little list of answers <- what I will and will not write :)
some things may be nsfw or 18+ minors do not interact
CALL OF DUTY
🌿Tear You Apart - König (unfinished)
König meets the new recruit from the states and he's dark, somewhat jealous but allll hers, watch them navigate their new relationship.
-swf-> Part 1 -nsfw-> Part 2 -nsfw-> Part 3 -nsfw-> Part 4 -nsfw-> Part 5 -sfw-> Part 6 -nsfw-> Part 7
🌿Locked on Target - Simon "Ghost" Riley
You've worked alongside the 141 for a year now and your festering infatuation with the infamous Ghost is slowly eating you alive, pushed to confess by none other than Soap will Ghost leave you in the dust of rejection or swallow you whole?
🌿Nightmare - Simon "Ghost" Riley
Simon suffers from a bad nightmare, he draws you close to avoid you from slipping away.
🪴Call the Doctor, I'm in Love - Johnny "Soap" Mactavish
Soap has a big ol' crush on you, the 141 and base medic, he’s not sneaky or quiet about it. Here are the many times he has drooled over you and the one time you said yes.
🌿Soap with Secretary girlfriend
🌿Ghost & König with secretary girlfriend
🌿Knight!Ghost x Princess!Reader
🌿Knight!Ghost x Princess!Reader Drabble (NEW)
🌿Captain Price Headcanons
🌿Ghost Headcanons
🪴Soap and Gaz Battle Buddy Headcanons
🪴141 & Konig with Tall!Fem Reader
🪴141 x Reader with a Medusa Tattoo
BAULDERS GATE 3
🪴Astarion Headcanons
🌿(Astarion, Gale, Wyll, & Halsin) overhears fem!s/o saying their name
🌿(Zevlor, Dammon, & Rolan) overhears fem!s/o saying their name
🪴(Astarion & Gale) finding out fem!s/o has self harm scars. TW!
🪴Tav can't read a map
🪴Halsin & Astarion with a Plus-Size Reader
The Walking Dead
🌿Daryl Dixon Headcanons
DC
🪴Gotham Under the Lights - Bruce Wayne/Batman
As a starving artist, you are constantly drawing your hometown of Gotham, especially at night, and as of recently you’ve become enamored by getting a look at the infamous Batman so he can be your latest creation.
As a starving artist, you are constantly drawing your hometown of Gotham, especially at night, and as of recently you’ve become enamored by getting a look at the infamous Batman so he can be your latest creation.
A Song of Ice and Fire (Game of Thrones Univese)
🌿Missionary so we can keep arguing - Aerion Targaryen x reader (drabble)
missionary so we can keep arguing - aerion targaryen
18+ smut, jealous aerion
just a little drabble, lmk if you’d like a full fic of this!!
—
It’s not enough that Aerion Targaryen argues day and night with anyone that looks at him sideways, or normal ways- or even worse, dared to look at what is his, you of course. It’s just that he’s so fucking stubborn he doesn’t know when to quit. Even when he’s currently driving into his lady wife so well that the poor guards stationed in the hall are once again subjected to this nonsense.
“Mph- Aerion I just- fuuck I don’t understand why you insist on continuing this here and now~”
Your voice wavered at the last bit, he hit that spot on purpose, he enjoyed watching you struggle to keep up that frustrated look towards him, to maintain the anger.
“He meant it could you not tell?”
He replied in due time without missing a beat, a thrust after every second word, driving the wind from your lungs and the sense from your skull, his goal in the end, and that stupid smug smile was pissing you off
“He should know you are mine by right before all the fucking gods, the seven, the old, the new, fuck- even the gods of Valyria, I should have his fucking eyes out for even looking at you”
His grip on your hip tightened, somehow the violence in his words drove him to push harder within you, you imagined he was envisioning a world where he was a dragon incarnate and all had to watch as he took you. But your mind made truly little sense as his cock prodded that sweet spot within you that drenched the sheets
“Mm you’d like that wouldn’t you, me killing that fucking cretin for you-“
You shoved his face away, planting a hand on his mouth and pushing his head to the side. For which he bit your palm.
okkkkay but like... Aerion was pissed at Maekar for making his marry someone of "lesser" status than that of the blood of the dragon, but then Lady Stark comes and literally dog walks him and has him eating out of his hand because she doesn't take any of his shit and will force him to apologize and use his brain....
might be ooc Aerion..well definitely but hey it's fun.
->A/N: A little something to combat my endless writers block
Since the night of her attempted assassination, she requested a knight be present by her side at all times. A wise decision many agreed. She had the pick of the litter, many knights vying at the chance to prove their worth by protecting her. She chose him out of all of them, the Ghost. She demanded he be in every room she was in, still scared from the attempt on her life. Even within the dim lights of the bathing room, there he stood, right on the cusp of the room.
He would lavish in the way the candlelight danced on her skin. The steam of the water coming off her skin like she crawled right out of hell just to torment him, to fill his mind with carnal sin. But he stood still just on the other side of a sheer curtain, leaving little to the imagination. The steam warming his armor and in turn himself. Sweat dripping on his skin within the metal, chainmail growing uncomfortable, but he could bear it.
The multitude of candles strewn around the room illuminated her in a godly way, he was tempted to get down on his knees and worship her as she was. But he was sworn to protect, lest the King calls for his head. His eyes are veiled by the helmet, making him appear more as a statue than a man.
She yearns to tempt him, see how much he can endure before that knightly training is cracked and thrown out her tower window. To pull the armor piece by piece until he’s revealed to him as she is to him now would rival any romance poetry or gossip she's ever heard. A fantasy is what it is.
His touch was original sin, tongue gracing the side of your neck like hellfire. That’s where you were going right? For indulging in awful terrible fantasies of a man who could never be betrothed to you. One so near yet far. He was unlike others. Standing guard day and night, still as a shadow unless he was walking behind you, eyes forever scanning for danger, for an opportunity to pay the ultimate price and lay down his life for yours, the most noble sacrifice.
Unlike the princes you were presented in front of at banquets, he always stood there unmoving, as you were shown possible future husbands. None of them you wanted, but it would be foolish to run to your father and mother and proclaim your infatuation for a knight. You would be mocked and ignored. Your fate was sealed, a marriage already brokered long before your birth as a way to form an alliance with another kingdom. You pray each night to be rid of these fevers of a man who you know nothing about. A man who you could never touch, but his dark eyes, you get drunk on them. They are more intoxicating than any ale that could ever be crafted. Yet no gold could buy you such a gift.
Rating: M | This is smut! No one under 18, Minors DNI!
Summary: From the age of ten, your heart has belonged to Aemond Targaryen. As the factions of your family wage war, each fighting for the crown, all you want is to love the man you chose. | Ft. "You think I wanted to fall in love with you, of all people?" Requested by @niamh11
Warnings: Targcest, doubt, war, death (mentioned), dragon fire, inaccurate Targaryen marriage rites, PinV, oral (f!receiving), Harrenhal, light drugging (nothing happens while drugged, just sleep; only briefly mentioned). Aemond and Reader are 20.
Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!Targaryen Reader (Daemon's Daughter, Unspecified Mother - not Rhaenyra)
Word Count: 11.5k (I don't know, I blacked out)
HotD Taglist
For weeks, it felt as if every breath was filled with the scent of damp earth, the smoke of dragon fire, the copper tang of blood, or the char of wood and bone. Each was heavier than the last, harder to draw and less likely to fill your lungs, but you continued to fight to catch your breath with every moment that passed.
The stench of war, now hanging heavily over the entirety of the realm, made itself at home in the fabric of your clothes, the strands of your hair, the very pores of your skin. It haunted you in your sleep, lingered just around every corner and refused to allow you a moment of peace. Despite your reluctance to fight, to watch the realm tear itself apart, it slowly consumed every piece of your life. But the stench, while maddening, meant that you were still alive.
For now, anyway.
Once, only a few short moons ago, towns and villages near the Kingsroad found themselves on the verge of prosperity. Their proximity afforded them the coin of travelers, of weary men wandering through the realm for one reason or another and sellswords looking for work - or, more often, debauchery. None were as large as Oldtown or King’s Landing, none quite as prosperous, but it was more than could be said for other villages. There was food to eat, coin to be earned, and fun to be had; just enough for the inhabitants to consider themselves lucky.
Unfortunately, their luck only extended so far.
The all-consuming threat of dragon fire often loomed over the realm. There were many who were raised to fear the ancient beasts - and rightfully so, for their not so distant ancestors perished in flames - but, for many, the threat seemed far off.
Until smoke filled the skies and the threat that once seemed so distant now swallowed them whole.
Blackened land surrounded you at every turn. Fields, once filled with crops, reduced to nothing more than a pile of ash; pastures, once teeming with livestock, a final resting place for cleaned bones; ponds, once a source of water for the bustling village, still bubbling as it boiled. Once great buildings were nothing more than rubble, mere pieces of stone marking where they once stood, and the streets were littered with bodies still smoking.
Though the sight was growing familiar, you could still feel the bile raise in the back of your throat as you stepped across cobblestone paths in search of any survivors. The beat of your heart echoed in your ears, hammering so hard inside your chest you worried it might crack a rib, and you struggled to even your breathing as you gripped your sword.
There was no need to guess who had lain waste to the lands, no need to question those who managed to flee, those who would spend the rest of their lives searching the skies in fear. It was obvious whose work this was and your father had little problem reminding you.
“I suppose your beloved did not deem this attack worth discussion upon your last meeting,” he sneered, toeing at a large piece of melted metal. “Tell me, what is it you see in him; his devotion to senseless violence or his shameless predilection for leaving nothing but death and destruction in his wake? Your devotion to him is… baffling."
For a moment, it felt as if your heart stopped. While he had not spoken of him as anything other than a nuisance, a proverbial thorn in his side, since his refusal to allow you to marry, it was of little surprise to you that your father knew your heart still belonged to him. Most turned blind eyes - some willingly, with no desire to speak aloud your transgression; others simply allowed you to go unnoticed, expecting this behavior from the eldest child of the Rogue Prince - but you should have known there was nothing you could hide from him.
“I have loved him since we were children,” you reminded him, needlessly. “I cannot simply stop. As for what I see in him, I would say that I saw you, father,” you began, voice thick with emotion, “but something like this would require you to sully your own hands.” Despite the knot in your throat and the tears stinging the backs of your eyes, you carried on, hoping he couldn’t hear the shake of your voice. “Aemond’s crimes are his own. Yours are carried out by men who have the misfortune of trusting you.”
Daemon Targaryen had always been noted for his prowess in battle, his cunning, his silver tongue, his enjoyment of Flea Bottom. Rarely was he noted for his even temper or his devotion as a father. He loved you, and your siblings - of this you were almost certain - but you considered it evident when he chose to reach for you, hand clasped in a viselike grip on your throat, rather than his sword the moment the words left your lips.
“Mind your tongue,” he ordered, voice a low rasp as his violet eyes narrowed. “This,” he hissed, gesturing to the carnage you stood amidst, “is the work of a weak, pathetic little boy throwing a fucking tantrum. He wants war, he wants blood, he wants the crown; he knows nothing of the reality. He has chosen to burn his own kingdom for a chance to play king now that his drunken, usurper cunt of a brother has disappeared and were it not for Rhaenyra, for you, I would let him.” Daemon paused, his grip tightening on your throat - earning a sharp gasp, a desperate scrabble of your fingers, nails digging into his forearm - as his gaze burned into yours. “I once saw myself in Aemond,” he confessed, voice softening, “though there is one grand distinction. I would sacrifice the world for Rhaenyra, for our children, for you. Aemond will sacrifice you the moment you no longer serve his purpose."
A single glance around the village, around the dozen other villages you’d flown through on your patrols - on your search for Aemond, for Vhagar, for any sign of an impending Green attack - confirmed that your father spoke the truth. The Aemond you loved was long gone, replaced by a man desperately clawing for the power that now seemed well within his grasp, but you were your father’s daughter.
Dragon rider since ten, skilled with a sword, intelligent, comely gifted with a mind for strategy - it was oft whispered that you were a mirror of Daemon Targaryen. The best, and some of the worst, parts of your father were passed directly to you. And, unfortunately, that included his predilection to stubbornly listen to the thrum of your heart rather than reason.
“You act as if you have the right to shame anyone, as if you have not sacrificed many and more in the name of getting what you want,” you reminded him, nails sinking into his skin and drawing blood. The rasp of your voice was quiet, almost a whisper, but it carried through the hauntingly empty ruins as you searched his face for any hint of understanding. When you found none, you pleaded, “What would you have me do, father? Tell me, please.”
“Return to Harrenhal,” he commanded, releasing his grip on your throat, gaze never once leaving yours. “I will join you on the morrow.” For a moment, you stood toe to toe - jaw working as you contemplated speaking, wondering if you could push words past the sudden dryness of your mouth - before Daemon turned. “That is a command. Go.”
Without sparing you a second glance, Daemon stalked across the field to mount Caraxes before beginning his ascent.
Rather than immediately following the harsh command, one he would almost certainly apologize for in his own way - with an embrace, most likely, or a tale of his youth - you allowed yourself a moment. With little regard for your armor, for your sword, you sank to your knees and pressed your palms into the scorched earth and reflected on how exactly you found yourself with an aching heart.
For much of your life, your heart beat for Aemond Targaryen.
As the eldest daughter of the Rogue Prince, Lords and knights from all parts of the realm - princes from Dorne and the Free Cities - all vied for your hand, once upon a time. With every tourney or feast you attended, you were inundated with glances and introductions. Each conversation included boasts of riches and land, of family titles and pedigrees. Daemon found it intoxicating, waiting for the perfect proposal to be made, while it all mattered none to you.
The idea of marriage was one you disliked, but one you knew would become reality sooner rather than later. As a Targaryen, there were but two possibilities: your marriage would serve as a political alliance, your husband chosen for the connections he could bring the crown, the resources his house could provide; or you would marry another Targaryen, a member of your own house who could ensure your name and bloodline carried on.
Neither was appealing but a political marriage always seemed the most likely option as you viewed it as the only way your father could win favor with his brother. It was an eventuality you were prepared for as your brothers were young, and betrothed, while you knew little and less of your cousins.
Visits to the Red Keep were few and far between, only possible when your father and uncle found themselves in good spirits - or at such odds that a conversation was necessary - and even less frequent upon your father’s marriage to Rhaenyra. Alicent Hightower’s children mattered little to you at first, their existence often forgotten as you followed your father from this exile to that, but everything changed the moment Aemond claimed Vhagar.
Funerals - too many of which you’d witnessed in such a short existence - never sat well with you. They served as a reminder that while House Targaryen sat high atop the Iron Throne and soared through the skies on the backs of ancient beasts, none could escape the Stranger’s eventual embrace.
Mortality felt too heavy a thought for one so young but it was the ever present reality.
On a day that felt so heavy, so sobering, you were surprised to find any joy at all. There was so much anger, so much tension, so much sadness, that you wondered how anyone would carry on at all. But somewhere, amidst the depths of despair, you stood in awe of the timid boy who once had trouble looking you in the eye as he mounted the oldest and fiercest dragon you knew.
Aemond’s joy was almost palpable that night. His relief at having claimed a dragon - the dragon - set you at ease, thrilled you almost more than claiming your own dragon, and you watched happily as he circled Driftmark. Vhagar carried him around the island and their cries, his of triumph, carried on the wind. It filled your chest with a warmth you’d never known, a joy that felt almost suffocating. The sight of him, fearless and finally free of the cruel teasing of his brother and yours, endeared him to you in a way you never bothered to examine.
Upon his return, a split second after his feet hit the sand and your eyes met, you pulled him into your arms. With one embrace, you saw a future, a life of love - of joy, of dragon rides and quiet evenings - and you hoped he might feel the same.
It was fitting, you supposed, for the love story you always wished for to be marked by fire and blood.
The first and only time you hoped that you might marry for love while fulfilling your duty to your house ended in bloodshed. Though you were both but ten years old, you learned an important lesson; hope is not meant for a Targaryen.
Driftmark, in hindsight, began it all - the start of your love story, the seeds of ruin that would someday fell it - but you were nothing, if not stubborn.
Despite the events of that night, despite your father marrying Rhaenyra and the boys becoming your brothers, Aemond knew you shouldered no blame. Though he wanted an apology, an acknowledgement of wrongdoing, he was satisfied; an eye for Vhagar, of all dragons, was a worthwhile price to pay, that much he confided in the first of many letters you shared.
The letters were flowed easily and, though most contained trivial thoughts that mattered little to anyone but the pair of you, they meant the world to you. For the first time in a long time, you felt content - happy, even.
As you grew older, you understood little and less of the rift between your family. Your relationship with Aemond was easy, almost effortless, but everything else seemed so needlessly complicated. There were apologies owed and egos too fragile to repent for past sins; a simple problem with an even simpler solution. However, it seemed as if all were too self-involved to see the simplicity.
Viserys, with his ailing health and reputation as peacetime king, wanted nothing more than for peace amongst his own family.
For all the harsh words and bitter distance, for all the sleepless nights and long fights, for all the accusations and moments of mistrust, Viserys and Daemon truly loved one another. There was nothing, in the end, that could destroy their relationship.
That was why, you supposed, when Viserys suggested it and you insisted, Daemon agreed to send you to ward in King’s Landing.
The gesture was one, both you and Viserys insisted, meant to unite your families. Your willingness to step into a proverbial viper’s den, however, did little to ease the tension that grew so thick you feared it may someday choke you.
In hindsight, you knew the damage was already done. The groundwork for the coming war, the brewing discontent and deep mistrust, was laid long before you entered the picture. Perhaps it was naivety, or a brotherly desire to make up for past mistakes, that lead Viserys to believe the decision would invoke fondness between the halves of your families - or perhaps less bloodshed when the reckoning finally arrived - but a Dreamer he was not.
Most believed disaster loomed over the Red Keep but none could have predicted just how horrifying it would be.
Upon your arrival to the Red Keep, you were reminded of how long it had been since you wandered its halls. Little of your childhood was spent there, visits grew fewer and farther between, but very little remained of image your mind conjured. There was no warmth, no cheer, no comfort. Though autumn had scarcely begun, the bitter cold of winter already enveloped the Keep and its inhabitants.
Viserys himself hailed your arrival as a cause for celebration. Helaena, too, found joy in your presence as you served as her closest friend and confidante. Aegon, now eight-and-ten, all but ignored your presence, as did his mother. And the one you missed the most seemed most outwardly indifferent to your presence.
Aemond spoke less than he did as a child, his words carefully measured, though his confidence had grown with him. He carried himself in a manner befitting a prince, with set shoulders and a keen violet eye scanning his surroundings at every turn. And while his brother spent his days deep in his cups or between the thighs of paid women, Aemond’s days were spent honing his abilities. He trained with Cole in the yard, studied with the maesters in the library, and listened intently to every conversation he could catch regarding matters of the realm.
Though you spoke often through raven, the comfort did not quickly or easily extend to face-to-face interactions.
Despite the initial tension that arrived with you from Dragonstone, Aemond graced you with his presence more often than not. He sat with you in the library, body occupying the seat beside yours despite a handful of empty chairs scattered about the room, and went flying with you as often as you wished. At mealtimes, he sat at your side - his violet eye trained on you, observing but rarely speaking more than a handful of words - and walked the gardens with you after breaking your fast.
There were moments of bitterness, bouts of anger where your tempers flared - particularly in the beginning, and often because of one sibling or another - and more moments spent hurling cruel words at one another.
But with every moon that passed, you settled into a life far different than any you could’ve imagined. And with every moment spent by Aemond’s side, you knew it was love - real and true - you’d found all those years ago. Love lightened your spirit, brought you a warmth and a comfort you never knew existed, and joy found you despite the chill of the Red Keep. Aemond was the one you wanted and, delighted, you learned he felt the same.
Yet, neither of you forgot that hope was more dangerous a beast than any dragon.
Hope abandoned you both as you sought permission to marry. Though Viserys was overjoyed, thrilled by the prospect of uniting the family through the joining of your hands, there were few others who shared his enthusiasm. The factions of your family agreed on little as of late but Alicent and Daemon found themselves in agreement at long last; both would sooner see their children miserable, alone or trapped in loveless marriages, than allow them to marry.
It seemed as if everyone, save Viserys, shared the sentiment. And, as you gathered for what would - unbeknownst to you all - become the last supper, none were shy about sharing it.
Piece by piece, the future you foolishly allowed yourself to imagine shattered into shards that pierced your heart deeper and deeper. With every argument against your betrothal, with every sharp word uttered and eventual punch thrown, you felt the fate you desperately hoped to avoid closing in on you. And as your family disappeared from the Red Keep, eager to return to Dragonstone - with a parting command that you begin preparing to join them - you took to the skies to ruminate.
Naively, perhaps, you imagined you could have won them over.
There were a thousand arguments to be made in support of your marriage to Aemond, the least of which was the love you shared. Though Daemon mistrusted his nephew, he would’ve seen reason - someday, perhaps - that Aemond loved you, that he would never cause you harm. Though your brothers disliked Aemond, the result of childhood animosity fed to you all by adults, you could have shown them how happy Aemond made you. And though Rhaenyra found herself wary, she knew your marriage would provide stability and comfort to Alicent upon her ascension.
If only Viserys had lived just a while longer.
Viserys’ death had long been a matter of when. In the immediate aftermath, you found yourself wondering how things might have changed had Rhaenyra remained at the Keep - if he’d died sooner rather than later, if she’d been the one to share his final moments. But there was little time to dwell when you suddenly found yourself considered an enemy to the crown.
One moment, you were lingering in the Dragonpit - Aemond’s hand on your cheek, his forehead pressed to yours as he assured you there was nothing that could keep you apart - and the next, members of the Kingsguard were dragging you through the Keep to lock you in your room.
For several long hours, there was no explanation. Aemond was kept from you, sent from the Keep in search of his brother, and you were kept under strict guard. Despite the silence, you knew with great certainty that Viserys was dead and your stomach churned with fear of what was to come. And despite yourself, you held desperately to the hope that the great houses would remember their oaths to uphold Rhaenyra as the rightful heir.
Abandon all hope, should you wish to survive.
None knew what Otto Hightower intended to do with you - for it was, most certainly, he who masterminded Aegon’s ascension and he who planted the seeds of mistrust in you as a suitable match for his grandson - but you considered yourself blessed to escape that fate, nonetheless.
A knight of the Kingsguard facilitated your escape, granted you and Rhaenys the freedom necessary to flee King’s Landing. Rhaenys herself facilitated the liberation of your dragons, neither of whom you intended to leave without. And in the blink of an eye, every aspect of your life changed. War was nigh, closer than ever before, and though you escaped the Red Keep, hope held you prisoner.
For a blissful moment, little of your relationship with Aemond changed.
There were ravens - messages written in High Valyrian, now of greater significance than ever before - and meetings arranged in secluded woods. There were longing glances exchanged, fleeting touches and soft kisses, embraces you once refused out of some sense of propriety. Words of love were whispered and promises, bound to be broken, were made. There was even a dream, only spoken under cover of darkness, of finding a septon to marry you in a desperate bid to end the war before it began in earnest. But the storm itself had only just begun.
The question was never when, nor if, blood would be drawn; it was always who would draw it. Most feared it would be Daemon, or perhaps Aegon - both quick to anger, to act, desperate to prove themselves. But it was of little surprise to anyone, save you, that it was Aemond who began the Dance.
Whispers filled the land and the halls of Dragonstone echoed with the title that chipped at the already shattered pieces of your heart; Aemond One-Eye became Aemond the Kinslayer.
Most believed it was a deliberate act, retribution for the eye Lucerys stole as a boy. Others, an act of provocation to draw Rhaenyra out of hiding. Regardless of motive, nearly all found themselves in agreement that Aemond committed the most grievous sin. Though it was a compelling argument, one you found yourself struggling to deny when Jacaerys confronted you, you hoped it was not true.
Aemond longed for an apology, an acknowledgement that he was wronged. That much you knew to be true. But he was not a murderer, not one to cut down a child in cold blood.
Three long months of piecemeal battles followed Lucerys death - Visenya’s death - and, despite the damage done and the fear beginning to grip the realm, there was little to be done to keep you away from Aemond. You continuously found one another, seeking solace where you knew it was guaranteed, and he swore Lucerys’ death was a tragic mistake. He apologized, sincerely, and you believed him.
Love, perhaps, was more dangerous than hope for it could make even the sharpest eye blind.
As you glanced around the village, reduced to nothing - to ash, to rubble, to ruin - you wondered if it was love that blinded you involuntarily or a choice made to protect what remained of your fragile heart.
Every sign that Aemond had changed, that he was no longer the boy you fell in love with but a man grown into a stranger, was there. And as you stood, limbs trembling as you realized an inn had become a graveyard, you wondered if he’d ever been the man you believed him to be.
Perhaps it was hope, a desperate desire for a fairytale you long ago accepted you would never have, or perhaps it was naivety that blinded you. While others saw a waking nightmare, a terror to behold, you saw a man in desperate need of comfort. While others saw a threat, you saw a man who needed a gentle hand to guide him to the light. While others saw a raging storm, threatening to spring forth and destroy everything in its path, you found yourself trapped directly in the ruinous calm of the eye.
Aemond was, you truly believed, good. Somewhere beneath the facade he wore, the bravado that kept his shoulders straight and his lips narrowed into a thin line, was a delicate countenance you’d witnessed. But as you gathered yourself, scrubbed at your cheeks with the hem of your sleeve and swiped ash from your gloved hands on the fabric of your coat, you wondered just how deeply it was buried.
Village after village had been burned, thousands of innocents killed in cold blood, and to what end? There was no question who torched the villages, not pretending the offense was committed at Rhaenyra’s command.
All knew it was Aemond Targaryen, the One-Eyed Prince - Kinslayer, attempted Kingslayer - who singlehandedly destroyed them all.
Death and destruction marked his path, nothing left for you to find other than rubble and ash. It made you sick, turned your stomach and left an acidic burn in the back of your throat, but you couldn’t help wondering why.
As you mounted your dragon to return to Harrenhal, body present but mind far away, little made sense to you. Aegon was gone, still missing after weeks of searching; Alicent and Otto, for all their determination, would never see the realm reduced to ash; and Criston Cole would rather fight, march on with a host of men and a strategy rather than torch villages with little rhyme or reason. There was no plausible explanation for the campaign, no reasonable excuse for the destruction you found awaiting you at every turn.
All that remained was the truth; each and every village burned was a choice Aemond made.
The realization that every heinous act you’d stumbled across in your search for Aemond and Vhagar - for Aegon, for Criston Cole, for a Green army you began to imagine would never materialize - was his froze the very blood in your veins. It made each beat of your heart more painful than the last, each a little too fast and hard enough you feared your ribs might crack, and you fought bitter tears as you flew toward Harrenhal.
Only weeks ago, Aemond pleaded with you. He urged you to abandon your family and give yourself to him - your hand, your body, your dragon - and join his cause, not his brother’s. It was heartfelt, soft, emotional, convincing. He promised that you would rule as his queen, that your family would be forgiven and peace would return to the realm, if you would simply give in to him. And for a long moment, you considered his plea. So strongly did you consider accepting, you gathered your things and crossed through the dilapidated corridors of Harrenhal with every intention of taking flight and joining him.
In fact, you made it to the gate before the little voice in your head gave you pause.
Alys found you in the courtyard, bag tossed to the ground and shoulders shaking with quiet sobs, sat before the Weirwood tree. With a few soft words, she reminded you of your place - of your family, of your fight - and lead you to bed before Daemon could find you.
Briefly, as you soared through the cool, late afternoon air, you wondered if the destruction was your fault. Perhaps your rejection ignited the flame of his temper and sent him on a rampage. But you believed you knew him too well to entertain that train of thought for longer than a moment. Aemond had proven himself to be volatile, dangerous, but there had to be a reason for the destruction he rained.
Whatever it was, it had nothing to do with you and much and more to do with his own campaign for the crown - a campaign none knew existed until the power he so desired fell straight into his hands.
There was little time to dwell on Aemond’s aspirations, however, as the great ruins of Harrenhal entered your sight.
Resting in a field, not far from the charred remnants of the castle, was Vhagar. She slept, unbothered, by the beating wings of your own dragon - a scent she recognized, a scent she knew offered no threat - and you felt your pulse jump as you grounded your own dragon just outside the walls of the once great castle.
Where Vhagar went, Aemond went - a fact all knew. And what Aemond wanted, he got. It was only a matter of time before he came for you, you realized, just as you realized the choice to join him was little more than an illusion. The decision to be his was made long ago, by a lovestruck fool who believed in hope and happy endings. The consequences would be felt by a woman whose sight had been restored.
There was no use in attempting to flee. He’d seen you arrive and would doubtlessly follow, so you steeled yourself and made the short trek to the ruins of the castle courtyard.
With your blade drawn and your ears ringing, heart hammering so loud you feared he might hear over the wind howling around you, you stepped through the gate. Despite the persistent chill in the air, the bile rising in the back of your throat, you felt impossibly warm - burning from within, fear lapping at your skin like the hottest flames of dragon fire.
Aemond didn’t bother turning from the Weirwood, hands remaining folded behind his back as dead earth crunched beneath your boots. “I wondered if Daemon would dare face me himself,” he began, voice soft and carrying on the cold wind, “of if he would be craven and allow his beloved daughter to return to me.”
It was apparent he thought you knew - that Daemon knew - he’d arrived at Harrenhal. And you had no intention of correcting him as you tightened your grip on your sword. Instead, you laughed; a brittle, hollow sound you knew he would see through.
“My father is not afraid of you.” Every step you took, sword clasped in your hands - clutched like a lifeline, as if you had any chance against him in battle - the harder it became to catch your breath. “He does not consider you at all. You are nothing more than a pest to be swatted in his eyes; that is why I am here.” A lie, something you both knew, as Daemon understood exactly who his nephew had become, what kind of man he’d grown to be.
The understanding was one he attempted to share with you, one he begged you to see, but the three of you shared a common weakness; love.
Daemon, for all his gestures and his promises, would never love anyone more than himself as only he could protect his own heart. You would never love anyone more than Aemond, despite his flaws and his mistakes, as he’d captured your heart and refused to set it free. And Aemond? He would never love anyone more than he loved the image of himself wearing a crown.
Seated amidst the ruins of a small village, lingering with the ghosts of lives lost in an awful game, you found that understanding for yourself. Though Aemond professed his love for you - and felt it, of that you were certain, even if it was not the love you dreamt of, not the love you wanted - you knew that a piece of him saw you as a little more than a pawn. The war that raged around you was bigger than you, both pawns to be knocked around a board at the mercy of the gods, but he still fancied himself a player rather than a piece.
Love clouded your judgement, cast a rosy hue over the deep gray of your world, and you almost hated to see it go.
Without it, you saw the blackened hull of Harrenhal and the jaded, empty husk of a man Aemond had become. The man you loved was gone, the heart that beat in time with yours was no more. Instead, stood before you was a man who sent a thrill of fear shooting down the base of your spine.
If Daemon had known the fate that awaited you at Harrenhal, he would’ve sent you to Dragonstone, to the Keep, to the Reach, the Vale, the North - somewhere, anywhere other than into the hands of the man who would destroy you.
Daemon hadn’t known and neither had you. But if you had, you knew you still would’ve flown straight into his trap.
Silence, thick and tense with an energy you’d never before felt, enveloped you both, broken only by the call of your dragon - cries that sank into your heart like knives, plunging deeper and deeper with every beat - before, at long last, Aemond turned to face you.
That searching violet eye fell to your sword, amusement clear in the raise of his brow and the way his mouth twisted into something resembling a smirk. “Look at you,” he declared, gaze sweeping across your armor of red and black. “My beautiful Fierce Princess.” He took a single step forward, huffing a breath that could pass for laughter when you rocked back onto your heel, and hummed. “I always knew that you would be mine."
“I belong to no man.” The declaration escaped as little more than a whisper, leagues away from the confidence you hoped to project, but there was little use in denying him.
Aemond was the one person who knew each and every inch of you. Every detail - no matter how small - had been committed to memory somewhere in the years you’d loved one another. Though you had not yet given yourself to him, he was more familiar with your skin, your mind, your heart than any other could ever hope to be. If anyone were to see through a false act of bravado, it would be him.
“Mm.” He held his laughter, an act to spare your feelings, though his violet eye shimmered with a mirth that seemed rare these days - a mirth you once considered yourself lucky to witness - as he stepped closer. “Sheath your blade,” he commanded, voice soft but firm as he easily brushed past you. “I would not harm you, my love.”
Disregarding the command, you kept your sword in hand as you followed him through the dark, damp corridors. There was little light and less company, something you had yet to grow used to.
Though you knew you would find nothing before you began to search, you could not stop yourself from glancing around. Desperately, you hoped for a glimpse of a familiar face - Simon, his men, Alys - but the pit in your stomach only sank deeper as you entered the empty shell of the dining room.
“If you are searching for the witch, she’s gone. Ser Strong, as well. They all seemed… content to die,” he reveled, tone almost pitying as he reached for the carafe on the table. “Has my uncle treated them so poorly?”
“They’re dead,” you repeated, whisper echoing through the empty halls as he began to fill two glasses.
“Mm. Regretful business,” he sighed, turning to offer you a glass - one you took without thought, the action so natural you might’ve forgotten the setting had it not felt so stifling even amidst the cool breeze floating through the halls. “It is a shame they had to die,” he lamented, lips twisting into a rueful pout, “but between this… dwelling and what is to come, I consider it a merciful alternative.”
“What’s to come?” The question escaped before you could stop it, before you could convince yourself to swing - to end the battle before it began - but Aemond was unsurprised.
“Harrenhal can hold a great host. Whoever controls that host, controls the realm,” he reminded you, pausing only to sip his wine. “My brother was weak,” he continued, a soft hum of disappointment punctuating his words. “He was impulsive and undisciplined, unsuited for the crown. He would not have lasted as king. Perhaps dragon fire was a blessing, a suitable end to his reign.”
“Aemond…” For just a moment, you caught a glimpse of the man you loved as you faltered - as your feet carried you closer, as you sheathed your sword and reached for his cheek. “The villages,” you whispered, “the small folk, Simon, Alys; why?”
Aemond leaned into your touch, warmth of his cheek bleeding into your palm as your thumb brushed the ride of his scar. His violet eye fluttered shut, just for a moment, before he sighed. “I intended only to occupy Daemon, to keep him far from Rhaenyra as she attempted to take the Keep. He has long wanted battle; I chose to give it to him. He now has a cause worth fighting for.”
With a hand on your waist, fingers pressing into the heavy material of your coat, Aemond drew to his full height. “Why go to these lengths for the crown?” A large hand lifted to your cup, nudged it to your mouth, and you took a sip without thought before lamenting, “You could have done much and more without it.”
“You know nothing of being denied,” he whispered, voice as soft as it was cutting. “You have been given everything you could have ever wanted. Princes fought for your hand, lords tripped over themselves to wed you; the word ‘no’ means little and less to you.” He urged you to take another sip of your wine, the bitter taste lingering on your tongue as he tipped his head to meet your eyes. “I suppose I am also to blame as I have never refused you anything, nor will I ever. But the crown has always been meant for me, just as you have."
Another insistent press of his fingers saw you drain your cup, casting it aside the moment the liquid disappeared, and you flinched as it clattered to the ground. “You’re wrong,” you whispered, swallowing a gasp as his thumb brushed a drop of wine from your bottom lip. “The only thing I’ve ever wanted, really and truly, I was denied. I’ve only ever asked for your hand, for your love, for you. But I did not set fire to the realm, to the innocents whose paths the gods deemed unfortunate enough to set in my way. I did not betray my brother, my father, my queen. I tried reason, again and again, and held steadfast to hope that our families might see what we have always known.”
“And what did hope earn you, my love? Your father’s ire, your siblings disappointment, your realm’s division. Hope is for the foolish. You must take what you want and offer no apology,” he insisted, forehead dipping to press to yours. His hair, a cascade of white, curtained you - hid the blurring reality that surrounded you from view - as his nose brushed yours. “Everything I have done, it has been for us.”
The words, a soft declaration that should have filled your frozen limbs with an overwhelming warmth, made little sense as your thoughts began to muddle together. The ground beneath your feet trembled, your limbs suddenly felt boneless, and your tongue began to feel too large for your mouth.
Focus grew more and more difficult, a monumental feat with every breath you inhaled through wind-chapped lips, as you attempted to blink away the haze beginning to cloud your vision.
“I wanted love,” you whispered, voice distorted in your own ears. “But do you think I wanted to fall in love with you, of all people? Hope has earned me nothing, yet I continue to cling to it and hope that the boy I fell in love with will someday return to me.”
“I have never left,” Aemond assured you, though his voice sounded far away. “And I never will. We shall spend the rest of our lives together.”
As the world began to crumble around you, as your vision blurred and your ears rang, as your heart slowed and your breathing grew labored, your legs gave out. Despite Aemond’s grip, your body connected with the floor - your knees pressed hard against the broken concrete, your cheek caught the blunt edge of the table - and in an instant, everything ceased to exist.
For a blissful few moments, there was nothing.
There was no war, no death, no fire or blood or ash. There was no king, no crown, no throne. In the softness of your dreams, in the depths of your mind, there was little more than love. Aemond’s touch against your skin was soft, eager, as he committed your body to memory. His gaze was loving, reverent. The vision was dark but you felt it all so immensely.
When you awoke, you realized that it was no dream at all. Aemond sat at the side of your bed, one calloused hand stroking your skin - fingers careful as they avoided the tender skin of your cheek, the dried blood at your temple, the bruise you knew was beginning to form. “Rest well, my love?”
The dark of the room made it difficult to see and the fog still clouding your mind held tight. Your tongue still felt too large for your mouth, too dry, but you persisted. Hoarsely, you whispered, “This was a trap.”
Aemond shifted, his weight dipping the bed but leaving you undisturbed as he brushed hair from your forehead. He was clad in a shirt and pants - missing his sword, his coat, his eyepatch - and his hair fell across his shoulders. He was beautiful, as ethereal as you’d ever seen him, but the warmth you once felt was now replaced with a feeling of dread as he hummed. “It was,” he admitted, no longer bothering to pretend as his thumb swiped at your bottom lip.
“You… you poisoned me.” There was no venom in your accusation, only confusion as your mind struggled to catch up to the moment at hand. “The wine…”
“I did.” Another easy admission of guilt, this one accompanied by a flicker of his eye to meet yours. “I needed to make arrangements,” he reasoned. “I thought it kinder than locking you in a cell.”
There was no emotion in his eye, no inflection in his tone. He simply stated a fact, but you felt your heart begin to race once more as you struggled to sit upright. “I thought you loved me,” you continued, body aching as you moved.
“I do, more than you shall ever know.” Despite everything, despite yourself, you truly believed him. Of every answer he could have given you, of every explanation - every sharp glance or sharper word - you felt inclined to believe that whatever he’d done could be traced to his love for you. It was untraditional, but as someone who had never felt love, perhaps he did not know better.
Still, you asked, “Then why?”
“Because you are mine.” The answer was simple, easy. It was the same answer he had repeated a dozen times over.
When asked why he agreed to duel a Dornish prince who wanted your hand? You were his, not a prize to be won. When asked why he apologized to his cousins for his ‘Strong’ remarks? You were his; your family was important to you, therefore, they were important to him. When asked why he refused to offer his hand to a Baratheon, despite the crown’s need for their alliance? You were his and he was yours; his hand was already bound.
“Come,” he urged, standing from your bed and offering you a hand.
Slowly, you stood - your limbs weak and your head throbbing, mouth dry and stomach churning - as he reached to steady you. “Where are we going?”
“It is past time we were wed,” he declared, wrapping an arm around your waist to keep you upright.
With muddled thoughts and an overwhelming bout of nausea, you inhaled sharply. “There is no septon,” you reminded him, blinking hard against the sudden warm glow of a torch as you stepped into the hallway. “No one to perform a ceremony.”
“We shall marry as our ancestors did,” he reasoned, waving away the notion as he guided you with ease. “They had no need of a septon; the Old Gods witnessed their union as they shall ours.”
“My father,” you began, blinking desperately to clear the haze from your eyes, “my family.”
“In a period of war, tradition means little,” he reasoned, voice low in the silence of the ruins. “There will be another ceremony later, in view of the entire realm, if you wish. For now, we will join hands and take our place as the rightful king and queen.”
“Aemond…”
The pleading edge to your tone, the shake of your voice, was enough to finally give Aemond pause.
A large hand lifted, cradled your jaw and tipped your head. You met his violet eye with your own and searched for answers to the thousands of questions that rushed at you from every angle. Though you’d longed for nothing more than to marry him, to become one, you now wondered if you had any choice at all. Would he allow you to refuse, to escape Harrenhal and return to your family? If you gave him your hand, would he truly spare your father, your siblings, Rhaenyra? If you ran, would he allow you to survive?
Aemond posed a question before you could. “Have you changed your mind, my love? Do you no longer wish to be my wife?” There was little indication how he meant the question - little indication of his true feelings; whether he was angry or heartbroken at the thought - and you found yourself uncertain which would be worse.
But for a long moment, you considered his question.
The man stood before you was no longer one you recognized, not fully. There was a darkness now ever present, clinging to him in a way it never had before. There was no longer a levity to him, no longer a spark of joy. But for as long as you could remember, Aemond was all you’d ever wanted. And, when you truly stopped to consider, the pieces you missed the most were pieces only you had ever seen.
Vulnerability was given only under cover of darkness, whispered in the depths of the Dragonpit or hidden deep in the godswood. Joy was only shown in fleeting flashes, with red cheeks and swollen lips in stolen moments you dared spend wrapped together. Love was shown in flashes of protection, in moments of compassion. Honesty was only ever granted to you, answers given freely to all questions asked where others received scathing looks and half-truths.
Perhaps your Aemond was just that; yours and yours alone, unsuited for the eyes of outsiders.
Thoughts rushed at you, moving simultaneously too quickly and syrup slow. Everything muddled in the depths of your mind, a confusing mass of emotion and rationality - heart versus head. For the first time, Aemond truly terrified you, though there was a certainty in the back of your mind that there was no safer place for you in the realm than by his side.
Despite the fear that left your hands trembling, you swallowed your doubt. “I have only ever wanted you,” you whispered, not bothering to hide your tears. “I am yours.”
“As I am yours,” he reiterated, dipping his head to press his forehead to yours.
As water dripped around you, as rain fell over the ruins of Harrenhal, you stood in the corridor together. Uncertainty lingered in the pit of your stomach, the question of how you found yourself here plagued you, but the warmth of Aemond’s body pressed to yours did much and more to settle the wild beat of your heart.
Hope, as dangerous as it was, again found you in the ruins as you resumed your journey to the Weirwood tree.
In the courtyard, beneath the bright, full moon and freezing rain, Aemond slipped the Conqueror’s dagger from its sheath. With a steady hand, he nicked your bottom lip and your palm before carefully gathering a bead of blood on his thumb. He then offered the blade to you and though your own hand shook, you reciprocated without sparing it a second thought.
Aemond clasped your hand in his own, your palm stinging, before he leaned in to press his lips to yours. The dagger, forgotten, clattered to the ground as you pressed impossibly closer.
Weeks apart, separated by death and destruction; confusion, desperation, desire, all clouding your ability to think rationally; overwhelming, all-consuming love - the perfect storm of circumstances saw you desperate to give yourself over the flames that certainly awaited you.
There was no longer any way out, no longer any escape. Aemond was your destiny, your lives bound together years ago. The tinge of fear that pricked at your skin each time you imagined the future - each time you questioned whether you had one, whether anyone would - remained, but your fate was sealed. Rather than fight it, rather than run, you gave in.
The moment you parted, crimson staining your lips and chin, Aemond sighed. “Ābrazyrys,” he whispered, violet eye blinking against the harsh rain.
“Valzȳrys,” you replied, grateful the rain masked your tears as Aemond smiled.
“We are one,” he declared, “united as we’ve always wished.” Your hand remained clasped in his, combined blood dripping into the scorched earth as he squeezed gently. “Nothing can part us.”
“Only the gods,” you whispered, though you remained fearful that speaking it aloud might make it so.
As he always had, Aemond dared scoff at the idea. “Even the gods could not part us,” he promised, silver hair clinging to his skin as he leaned closer.
Lightning flashed, illuminating the courtyard - the ghostly ruins of the castle torched by your ancestors, the halls Daemon had begun rebuilding - but your gaze remained fixed on Aemond. Rain drenched you both, chilled you to the bone, but neither of your cared as he began to guide you back to the castle.
There was little inside that remained dry, even less that offered some semblance of comfort, but that was of little consequence to either of you as Aemond closed the door to your room. Every emotion you felt, every ounce of fear and shame and desire and desperation, gnawed at the fraying edges of your nerves and there was nothing that could be done to alleviate your suffering. The choice was made, a pact sealed in blood, and it was clear Aemond intended to further lay his claim to you - as if he did not already own you, body and heart alike.
“I had hoped it would not rain,” he sighed, taking great care to remove your coat, “but this damn place has never been dry, it seems.”
“A curse,” you whispered, reaching on instinct to untie his breeches. “Punishment from the gods.”
“There is no such thing,” he asserted, hand tipping your chin to meet your gaze. “We are Targaryens,” he declared, “we are the gods.”
Dread settled deep in the pit of your stomach, then - a feeling so strong, you feared you might lose the little nerve that remained. Aemond was beyond reasoning, beyond rationality, and you knew there was nothing you could say to remind him of his own mortality, of yours. So, instead, you pulled him into a kiss.
The future grew dimmer, less and less likely to belong to you with every moment that passed, so you resigned yourself to enjoy the moment at hand. It was one you’d dreamt of, one you’d longed for with each rendezvous you shared, and Aemond seemed as eager as you. Now married, he had no qualms about touching you - calloused fingers skating across your damp skin, brushing across your shoulders, knocking the straps of your gown out of his path.
Aemond’s breath fanned across your cheek, a source of warmth in the chill of the ruins, and you leaned into it. Your nose brushed his, your lips ghosted over his cheek, his chin, his jaw as he nudged wet fabric out of his path.
“My beautiful wife,” he whispered, soft voice little more than a rasp in your ear. “I’ve oft dreamt of this moment. In only the sweetest of those dreams, you were mine to do with as I pleased. I believe this will be even sweeter.”
Heavy fabric fell from your shoulders, away from your body with every button Aemond found. A pool of red rested at your feet, the color of your house abandoned for the love of your husband. But you were not allowed long to dwell on the matter as deft fingers fell to your rain slick skin.
With steady hands, Aemond peeled your small clothes from your body - violet eye remaining on your face the entire time - before he reached for his own. Your hands, meanwhile, tangled in the dripping strands of his hair.
“You are so beautiful,” you whispered, gaze roving the sharp lines of his face. “A true sight to behold.”
Aemond came alive with your praise, a light flickering behind his eye that reminded you of the man you loved so dearly, and you were glad for it as you stood bare before him. The weight of his searching stare felt lighter, more bearable, as he finally allowed himself a moment to savor the sight of you. It felt as if he meant to commit the sight to memory, to savor the chance he was afforded, and you chose to do the same as you traced the line of his jaw with your fingertips.
Slowly, Aemond pressed you back, pausing only when you reached the foot of the bed. It was low, easy to settle upon, and he seized the opportunity to press you into the mattress. “Lie back for me,” he commanded as he began to sink to his knees, “my queen.”
Warm, calloused hands found your calves, touch so light you couldn’t be certain you hadn’t imagined it as he leaned into you.
Before you, the vision of Aemond clad in the translucent white of his shirt and unlaced breeches, his hair falling free and his sapphire eye uncovered chipped at the fragile remains of your heart. Hope reared its ugly head, gave you reason to believe this would be your forever - the sight of your husband, gazing at you with a reverence you’d never before known - when you knew that forever was far from guaranteed. The moments you shared were stolen, unearned, and if the Stranger did not separate you, your father surely would.
But every thought, every worry, every doubt - each ceased to exist the moment Aemond’s lips pressed to your skin.
Every ounce of tension, of fear, of trepidation, of doubt left your body in a soft sigh as his warm mouth pressed to your ankle. He began softly, slowly, and blazed a path across your skin. Fire burned in his wake, the impression of his mouth seared into your skin, and your breath caught in your throat the higher he inched.
“Tell me,” he urged, fingers pressing into the soft flesh of your thigh, “is this what you wanted, what you hoped for all those nights we spent in the Dragonpit, in the library?”
The request was not one meant to stroke his ego, not one meant to serve as an admission of desire. It was not an idle thought, whispered in the heat of the moment. Aemond desired reassurance, acknowledgement that you thought of him as often as he thought of you, that you longed for him the way he’d always longed for you. It was a request for your love, for your commitment, for your comfort. And you long ago lost the ability to deny him much of anything.
“Yes,” you whispered, hand reaching for his - fingers twining together, grip stronger than you intended as you tethered yourself to him. “I always wished you would take me, make me wholly yours. I dreamt of sharing your bed, of seeing you like this. You always wanted to honor me, refusing to steal my maidenhead, but you cannot steal that which belongs to you.”
“Perhaps, if I had taken you then, we might’ve wed years ago,” he ruminated. “But I intend to make up for lost time.”
Aemond repeated his path, his lips pressing to your skin as he used his grip on your thigh to pull you closer to the edge of the bed. You could feel his breath fan across your skin, warming you from within, and you clasped his hand tighter as he nosed as the juncture of your thigh.
Part of you imagined he would make you beg, eager for proof of your desire - of your need - but before your lips could part to utter his name, he surged forward.
Between your thighs, it was as if he was a man starved. Your immediate gasp, your fingers tangling in his hair, earned a soft groan from him as he lapped at your folds with the flat of his tongue. His shoulders kept your thighs parted as his hand slipped between them, calloused fingers gathering the combination of your slick and his saliva before pressing to the bundle of nerves hidden there.
With every jolt of your body, eager for something - to run from the pleasure or sink into it, you remained uncertain - Aemond shifted closer. He alternated between broad licks, the flat of his tongue savoring the taste of you, and kitten licks, reveling in the way your hips chased each flick of his tongue. Every noise you made was met with a hum of satisfaction, a palpable relief that he could please you in a way no one had ever been allowed, and you all but gasped his name as his fingers began to explore your slick folds.
The swipe of his fingers was foreign, the brush of his thumb over your clit caused you to jolt in his grasp, and you could feel Aemond’s lips curve into a smirk as he pressed his mouth to your mound.
“Ābrazyrys,” he whispered, breath fanning across your skin as he rested his chin on your thigh, “tell me how it feels.”
Words failed you as his lips wrapped around your clit and his fingers pressed into you - slowly, carefully, tenderly - and your breathing grew labored as he worked to prepare you. The only word your mind could recall was his name. “Aemond,” you gasped, fingers tugging at the silver locks drying in the curls he hid. “Gods, Aemond.”
Warmth filled your veins, your chest, the pit of your stomach, as he pressed himself closer. That violet gaze weighed heavy on your skin, able to see through the most carefully crafted facade, and each swipe of his fingers through your slick, each press of his tongue, chipped away at another piece of you. Bit by bit, Aemond worked to break you apart, to dismantle you completely, and you knew it was only a matter of time before you shattered.
And as his fingers pressed, filling you in a way you’d never experienced, you could only hope that he would piece you together again.
“Let go,” he whispered, voice a rasp in the dim light of the room. “Take your pleasure.”
Each sensation felt like too much, too fast, but you gave in to him. You melted into the uncomfortable bedding and focused solely on his attention. The warmth of his skin pressed to yours, the silk of his hair between your fingers, the soft noises he made as he devoured you; it all overwhelmed you in the most beautiful way.
The fire in the pit of your stomach grew hotter, lapping at your skin from within, and with each breath you attempted to draw, the more eager Aemond became to hear you cry his name. And as the edges of your vision began to white, as your fingers held too tightly to him, you gave him what he wanted.
With a cry of his name, loud enough to echo through the abandoned corridors, you came.
Fire, passionate and all-consuming, flickered in Aemond’s eye as he lifted himself. He stood tall, proud, and reveled in the lust openly displayed in your gaze as he finally shucked his own wet clothing. His tunic and breeches joined your own garments; green leather and red velvet, discarded for a union that neither side would consider sacred, but you knew the time to repent had passed.
Rather than dwell, you openly gazed upon the man you’d wanted for so long.
Aemond was perfect - beautiful, ethereal in a way that made your chest ache. There was an allure to him that called to you, a draw that pulled you in and refused to grant you leave. The angle of his jaw, the curve of his lips, the slope of his nose; he bared himself fully, no ounce of his soul hidden, and you swallowed harshly as you hoped the gods would forgive you for accepting it all.
“Make me yours,” you whispered, no longer able to remember why you’d ever considered resisting. “There is nothing left but us.”
One of the most feared men in the realm, quick with a blade and quicker with dragon fire, bent to your will. With an even stride and steady hands, he pressed you further up the bed before climbing in to join you. He settled above you, his hair falling - a curtain to shield you both from the world around you - and studied your face for a long moment.
There were tears lining your lashes, a product of the storm of emotion raging in the back of your mind, and Aemond was quick to bring a thumb to your cheek. “This is not the life you hoped for,” he declared, certain, “but I shall spend the rest of mine devoted to you.”
Little remained certain in your mind but you knew Aemond meant every word.
“I know,” you assured him, lifting your own hand to carefully brush at the jagged edge of his scar. “Hope is foolish,” you whispered, urging him closer, “it has caused heartache at every turn, but it lead me to you and for that, I am grateful.”
Without allowing him a moment to speak, you pressed your lips to his. The sting of the nick reminded you of where you were, of what had taken place, but you cared little for anything other than the weight of Aemond’s body pressed to yours. His warm hands held tight to the plush of your hip, fingers pressing into the skin so deeply you feared there might be bruises come morning, as he kissed you.
Emotion - fear, doubt, anger, resentment, longing, love - filled the kiss, a clash of lips and teeth and tongue that tasted of copper, but it was all you could do to keep yourself tethered to reality as Aemond traced the leaking tip of cock through the slick of your folds.
The first time hurt - so the few friends you’d made at court declared, giggled about when your father’s back was turned and your siblings wandered away - but you emerge beyond caring. And as he pressed forward, sheathing himself inside you, you found that the slight pinch, the sting of him, cleared the fog of your thoughts and brought the world around you back into focus.
As fearsome as he’d become, Aemond’s heart beat for you. The heavy thunder of it beneath your palm, the thrum of it beneath your lips as you pressed them to the pale skin of his throat, was a reminder that there was no other choice - there never had been.
With every press of Aemond’s hips, with every breath of pleasure, every whispered Valyrian praise, the truth grew clearer.
Hope was a mirage, affording you a fantasy that never existed. The life you lead was always destined to be one of fire and blood. The blood of the dragon coursed through your veins, dripped from the slit in your lip and your palm and spilled from between your thighs as Aemond claimed the last piece of you - a piece you knew had never been yours at all.
Every bit of you, every moment of your life, belonged to someone else; your father, your uncle, your siblings, Aemond. Now, there was nothing left.
A sob escaped your lips, a broken noise that saw Aemond pause. His head lifted, violet eye immediately meeting your own, as his hand lifted to your cheek. “Did I hurt you?” His concern was evident, proven as he stilled and searched for any hint of pain.
To lie would have been easy, as mindless a breathing, but the truth weighed heavy on your chest. “No,” you whispered, swallowing hard, “but I… you were right, this isn’t the life I hoped for. I do not want to continue fighting, to see more good people die. I’ve lost one brother, I cannot bear the thought of losing another. But I know that this, lying here with you, will drive them away. And you, Aemond.” Tears clouded your vision, hiding him from your view, as you admitted, “I just want you. I do not want to be queen, nor do I want to share my husband with the realm. All I want is to be happy, to be loved. I want to be free.”
Aemond frowned, eye rapidly blinking as he attempted to make sense of the words spilling from your lips, but you shook your head. “I’ve given my family my loyalty, my father my devotion, you my heart. I have nothing left to offer,” you whispered.
“Then let me fight,” he countered, tipping his head to meet your eye. “Let me end this war and give you peace. No more will die and when I claim the throne, I will never leave your side again.”
“A beautiful thought,” you nodded, “to be sure. But you can’t promise that, no more than I can promise we shall see morning. I do not want false promises or grand fantasies. I do not want a king or a warrior. All I want, all I have ever wanted, was you.”
Silence settled then, thick and suffocating, but you could see the emotion flickering in the depth of his violet eye.
Neither of you imagined this would be your reality, neither of you ever could have dreamed you would find yourselves fighting your own kin for a crown - a throne. Neither of you imagined a life outside of one another and now, faced with the realization that loving one another was not enough, you were at a loss.
“I cannot surrender,” Aemond finally whispered, gaze fierce - pleading - as he searched for an understanding. “And you are right, I cannot promise a long future. But I can promise that I will do much and more to return to you all that you have given me. You will be my queen and you will be beloved, kind and fierce in equal measure. And your family, your father, will not perish at my hand. There is no other path to be trod.”
“Our lives are bound,” you whispered, though a fresh wave of tears tracked down your cheeks. “Your path is mine.”
Aemond leaned in, then, and pressed his mouth to yours once more. This kiss was desperate, the kiss of a man seeking reassurance, and you offered it to him. There was nothing left for you to give; no more fire, no more blood. Now, you simply took the brunt of his desperation as he pressed closer to you.
“I love you,” he whispered, voice rough in your ear as his hips began to move once more. “I can promise that I will love you for the rest of my life.”
“And I you,” you reassured him, your own hand lifting to his cheek as his eye fluttered shut.
As Aemond’s end approached, his hips snapping quicker and his breath growing heavier, he repeated promises in High Valyrian; a promise to spend the rest of his life loving you, a promise to do whatever it took to make you happy, a promise to make right the wrongs that drove you so far apart. And though they were all grand, you knew he took each word to heart.
At his peak, he cried your name - a declaration of love following - before he collapsed into you. His head pressed to your chest, his thigh draped over yours, he held you tight and you allowed him. Your fingers combed through the curling strands of his hair, over the line of his jaw, as you stared up at the crumbling ceiling.
“This war will end,” he finally whispered, voice carrying on the cool night wind, “and we shall begin anew.”
Though hope abandoned you at Harrenhal, finally freeing you of its cruel embrace, Aemond found it. In the rubble and ash, surrounded by the ruins created by your ancestors, he vowed to give you what no other ever had; the love you’d always dreamt of, the life you’d always hoped for.
Hope was a dangerous thing, but nothing was more dangerous than Aemond Targaryen.
Tags: softer!cooper, love-at-first-sight, bounty hunting, alcohol, brief sexual harassment, seduction with ulterior motives, manual restraints, semi-public PiV
Request: a sweet request by @victoria-grimesss - ‘the theme of the song “Orange Colored Sky” like love at first sight maybe she’s a bounty hunter too?’
A/N: based on an idea where Cooper would like to visit old bars, a small habit left from the man he used to be
You find yourself having to rethink your strategy, when you’re suddenly struck with feeling for the man you’re supposed to be hunting down.
The bar you find yourself in might be one of least favorite you’ve been in. A dingy sign marking the entrance, cast in shades of orange with the dip of the evening sun.
It's dark inside - flickering bulbs and oil lamps. Near the fringes of town, the murmur of voices and low jazz notes slipping through what remained of the glass-cracked windows.
Floors stained by god knows what, the bartop sticky against your elbow as your chin props on your palm. Full of all kinds of folk that would like to sink their teeth into you. Tear you from limb to limb.
But, they said you'd find him here. The him still undetermined, but for the amount of caps they're paying you, you were willing to take a leap of faith.
“Know 'em when you seem 'em," The man grunted. Giving you an appraising once-over, arms crossing over his chest, "Hard to miss. Black hat and a long coat. Five hundred caps for 'im dead. Boss don't want him alive."
You pick apart that detail in your head.
Reading between the lines. Either your target pissed someone off real bad, or he was too dangerous to be brought in.
Neither bode well for you, but you've been in this game long enough that you have a few tricks up your sleeve.
The scattering of tables look like campfires out on the open plains. Pockets of light, your eyes squinting - trying to find your quarry. Trying not to look too interested, not wanting to draw attention to yourself. No good could come from a gunfight here.
Eventually you catch him, from the corner of an eye. A tipped-down hat, a hint of that black coat and a leather vest from the bit of light from the table next to him. The dregs of something dark left swimming in a dull glass, the cut edges worn down from years of use.
You send another his way, a sweet smile for the bartender and a couple extra caps to make sure it makes it there.
Easier to get the job done at close range.
A drink paired with another doe-eyed smile. A murmured, well-placed “let’s get out of here” - and he’d be yours. Always worked like a charm, in a place like this.
Nursing your own drink as your legs cross, the collar of your jacket turned up. Shielding your face, as you do a quick check - loosening the snap on your holster. The sheath hidden at the small of your back.
When you look again, a jolt rings through you when you realize his eyes are already on you.
Almost as if he’d noticed you first - his gaze dark under the brim of his hat. The flip of his hand on the table - palm upright, two fingers crooking.
Beckoning you to him.
There’s something about him that you can sense from even here. Hairs on the back of your neck standing up, a stutter of your heartbeat.
You could still run. Cut ties and pass on through to the next town. Tell them it didn't shake out, if you ever have to take a bounty here again.
But you're drawn to him. Curious. It's been a while since a bounty has piqued your interest. It was always the same-old.
Raider with a chem problem. Man who stole something. A no-good scoundrel who ran off with a rich man's wife.
It has you moving. Slipping from the stool. Making your way through the dim room, to where a lean leg extends, kicking out the chair in front of them.
Three tables away and suddenly there's a hand darting out, pinching hard at your elbow. Sending you off balance as you grasp at their hand, nails sinking into their wrist. Your lip curling in a snarl, as you're tugged towards the man that sits, thighs spread wide.
"Been a while since somethin’ as pretty as you's been here." You can smell the sweat that clings to him, layered with the stench of watered-down beer, "What say you spend some time with us?"
His companion leers, and your pulse spikes. A hand drifting carefully towards your gun, the grit of your jaw as your mind races through your options.
There's a shadow behind you. Catching you in it, as the man’s eyes flicker to something above your shoulder.
"This one's mine, " The stranger drawls, “Why don’t you fellas find another toy to play with?”
A flash of something silver at his hip that has the man letting go.
Their eyes shifting away uneasily as you snatch your arm back. Turning to face the stranger, the grateful “thank you” already on the tip of your tongue.
But as you free it, his head tilts. Face catching the light, and you realize your savior isn't a stranger after all.
He's your target.
And... he's a ghoul.
The Ghoul, to be precise. He has to be - no one else talks like him, that old-world drawl. His reputation preceding him, you had heard time again just how efficient and ruthless he could be.
For a moment, you’re transfixed. Stuck staring up at him - across the cut of his cheekbones and the hollow of his eyes. A low flip in your stomach, for more than one reason. Something going soft, and then low and warm inside you.
Oh. You might just be over your head.
“Huh.” His eyes narrow, as he regards you. Doing their own slow sweep, from the top of your head down to the dust on your boots.
Something must have piqued his interest as well - there’s a slow jerk of his head towards the table, though he does not move.
Making you squeeze past him - your hips brushing up against his to pass by.
The drink still sits, untouched. An arm slung across the back of the booth that lines the back wall, as you fold into the chair opposite.
It’s only here that you get a real good look at him. The pulled-tight skin, reddened with radiation. The dark cavern of his nose.
His eyes are pretty. A shade that makes you think of the weather when things grow cool, late in the year. The lingering green before the earth turns brown for the colder winter months.
You think you wouldn’t mind them on you.
Not at all.
The Ghoul's knuckles tap the glass, nudging it towards you - bringing you back from your swirl of thoughts. His gaze fixed on yours, with the rasp of his voice.
"Ladies first."
You blink at him, "I got this for you."
A way to distract him. To open a window of opportunity, a way to get close enough to slip a knife between his ribs.
Or, that had been the plan.
There's the ghost of a smile. The peek of teeth as his tongue runs across them, as his head cocks to the side. Those eyes narrowing.
"Only a few reasons why a lady like yourself would get a fella a drink."
The lightness of his tone is betrayed by the careful way he watches you, down to the minute furrow of your brow - how your tongue peeks out to wet your own lips, “Here for a job, or for something else.”
The mention of a job makes your stomach clench, until you realize he must think you’re there to strike one with him.
"Either way, be in my best interest to ensure it hasn't been... tampered with.”
Perhaps not.
Perhaps you’d have to work harder… though the tight tether you have on your plan has started to slip through your fingers.
"You think I'd be capable of something like that?" Your eyes go wide with feigned innocence. Only half-acting, now.
Elbows propped on the table - a lean that does wonders for the hint of cleavage hidden in the loosened buttons of your shirt.
"Still workin' that out," His eyes sweep over yours, before dipping down to your mouth. And then, lower, "But, I think I got a good idea."
His voice lowers then. "Drink."
And so, you do.
The liquor is harsh when it hits your tongue. Strong and bitter - his eyes trained on the column of your throat as you swallow. A hand extended as you pass the glass to him. Fingers brushing, your bare ones against his worn leather gloves.
It's lifted to his lips after. His tongue dragging over the rim, where your lips had been - before he's tipping the glass back. Taking half of the rest with a long swallow.
"Maybe I just wanted to show my appreciation." You coo, "Heard all about you, after all."
"Is that right?" There’s another smirk - before his head is tipping, appraising, “This the only way you show your… appreciation?”
Your heart races, as you give him your best winning smile.
"Well, let's say you and I find out?"
Your moan is ragged, teeth biting hard into your arm in an attempt to muffle the sound. Never making it further than the back-alley of the bar.
His voice had been low, as he followed you out the side door. A growled out, “We doin’ this?”
Eyes watching the twitch of your hands, his own tensed at his sides. Twin wires, strung tight.
Your mouth had tipped up to meet his, instead of your blade. Teeth and tongue and the wandering press of hands as he backed you against the building, your shoulders scraping against the worn brick in the darkness.
Would be a shame, you had thought. Not to find out what this was.
This something that almost had a physical weight - that dulled the sharp edge of your senses. Never expecting to feel this way, as desire crashes soundly over you.
You could always find him again after.
Tomorrow, maybe.
Finish the job then.
But that was before.
Before the bottom of your resolve fell out, with the press of his thigh, when it rocked against your core. His hip digging into yours, so you can feel how hard he is for you.
A whine in your throat, a knowing tone in his rough answer.
“’ve got you. Know just what you need.”
He had spun you around - your wrists caught in his hand, the brick biting into your skin where he pinned them.
Legs kicked wide with his boots, the soft clink of belts and spurs and the solid press of his chest into your back as you rocked back needily against him.
You let him take you apart.
Split you open on his cock, as he does nothing to quiet your sounds. Teeth bared - his own moan bitten back as he feels the way you clench down, wet and warm around him as his hips pound into you. Breath hot where it fans against your neck.
“And whose did I say you were?”
It has your eyes fluttering shut, as his hand curls around your hip - slipping between your thighs.
“Yours.” You gasp.
His breath is ragged in your ear, “That’s right.”
You keen when he circles your clit, his fingers slick with your arousal. Everything else fading, expect for how he buries himself deep with each thrust, the way he has you winding higher and higher.
That last grip of the tether inside you loosening, when you finally let go.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” The Ghoul rasps, when he feels how you tremble in his arms, “Don’t you worry, ‘cause when I’m through with you...”
“You’re gonna forget all about why you’re here.”
how I imagine the cooper pov: “you’re either here to fight or fuck… and for you darlin’, I might just be down for either.”
thank you so much for the request!! I hope you liked this! 💖
Hi ❤️🥰🫶🏻 I really love your writing style and enjoy all your content. Sorry if this is a bothersome question but your name and Norman profile picture made me curious…. Would you be willing to write some headcanons for Daryl? Hope you have a nice week 🙏🏻
Daryl Dixon Headcanons SFW & NSFW
masterlist
->Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader
->Warning: MDNI! fluff and some smut
->A/N: Thanks for the request, TWD was my first fandom so I’m always down to write for it, especially Daryl. :) I just did some general Fem!Reader ones since that's what I mainly write for but DO let me know if there's any other specific ones you'd like to see. I also hope you have a nice week! Sorry this took so long!
SFW:
He would show affection through acts of service, (getting you something you needed during a run, fixing something around the house that you mentioned was broken, or cleaning your gun if you were too busy to do it. He has a lot to think about throughout the day, but he keeps tabs on things you like or need, he’s always thinking about you.
Around Alexandria when you both were there you would both spend a-lot of time in silence together just being in each others presence. He would be working on his bike and you would be reading a book just being together.
In general, there becomes an almost rhythm to your relationship, you walk together, eat together, go on runs together, most of the time you both just enjoy simply being together. Having the privilege to be alive and be next to one other. Eventually people start assuming one doesn't go somewhere without the other, "Y/N and Daryl this, Y/N and Daryl that. It's cute.
Not a fan of PDA, he was never that kind of person but he likes it when you fix a piece of his hair that's out of line, or adjust his vest so it sits better on him. He likes to know you care, he does get butterflies when you call him handsome even though he doesn't show it. Aside from a little smile and a dip of his head, "You don't know what you're talkin' bout girl.
He always admires your strength, you've made it this far and he admires the skills you've picked up along the way. Someone is doing something wrong that you're a pro at? "You're doing that wrong ya know, let me get Y/N, she'll show you how to do it right."
He always had a crush on you, always was looking out for you. You caught his eyes lingering quite some times over the campfire before you were both together, he's look away quick but he knew you saw. What can he say, he loved seeing you blush.
Once you're together he's less reserved about his staring and you'll catch his eyes roaming your body more than a couple times.
Not a master in flirting whatsoever but when he held out his hand, arm all the way outstretched to give you a bundle of wildflowers you were a goner. "Got ya these, said you liked em' found some while I was out."
He's a light sleeper but he loves to lay on your chest and feel you run your fingers through his hair it knocks him out in five minutes minimum.
Will avoid the regular medics in town and just come right to you, you've stitched him up for this long and he likes it when you fix him up and scold him at the same time for not being more careful.
"D, honey this is going to need stiches.."
"I know, you can just do it, you do it the same way as the doctors anyway."
"Fine, just- only if you get some antibiotics. Can't have you dying on me from a fuckin infection."
"Yea whatever you want girl."
Knows you can handle yourself but he always has an eye out for you when you're out on runs or outside the walls.
Boosts his ego when you ask him to flex and you swoon.
You both never got properly married, you haven't gotten around to finding rings but when a new group entered the town you just said you were his wife for simplicities sake and because why not you've been together so long and everyone else thinks of you two married. Loves hearing people call you Y/N Dixon.
NFSW:
He's home late often, it's a normal occurrence but sometimes when he's gone for a good long while and you hear his boots finally trudging up the stairs you get a little giddy, butterflies filling your stomach and you grow warmer just thinking about having him back in bed.
This can go one of two ways; number one is you welcome him into bed slowly, it's raining and he's cold to the bone just wanting to warm up with you. The room is dark and only the moonlight illuminates his broad shoulders as his body leans over yours, hips rolling into you with a smooth and rhythmic motion. His arms caging you in so your whole field of vision and mind is filled with him. His head would dip to your ear, teeth biting at your neck. "Missed ya', thought about you a lot on the way back."
The second way is when he's frustrated, the run didn't go how he wanted, didn't find enough, he's pent up more than usual and you welcome his release of energy with open arms. He's got one hand on your hips and the other gripping the headboard, knuckles turned white from gripping it trying to maintain some kind of composure when he's driving himself deeper inside you, eyes dark as your nails bite at his chest. Damp hair hanging in his face and the room is filled with the noise of your heavy breathing and the wetness between the both of you. "You like that? Fuck, yea ya do."
He prefers being together in the privacy of your own home, where he can put his undivided attention all on you. But that doesn't mean you both don't get creative.. you've fucked in almost every room, you both agreed the attic was just too out there, insulation is the biggest mood killer.
He's always been a man for quick showers, get clean and get out. But one time you were both on a time crunch and you had a great idea to share the shower, save water right? He couldn't keep his eyes off of you, the way the soap and water kept gliding over your body had him hard in like 0.5 seconds so needless to say you were late, something about making out underneath the stream of water added something he couldn't get enough of. Bruises on the back of your thighs from him fucking you against the shower wall lingered for some time.
He loves seeing you get ready in the morning, he's got the perfect view from the bed into the bathroom to watch the whole process, sometimes if he's feeling extra needy he'll come into the bathroom and gently bend you over, bringing himself out of his sweatpants and watching your face through the mirror as he slides himself in.
More than once he's thought about you riding him on his bike, with you just wearing his vest. While it's stationary of course, he's not that reckless.
Definitely does not care if you're on your period, you really think a little blood will stop him if you both want each other? Hell no. He didn't understand why you thought it was an issue the first time it came up.
Not incredibly jealous but it creeps in on him sometimes, when a new guy shows you a little more attention than he liked he gets cold with you later that day. Not because he thinks you'll cheat on him or the guy might make a move but that he thinks he himself isn't good enough for you, which you just won't stand for so on a few separate occasions you'll set him down on the couch and get down on your knees and remind him how much you love him.
He's a man that respects his woman so he's more than happy to return the favor, hands held tight on your thighs that are wrapped around his head, his tongue darting around and his lips wrapping around you and pulling his favorite noises from you. "Look at you, fuck, gonna cum for me? Atta girl."
He's careful about where he finishes, he wants nothing more than to dive completely into you and let you take all of him but if you're both not ready for what may come from that he's fine with painting your stomach or more preferably your chest, he's a tits guys for sure.
Aftercare is quiet and calm with him, both of you cleaned up and your head on his chest, the window is open to cool you both down and so the smoke from his after sex cigarette can sneak out.
->Price: He would initially think nothing of the artwork, he admired it and loved how it looked on you, eventually his admiration for the work leads him to the internet where he would look up the meaning to many of your tattoos. Once he learned more of them, he wouldn't bring it up until you wanted, but he made sure to never let you think of yourself as anything but strong and capable.
->Soap: He would know what they meant; he of course didn't mention them when he first saw it, but his heart would ache at the meaning. He would want to take things slow and always speak his intentions during the beginning stage of the relationship to establish a strong foundation of trust. He would often whisper kind things to you when you both become intimate never letting you feel uncomfortable in your own skin.
->Gaz: Gaz is a good man, strong and kindhearted. He would know what the tattoo meant to you, overcoming a great trauma, something done to you that you wish could be undone. He would take any moment to boost your confidence, he would do that even without the tattoo, but he wants the words to stay in your mind. Often times, when you're both together in bed he would trace the lines and tell you each thing he loves about you. One by one.
->Ghost: He's a cold man but he's not cruel to your feelings. If you were ever uncomfortable in any situation, he gave you the power to say the word and you both left, he didn't mind taking things at any pace as long as you felt safe with him. When he saw your tattoo his heart would clench for the times you had to go through, but what you overcame made you stronger and he will always admire that in you. His love language would be leaving you little notes for when he's not there.
Summary: She's the one talking to Bronn about going to Dorne instead of Jaime...
Notes: English isn't my first language. I apologize for any mistake I may have made while I wrote this short story.
Warning: swearing, mentioned killing
•••
She hated Lollys Stokeworth, yet she couldn't say why.
She was the same naive girl as every other she'd met, but she still hated her with great passion. She hated how close she was to Bronn and how shy she became when she noticed Jaime. She hated how cute her laugh was and she most definitely hated that Bronn called her every sweet nickname he could come up with.
But still, that wasn't the time she started to hate her. That was the first time they've met face to face, sure, but she disliked her long before that. She despised her the moment Bronn explained that Cersei had promised him Lollys' hand in marriage if he won't fight for Tyrion's innocence.
And that hurt. It hurt more than she wanted to admit it. Even if she let Tyrion go with Jaime's help, life back in the Red Keep wasn't the same. She couldn't do what she used to do, she didn't have Tyrion or Bronn for company anymore - she was so damn lonely.
Her sister took everyone from her; both her favourite sibling and her favourite sellsword, and she was sure she'd never be able to forgive her for that.
But she was there, back in Bronn's company, knowing he's pretty much the only one left who doesn't hate her brother for no reason at all. Only if Lollys would just go so they could talk...
She wondered if Bronn wanted the same. She wondered if he'd like the thing she wanted to offer him, she wondered if he'd accept it. And deep down, even if she brushed it aside, she wondered if he missed her like she missed him.
"Lollys, darlin' why don't you go and show Ser Jaime the castle. I'm sure he'd like it."
Maybe he missed her too.
Jaime looked at her, his eyes questioning what he should do, if he should stay instead. She nodded and her brother gave Lollys his healthy arm to hold onto.
After a while they were out of sight.
She looked at Bronn and he looked back at her, then he smirked like he always did.
"I see that the trousers are back."
She smiled.
"Father's gone, my sister's too busy being a cunt to scold me, so yes. The trousers are back."
"I'm sorry 'bout your father." he said as he turned around and then they started to walk along the coast. He didn't offer her his arm to hold onto and she was glad that despite being a knight and having new clothes, Bronn stayed the same.
"No, you're not." she said as she avoided his eyes. "Even I can't feel sorry for his death and I'm his daughter. I'm sure you didn't like him at all."
"I tolerated him. He was still an ass to you though."
"Tolerated..." she chuckled. "Yeah, I guess I tolerated him too. When he wasn't fucking us over. Me and Tyrion."
Bronn stopped and so did she. They were further away from the castle, she couldn't see Jaime or Lollys anywhere. They were alone. Completely alone, like back in the not-so-bad days.
"You let him go, didn't you? Tyrion." he looked at her like he always did when Tyrion let him accompany her wherever she went - he looked at her with confidence and curiousity, like he's sure what she'll say yet he still cares how she'll say it.
She nodded.
"Well, I'm happy he's not rotting in that cell anymore. Give him my regards when you see him."
"I'll give him our regards when I find him."
"You don't know where he is?"
"No. I have no idea. But I think it's better that way - for now. If I knew I'd be happy and Cersei would know I know where he is. I don't want her to find him. Hell, I don't want Jaime to find him." she confessed with a sad smile. "Gods, I always tell you fucking everything."
"It's part of my charm." Bronn teased and she chuckled. "So the Golden Boy didn't take it well? Tywin's death?"
"No. Not at all. He said he'd cut Tyrion in two if he found him - that's why I won't let that happen. Not him, not Cersei, not even the fucking Gods will find him." she took a deep breath as she did her best to calm down. "But that's not why we're here."
"Here we go, and here I thought you missed me."
She raised her eyebrow in disbelief.
"Of course I miss you! The Red Keep is boring without you around. Besides, now I have no one to drink with."
"I'm sure I could visit you from time to time."
Bronn smirked and so did she. They'd meet again, no matter how it will go, no matter what he'll say.
She grabbed the scroll she had in her - or rather Jaime's old jacket's pocket, and gave it to him with an apologetic, kind smile. She didn't like Lollys, that was a fact. But she cared about Bronn. And he'd never be heartbroken no matter what would happen, but she still wanted him to be happy - or pleased with himself at the very least.
Bronn took it and quickly read through it. She tried to look at anything else but him as he did so.
"Lollys will marry--" Bronn looked at her, she couldn't read his expression. Tyrion could read him well, but she couldn't, no matter how hard she tried. "But your sister said--"
"My sister says a lot of things and it's a surprise she's still alive after all those lies." she explained. "Cersei won't give you a castle. She wouldn't give me a castle either. We were helping Tyrion and she doesn't like it at all."
Bronn kept his gaze on her and he seemed unreadable. Unreadable and completely calm. Sometimes she wondered what kind of adventures he had been through to be that calm and uncaring about certain things.
"That's not why you're here. There's somethin' else." he pointed out facts really well.
"I'll go to Dorne with Jaime. We'll bring Myrcella home and I'd- we'd like you to come as well."
They looked at each other without a single blink and it reminded her of the times when they were doing this in boredom in Tyrion's chambers, when he was still dealing with Joffrey's stupidity as Hand of the King. They'd compete to see who blinked first. Bronn always won no matter how much she cheated.
"You hate Cersei."
"I do."
"But you'll go to Dorne to find her daughter..."
"I don't hate Jaime."
Bronn tilted his head and raised one of his eyebrows as if he'd say 'you can't bullshit me'. She really couldn't.
"I don't hate Jaime that much."
"It's still not a good enough reason to go. And if it's not a good reason for you to go then I won't go either."
She tried to remain cold like all the Lannisters who were great liars. She was a great liar too, but Bronn was too good at sniffing her lies out.
"In Dorne I can finally lose Jaime. And when I'm out of his sight I can finally go and find Tyrion." she explained, her lower lip twitching slightly as she waited for his answer.
Please say yes.
"Well, that seems to be a good enough reason." Bronn changed his posture, his hand landed on the handle of his sword as his back straightened.
"So you'll come with me?"
"For a decent price."
She laughed as she took a step back, her mouth hurting from the movements. It's been a while since she laughed.
"Oh yes, I almost forgot. You are Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, you must have a very expensive price now."
"That's the world we live in."
She looked up at him with a smile, her cheeks slowly turning a shade of pink as she knew what she'll say. "Somehow I knew that's what you would say, so I already thought of a price."
He seemed intrigued, that much she could read from his expression.
"Really?"
"I paid you instead of Tyrion sometimes, of course I did!" she tried to act hurt, but failed miserably. Instead she just smiled.
"So what? You'll offer me a castle I won't get like your sister, or gold and silver like your brother?"
"I'll give you Casterly Rock." she said quickly, her mouth running dry.
She didn't think she would ever see Bronn surprised or confused for even a moment. But in those few seconds he looked like it, even if his face stayed completely calm, only his eyebrows raising slightly.
"Casterly Rock? Now that your father's gone you'll just give it away to a sellsword?"
"You're a knight now." she argued. "And I won't give it away. I'll keep it."
That looked like the very moment she broke her very best ex-sellsword. Bronn stayed completely still, even his fingers weren't tapping a rhythm on the handle of the sword.
"Jaime can't have Casterly Rock, he's Kingsguard." she began to explain quietly. "Tyrion can't have it either when everyone's looking for him in all the Seven Kingdoms. Cersei is too busy to notice that I'm stealing it from her, but if she tries to stop me I'll fight for the damn castle for you."
"But-- you can have it?" Bronn found his voice and pointed at her with his finger.
"I can." she confirmed and then with a grin added: "We can."
"You--" for a moment she thought Bronn lost his voice. "You never wanted to get married-- Tyrion said you never got married, because you always won against Tywin when--" she waited patiently for him to finish. "And you want me to marry you so I'll go to Dorne with you?"
She stayed silent and so did he.
"You know, I'm pretty sure I'd let you marry me even if you'd say no to Dorne." she said quietly after a while, avoiding his eyes.
Bronn looked at her like she grew a second head. She almost checked to see if he's right.
Then his eyes cleared, his fingers started to play a rhythm and he grinned.
"You missed me that much?"
She didn't know what to say to that. He continued to observe her.
"Or were you just jealous?"
A loud 'excuse me' was stuck in her throat as her cheeks turned red.
"I don't understand how this has anything to do with--"
"You were jealous!" his chuckle almost made her crawl away in shame. "Giving away Casterly Rock because of Lollys Stokeworth who I won't even marry-! Gods, you're a crazy woman!"
"Hey!" she tried to argue, but every other word was stuck in her throat when Bronn grabbed onto her shoulders and then touched her cheeks with both of his hands.
"A damn crazy woman."
"Every Lannister is crazy."
"But it looks good on you."
She wondered what she should do. She had been in war with him, she had been drunk with him, she had protected King's Landing with him... Yet none of those seemed as scary and unsure as that.
"It's part of my charm." she quoted and Bronn grinned. "But you, who wants a castle this badly, accuse me of jealousy... Other Lords would kill for that castle you know."
"I'm a sellsword, darlin'."
"A knight." she corrected him.
"Once a sellsword always a sellsword. I'd kill all those golden boys for you."
"For me?" she asked, her lips once again twitching. "Not for Casterly Rock..."
"You're my favourite customer, you deserve a discount."
She took a deep breath as his fingers pressed into her skin. She liked being close to him - that close.
"A discount? Really?" she teased with a small smirk. "What, you'll only take half the castle?"
"I don't want the damn castle, your sister can keep her castles."
"Gold then?" she asked as his thumb danced around under her eye.
"Your brothers gave me plenty."
"Rich man, huh?"
"Rich enough."
"I'm afraid I'm running out of options here."
"I'll take the other part of the offer."
She stopped breathing for a second.
They danced around each other for a long time. They jokingly flirted when Tyrion wasn't around or when Bronn was helping her learn how to be a decent enough fighter. But that - that was straight forward, no rational thought given.
And when Bronn finally kissed her she thought 'Jaime's gonna kill him'.
And then their lips started to dance around and she thought 'he'll kill us both'.
But all those thoughts were forgotten when one of his hands found her waist, pressing her close to him. Bronn was a good kisser, but then again, Bronn was good at everything - most of things. She didn't remember ever imagining his lips on hers, but she knew that's how she wanted a good kiss to feel. Just the right amount of passion mixed with the right amount of roughness.
"So," she began after they parted. "you'll come to Dorne with me?"
"Gods, you're annoying!" she laughed with him. "Yeah, I'll go to Dorne with you and your Golden Boy, so you won't get killed."
"I can defend myself, you know, I had a wonderful teacher."
"Yes, a rather good-lookin' fellow."
She smiled as she let go of his shoulders. She looked towards the castle Bronn most definitely won't get, and she felt rather happy about it.
"Can't argue with that." she joked. "Jaime's gonna kill us both."
"So you didn't tell him your plan to get married."
"Of course I didn't. He thinks I'm offering you some castle far from here."
"That's why I'll look out for your ass 'til we reach Dorne. Then I'll steal you away, marry you and help you find your brother." he explained.
"Oh, he'll kill us for sure." she said and then looked at him. "Can I steal you away now?"
"I was thinking of saying goodbye to Lollys."
She hit his arm with a pout.
"You'll come with me to have some wine before we go."
"And your brother?"
"He'll have a fun time with Lollys around. I'm sure she enjoys his company."
Later, with cheeks red from the wine, she climbed the ship with the men and when Jaime wasn't around to see, she rested her head on Bronn's shoulder, letting him grab onto her waist with anything but courtesy.
Hi! Can I please request hcs for Halsin and Astarion with plus size gn!reader who is self concious about their size (and are extremely anxious about clothes and food if thats not too much)? Completely understand if no, feel free to ignore 💚 Thanks!
Astarion & Halsin with a PlusSize!Reader (GN)
masterlist
->A/N: This turned out to be more of a Drabble and less of HC’s oops.
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->Halsin:
Once you two are in an established relationship he would be tuned to your feelings and notice when your mood shifts and sours.
He would notice you paying more attention to your clothing and what you eat, at first he would be alarmed, not taking it lightly that you would restrict your meals. “My flower, our travels take us long and far, please let me know what ails you so I may see you well again.”
When the tears come to your eyes and your hands shake with your heightened nerves he would grow even more alarmed.
You would tell him all of your worries, and how they plague your mind day and night.
He would silence, your worry growing with each second of silence before his gentle reassurance graces your ears.
“You are beautiful to me, from sunrise to sunset I only think of you, your beauty ellipses all else and I’m sorry these thoughts make you think of yourself any other way. I have traveled and seen things far and wide, but you; you are nature's greatest gift to me, to the world. If I could manifest these terrible thoughts from your head and slay them myself I would for you. But know, you are beautiful as you are, I would ask for you no differently.
“I will help you work through these thoughts, no matter how long it takes.”
Your eyes are glossy, his sincerity seeping to your bones, “And what if it takes quite a while to quiet my racing mind?”
“My flower, you forget I am a Druid, I have lived a lifetime already and for you I would live a thousand more just to see you happy.”
->Astarion:
To speak plainly, Astarion is vain. He cannot see himself but he knows he is an attractive man that much is clear.
He would find you no different than anyone else, besides the fact that he loves you more than anyone else at this camp. And it turn, you would get to hear all of his daily complaints about the other companions.
He would come to you to complain when he would stop and notice you’re not listening at all. “Darling, you know it is rude to ignore someone when they’re talking to you.” He would be teasing but the words would flow over you like the wind.
The mirror by his tent had your attention, you glare at your reflection, your thoughts racing with the shadows of doubt.
“My sweet?” His hand touches your shoulder and it brakes the trance.
“Do you like how I look? Am I what you want?”
His heart would break at your voice, “Is that why you’re eating less? And here I thought the parasite was messing with you.” He means to lighten the mood but when you show no change he clears his throat.
“Of course I like how you look, I love it. Gods to be honest your the first person that I love everything about. It’s odd to love someone so strongly, I resisted it for a while, scared I’d lose you but I couldn't be without you or see you with another.
“You could have anyone”
“I could, but I only want you, as you want me. I will love you until I turn to dust and even then in the next life I believe I will love you. No matter how you look.”
He can be awfully sweet and poetic when he wants, almost makes your teeth hurt sometimes.
can you write the group in bg3 teasing Tav for going around in circles, not being able read a map and going one way only to immediately go the other way? :D
Map-Reading is Hard for Tav :(
masterlist
This one was so fun to write! Enjoy :)
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"This is pointless, I've seen us pass that rock at least a dozen times now!" Astarion is exasperated, leaning dramatically against it.
"This is true, not many times have I encountered the same terrain, oh look, it's that goblin I killed just a few hours back."
"Okay, Lae'zel you are not helping." You turn the map once then twice, flipping it each way before turning it back again.
"I'm truly concerned with how you got around before the Nautiloid." Shadowheart looks pleasantly amused at this whole scene, and poor Karlach and Gale are just trying to help in any way they can.
"Alright, I think I've got it, if we just go this way we'll definitely get there I'm sure of it." You're still chipper despite the number of times you've walked in a circle.
Astarion scoffs, "By all means, go right ahead I will wait right here, I doubt you'll make it that far, might as well save myself the trip, my shoes are looking worse for wear."
"Yes, scurry along istik, with your poor map-reading skills we may all reach ceremorphosis by the time you come back. Why don't you lend the map to someone more traveled?"
Your brow is furrowed tightly trying to make sense of the landscape and which path leads where, "No. no. I've got this, I just need to go- wait, yes this way!"
"Well, I'll come with you just so you don't walk yourself off a cliff soldier." Karlach's never-ending enthusiasm sure spurs you on, with a hearty clap on the back from her and a pained look from Gale you're on your way again.
"I certainly could take a look at it if you want?"
"I've got this Gale!"
"I question that."
You think you've got it this time, rounding a corner and certainly somewhere new to get you right to...
"Welcome back."
"It seems the tadpole has scrambled your brain rather violently, now I had some time to sharpen my sword but I've grown sick of standing around, let someone else take the map."
"Gladly!" Your mouth is agape as Gale snatches the map turning it right side before directing everyone on the right path.
"It's alright soldier, if we ever encounter a place where we need to go in a circle I'll be sure to let you lead the way, who knew a wizard would be better at a map than you huh?" With her arm slung over your shoulder, you trudge along.
