why what?”
“Why do you feel comforted by me when I am so broken?”
You paused for a moment, thinking over your answer as you played with his long fingers.
“Broken things can be mended.”
“Sometimes I fear that I am too broken to be mended.” He sighed heavily, closing his eye and nuzzling his head against your neck.
“Perhaps it is the broken pieces that make you Aemond Targaryen. Perhaps it is the fact that you are so easily broken down that makes you the man that you are.” You replied.
“That man sounds weak.” He scoffed, his hands tightening slightly around your hand and waist. He always feared that he would lose you. He would never leave you, you were too precious to him. You were too much of a comfort to him to let go, which in truth, is why he thought that you’d leave him someday. He depended on you and your comfort so much that he feared at times, it could be suffocating.
But you didn’t mind. When you saw Aemond, you saw the broken boy of his youth, deprived of what he could have had; Love, affection, acceptance. You wished to give such things to him. You wished to make him want for nothing, as long as he had you.
“That man sounds vulnerable,” You corrected, pulling away from him slightly to stare down into his lilac eye. “Vulnerability is what carves connection, Aemond.” At your words he hummed, sighing heavily as he replied,
“Vulnerability kills people like me.” “Only if you are vulnerable to the wrong people.” She breathed out, remembering all the times he tried to be vulnerable with his mother, only to have her manipulate and abuse the vulnerability to try and get into her son’s mind.
“Everyone seems to be the wrong person.” He replied.
“Everyone? Even me?” You asked.
“No. Never you.” He answered.
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“You burned down Sharp Point?” You questioned, and the offense in your tone almost made Aemond flinch. Aemond clenched his jaw, holding his hands behind his back as he looked out over the terrace.
“It needed to be done.” “Why? To prove your worth? Solidify the fact that you will stop at nothing if it means to gain something?” You almost laughed at the notion, and Aemond’s anger got stronger. How dare you question him? The Prince Regent, the protector of the realm?
“I have my reasons.” He answered.
“Reasons you have yet to share with me-” “I needn’t share everything I do with you. You have no taste for political jargon such as this.” You scoffed as he spoke, staring up at him in disbelief.
“Political Jargon? Aemond you killed and harmed innocents.”
“The cost of war.” Your heart stopped. You didn’t expect him to be so callous, so heartless when it came to the very civilians that the crown deepened on. Suddenly, he continued, “I must go to Harrenhal.”
“Why?”
“To face my uncle.”
“And if you die?”
“At least it will be done in battle.” He spoke, you softened. Aemond would never admit it, but he did fear death, the great beyond that no one knew about nor wished to experience. You stepped forward, gently wrapping your hand around his. A gesture not of forgiveness-you thought that you could never forgive him, for being so cruel-but a gesture of comfort. Because even if Aemond was a cruel man, he was no monster, at least not in the depths of his heart. And even if he was, monster’s needed comfort too.
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The next morning Aemond would leave for Harrenhal. You watched as he readied his horse to ride to Vhagar. You studied him, looking for any signs of anxiety or uncertainty. But of course, you saw none. Aemond was good at the mask he wore, good at keeping it on but never good at taking it off.
You stepped forward, taking his hand in both of yours. He looked down at your hands for a moment, before he sighed and brought the hand up to his lips.
“I will return.” He murmured, kissing the soft skin of your knuckles. You smiled at the feeling, sighing softly as you spoke,
“I have no doubts that you won’t.” Aemond seemed pleased by this. He leaned down, pressing his lips against yours in a quick, hurried manner before pulling away. He studied you for a moment, not because he was afraid to forget your face in the eye of death, but because he needed a reminder of what he wished to come home to, of what was at stake.
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The news of Aemond’s death came to you quickly, and in the dead of night as you sat by the fire. A guard had come to you with the news.
Your husband has passed, princess. At the hands of Daemon Targaryen.
You felt your world crumble and your very being shaken. He had died, fighting like a true Targaryen. Yet the notion did not comfort you. It did not bring you solace to know that your husband had died like a Targaryen. You had longed for his arms, for his loving gaze and gentle caresses.
Grief did not even begin to describe how much pain you felt. You had lost your husband, your childhood friend, everything that you had based yourself around; your past, present, and your future, gone.
You screamed, as the servants gossiped, for days. You cried until your eyes bled, and you screamed until your throat felt as though it would throw itself up.
You blamed Alicent for making her son like this. You blamed Viserys for never being there. You blamed Daemon for landing the killing blow on your husband. But, you feared that above all you blamed yourself.
You could not have stopped the murder of your husband, nor his inevitable death, but the idea-the slightest notion-that you could have held him back for mere moments, or that you could have asked him to suspend the trip, genuinely anything to make him stay. Yet you didn’t, and the idea gnawed at you.
Not even a full moon after Aemond’s death you died of what only the Maester’s could describe as heartbreak. And in the afterlife he waited for you. And there was light in the darkness again.
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Not proud of this one guys 🫠