hildergard

[hildergard]

A DAUGHTER'S CURSE ✮ DUTCH VAN DER LINDE

SUMMARY | "Dutch's bloody hands had shaped you into his favorite revolver, even more deadly than his Schofield, for there was nothing in the world as bloodthirsty as a daughter who wanted to prove she was worth ten sons."

PAIRING | Dutch van der Linde x Adoptive Daughter!Reader

TAGS | Canon-typical violence, mention of sexual assault, daddy issues (a lot of it) and angst.

WORDCOUNT | 3.5k

NOTE | This verse screams Damned!Dutch's daughter. Enjoy the product of that. It is chaotic and messy and not proofread but⏤oh well⏤isn't that fitting for RDR2? The final part contains direct quotes from the game and, thus, may be a spoiler. But come on, it's been seven years.

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

Like the marvelous country that was the West, the loyalty of men knew no bound. It went beyond law and reason, and sometimes drove the purest hearts to the worst horrors.

Some had dedicated poems to its beauty, its dangers too, but no soul had ever created pentameters faithful enough to the loyalty of daughters for their fathers.

The daughter's loyalty was the father's weapon, a silent but destructive ammunition on which men could always count. The father sculpted his daughter and molded her to his will.

Dutch's bloody hands had shaped you into his favorite revolver, even more deadly than his Schofield, for there was nothing in the world as bloodthirsty as a daughter who wanted to prove she was worth ten sons.

It all began when he found you on Chicago's government pier, at the edge of Civilization and all its sins.

Above his head, night and its thick, speckled tapestry wove, as usual, the perfect place to conceal a plethora of crimes.

But certainly not the weeping—it drowned out the creaking of the merchant ship Dutch and Hosea had managed to plunder.

The outlaw turned and squinted, forgetting the bear fur to investigate the sound anomaly. It took him a few seconds to make out the small figure lurking in the shadows.

Wrapped up in an overcoat too big for you, you—a mere child at that time—shivered behind a barrel that reeked of rotting meat.

“What are you doing?” Hosea asked, his hand elbow-deep in a jewelry box. “Hurry up. Arthur and John are probably already on Dearborn Street.”

Dutch ignored his friend's protests and took a step towards you. Your face, innocent as can be and distorted by the ugliness of fear, blanched at his sight.

Your frightened eyes guided me to you, your father always said. Their tears aligned the stars, and I only followed my destiny.

You knew the truth—what had really caught his attention that evening had been the bloody knife you had brandished at him with trembling hands.

You would never forget the sparkle that shone in his eyes at the sight, nor the hand he offered you.

When your tiny fingers brushed Dutch's blistered ones—the fingers of a sinner—and the man promised you bed and a hot meal, the first poisoned drops of loyalty flowed and mingled with the night so easily that you didn't see their crimson color.

The first lesson Dutch taught you was how to shoot a gun. He gave you his, then too heavy for your small hand.

The dissonance between the tender skin of innocence and the ominous iron barrel disturbed Hosea (“Isn't it a bit too early for that? She's only seven. Show her how to pick pocket instead,”) but not Dutch, who merely smiled and corrected your grip on the weapon.

“For now, hold it with both hands. One on the stock, the other under the barrel. Your fingers should always be on or against the guard. Never on the trigger, unless you want to shoot yourself in the foot. Only pull the trigger when you're ready to shoot.”

“How will I know I'm ready?” you asked in a timid voice.

A second passed. Dutch shrugged.

“You'll know when the time comes. Now, feet apart.”

His boot pushed against your frail ankle. 

“Bend your knees. Good. Now hold still.”

The man walked away. You almost reached out a hand but, remembering his words, quickly put it back under the barrel.

From a leather satchel, Dutch drew four glass bottles and placed them in a row. The remnants of a strong spirit, no doubt. The pungent aromas scented the camp often enough for you to recognize them.

The outlaw returned soon enough, and your shoulders relaxed. You had not been aware of their contraction until the scent of powder and musk embraced you again.

“You know how it works, don't you?”

You nodded shyly. A strand of hair escaped your braid and fell before your eyes. Dutch tutted. With a distracted hand, he tucked it behind your ear before pressing his palm against your shoulder blades.

“Now, both hands on the stock.”

You complied, hands trembling. Dutch pointed to the bottles with his chin as his hand at your back became more insistent.

“Try aiming for a–”

A deafening crack shook the barrel before Dutch had finished his sentence. The sound reverberated against the surrounding trees and the accompanying jolt struck your wrist with such force you were forced to let go of the gun.

Dutch's hand pressed against your shoulder blades.

“It's all right, it's all right. I've got you.”

“I'm so sorry, Mr. Dutch! I didn't mean to– ’m sorry!”

The words stumbled from your lips, drowned out by panic and the ghostly buzzing that persisted against your eardrums.

“It's very... noisy.”

“You'll get used to it,” the outlaw's voice snapped. “Do it again. But this time, breathe out before you fire. Your lungs must be empty, understand? It'll help with the recoil.”

Childlike fingers searched for the trigger.

“Empty lungs,” Dutch repeated.

The bottle, still intact, glinted in the sunlight. One of the rays shimmered against the barrel before disappearing as you aimed at the glass; a gloomy eclipse that made you shiver.

You closed your eyes for a second, exhaled until you felt your ribcage fold in on itself, and hesitated only a second before firing.

The bullet whistled.

And disappeared in the bushes. 

You sighed.

“It's all right, Kid,” he reassured you. “We've got all the time in the world.”

You borrowed only an hour of the world’s time before a bottle finally exploded. Enchanted by the shattering glass, you turned back to Dutch, grinning from ear to ear.

And that singular sparkle reappeared in the man's brown eyes.

Years later, you would recognize this glint as that of an outlaw who had got his hands on a gold mine. For the time being, you were a mere seven-year-old and relished in the attention you were receiving for the first time in your life.

With your veins as the thread, loyalty wove its first stitches in your chest and condemned you to the worst curse of all: a daughter trying to make her dather proud.

At the age of twelve, you thus asked Hosea to teach you how to hunt. He took you to a forest on the edge of Chicago, not far from the camp, and placed a rifle in your blistered palms. Trapped between the silence of the forest and birdsongs, you shot a doe for the first time and regretted that Dutch could not be with you to see it.

At the age of fourteen, Arthur realized you weren’t going anywhere. Like him several years earlier, you had taken root and become a member of the pack—one of his to protect. When you were nearly killed during a stagecoach robbery, he handed you his old shotgun, muttering words about being more careful next time and left you standing there, with a new weapon in your arms.

At the age of fifteen, John tossed a bag full of throwing knives at your feet and dared you to hit the target drawn on the oak tree. Never one to pass on a challenge, you drew one out and weighed it on your finger. The steel, lighter than that of a revolver, nicked the pad of your index. John laughed. You raised an eyebrow and threw the dagger, stabbing it in the trunk as John looked on in disbelief. Behind you both, Dutch burst out laughing and you felt alive again.

Other members came and went over the next few years. Mary Linton didn't stay, but Susan and Tilly did, as Bill, Javier and Davey. You were introduced to other weapons—snipers, dynamite, bows, even axes—but you would always return to your revolver and the first memory of Dutch.

Loyalty wrapped itself around your neck for good when, at seventeen, you killed for Dutch for the first time.

Nothing remained of the sensation of that night on the pier, when the blade had sunk into the fat belly of the drunkard who had tried to rape you.

Today, dread was replaced by jubilation, as you reloaded the barrel of your revolver and blew the head off yet another O'Driscoll. Crouched behind a rock, adrenalin pounded your temples and sharpened your senses.

“Come out! Van Der Linde!” a voice taunted behind her. “Colm wants to say hello!”

A shadow in a green scarf swooped down on Dutch. You choked out a scream as the O’Driscoll threw the first punch.

“No, Father!”

Dutch fell in the mud with a grunt. The O'Driscoll turned back to her, a toothy grin on his lips. His fist, still clenched, was dripping blood. Your father's blood, you realized.

The butt of your revolver lacerated your palm as you tightened your grip around it.

“I didn't know good ol’ Dutch had a daughter! Tell me, sweetheart, do you want to see me blow your daddy's brains out?”

The Irishman grabbed Dutch's hair. You saw red and jumped.  

Three blows echoed through the clearing. Dutch fell back to the ground. The O'Driscoll raised a hand to his chest and blanched.

Empty lungs.

He collapsed, his scarf green no more.

You dropped your revolver and rushed to Dutch. The man was still lying on the ground, his face covered in mud and blood, but his bewildered eyes moved frantically as he caught sight of you.

“Are you all right?” you asked, breathless.

The look of disbelief didn't go away. Louisa thought at first of head trauma—his head, after all, had slammed against the floor—but when he got to his feet without your help, your own words came back to taunt you.

Your whole body froze before you straightened up and, avoiding his eyes, turned around to rush to your horse.

You straddled him and disappeared in a cloud of dust.

“You called me ‘Father’,” he told her that evening, when you finally summoned the courage to go see him.

In silence, you sat at his bedside before grabbing a clean rag and soaking it with whisky. With a trembling hand, you wiped the clotted blood from the corners of her lips, searching their familiar shapes for the right words. Dutch always knew what to say.

“I did,” you admitted in a quiet voice.

He grabbed your wrist.

You tensed.

“Why?”

“I don't know.”

Dutch searched your face for something, but didn't seem to find it. He abruptly let go and pulled a cigar from his jacket’s patch pocket before lighting it. You watched the man take a short puff; for a moment, the arabesques of smoke diverted your mind from the anguish that swarmed within.

But Dutch's sigh plunged you right back into it. He spread an arm out.

You flinched but a hand between your shoulder blades prevented you from falling.

“Come here, Kid.”

You promptly burst into tears and fell into his arms.

Several minutes passed without either of you speaking. Dutch broke the silence first.

“Can I count on you?”

“I'll follow you all the way to Hell,” you immediately replied, unaware that the Styx and Phlegethon started from your father's wounds.

 “Dutch is just trying to get us out of here,” you sharply whispered to Arthur as you scoured tonight’s dinner’s dishes.

The incessant splashing of icy water was doing a poor job at masking your anger. The feeling of betrayal had cut too deep at your chest for that. It made your fingers shake as you rubbed a dirty coffee cup a little harder. 

Of all the members of the gang, you had never thought Arthur would doubt Dutch.

You kept your eyes fixed on your hands, reddened not by blood but by effort—a rare sight indeed. Lately, not a day went by without you being sent to kill someone.

You grabbed another plate to shake off the weight of guilt. The sponge squeaked against the iron and drowned your thoughts for a second.

“He ain’t been the same since Micah came,” Arthur began, “and you know it as well as me. Always talking about his big plan, dangling mountains of gold in front of us, but we both know it won’t happen.”

You slammed the bowl against the table, startling Pearson who was butchering a doe, and turned back to Arthur, your finger pointed at him.

“You don't know what you're talking about!”

“And you're blinded by your love for him! Look around, Y/N. We're the last. Civilization is on our doorstep. Dutch can't fight it. We've got to get out. John, Sadie and Abigail agree. Come along.”

A bitter laugh forced its way out of your chest.

“Please, love.”

You lowered your head and, with a lump in the throat, said softly: “Go away, Arthur.”

The gunslinger sighed and did just that. The strange sight made your lips part, ready to take back what you had just said, but no word came out. You clenched your fist.   

Dutch, you thought. Dutch will know what to do.

You abandoned the dishes and headed for your father's tent. Voices escaped from the canvas, and it only took you a second to recognize Micah's. You gritted your teeth. You didn't trust this snake any more than Arthur did, but one rotten apple did not spoil the whole barrel.

Both men fell silent when you came into view.

“Can I talk to you?” you asked Dutch.

“Not now, Kid. Micah got a lead that could be very good for us.”

Although his voice was soft, you couldn't help the pain that lacerated your chest. For the first time, Dutch had dismissed you. Beside him, Micah watched on with a victorious eye.

For a second, your fingers brushed against revolver at your belt, but you quickly recovered and, flashing your most convincing smile, nodded.

As soon as you turned, the facade dropped. You pushed back the tent flap with a trembling hand and, trying to ignore the crack that had just appeared, returned to your bedroll, where nightmares brought you back to the Chicago pier.

This time, no man reached out a hand.

Loyalty knew almost no bound—for only jealousy was a worthy rival and could, piece by piece, unravel the sacred stitches it sewed in hearts.

Micah Bell, more snake than man, had hissed his lies and perfidy into Dutch's sick ear—a modern reincarnation of the Garden of Eden where Eve would not bite the apple. No. This time, the sinner had only one name, ironic as it was.

Father.

The Daughter was and would remain a figure cursed by her sex—apple in the eyes of the Father, turned rotten with the appearance of a Son.

And what a son, you thought as Micah pointed his gun at an emaciated Arthur and a bruised John. A son who had ratted them out to the Pinkertons. A sellout. A traitor.

This thought awakened a rage you had hitherto tried to bury deep within yourself. It bubbled up in your veins and rattled your chest.

Slowly, your fingers slipped to your belt.

“All of you...” Arthur began, his revolver pointed at the crowd. “You pick your side, because this is over. All them years, Dutch... for this snake?”

“Oh, be quiet, cowpoke. Be quiet!”

You could not look away from your father. He hadn't answered. Why hadn’t he answered?

An enraged Susan Grimshaw sided with Arthur and snapped you out of your reverie. The rifle she was holding clashed with the strict image you had built up over the years.

“No. You be quiet, Mr. Bell… and put down your gun.”

“There’s Pinkertons coming, fast.”

Javier's announcement sent the camp into a deadly frenzy. Seizing his chance, Micah shot Mrs. Grimshaw, who collapsed to the ground in a bloodcurdling scream.

 “No!”

You fell to your knees and placed your hands on the gaping wound perforating her stomach.

“No, no, no, no, no... Not again, not again,” you whispered frantically.

You pressed harder on Mrs. Grimshaw's wound as she continued to writhe in pain. 

“Come on. Don’t die on me. Please,” you begged.

Kieran, Sean, Lenny, Hosea... How many friends had you lost? How many more names would join the cursed list? Would you be next?

Why hadn't Dutch answered Arthur's question?

Despite your pleas and efforts, Mrs. Grimshaw soon stopped moving.

When you felt the body exhale against your palm, you froze. As if they had a mind on their own, your hands slid to the muddy ground, now soaked with innocent blood.

You watched on with dull eyes.

“Who amongst you is with me…” Dutch's voice echoed behind her. “And who is betraying me?”

You raised your head and stared into Mrs. Grimshaw's dead eyes. Your hand shook. A few drops of blood dripped from it. You wiped them off on your jeans and clenched your fist before standing up on wobbly legs.

Meanwhile, the camp had divided itself: John and Arthur on one side, Dutch and the rest on the other.

And you, in the middle of this abyss, stood motionless, your chest empty.

It was only when Arthur collapsed in a coughing fit that you came back to life. You rushed to your brother and placed a comforting hand between his shoulder blades.

“Are you alright?”

Arthur's grip on his revolver wavered. The sight, so far removed from the gunslinger you had known all your life, tore at your heart. All had changed. Everyone you’d ever cared about was either a ghost of themselves or a decomposed corpse.

“He's lying... Cowpoke is lying,” Micah taunted, his two revolvers pointed at them.

That was the last straw. You let out an inhuman scream and drew your weapon.

“You!Shut the fuck up! I've had enough of your words!”

A toothy grin appeared on the blond's face.

“Oh... It seems the little one got claws after all.”

“Kid,” Dutch began but you kept your eyes and revolver on the traitor.

It's all his fault.

“Kid, put the gun down and come here,” Dutch ordered in a distracted voice.

No, in a confident voice.

After all, why should a model daughter disobey her father?

For the first time, you hesitated and glanced over your shoulder.

Arthur was watching you, his eyes tired but pleading. You recalled your conversation from weeks earlier.

He's not the same. We both know that.

You turned back to Dutch and searched his eyes for the familiar spark of the early days, but nothing but greed and arrogance swam in those irises.

You bowed your head and admitted defeat.

The Father's image withered before her very eyes. Loyalty evaporated in a second. The blood of the pact coagulated. The heart dried up. Already, the mind was feeling the poison’s effects and destroying the golden images to leave only the cold hard truth.

Suddenly, the choice seemed obvious.

You took a step towards Arthur and John.

“No,”

“What do you mean “no”?” Dutch laughed. “Come here, Kid, or–”

Your blood ran cold. The stitches of loyalty loosened and those of hatred replaced them.

“Or what? You'll shoot me? 

“Cut the crap and get over here, Kid!”

“I ain’t your kid!” you exploded.

Your voice echoed through the clearing. Dutch froze.

You took a deep breath and, hand trembling, pointed your revolver at him.

The sensation of déjà-vu strangled you. All you had to do was close your eyes to be transported to the Chicago pier. You could almost hear the creaking of the merchant ship and Hosea's muttering.

But Hosea is dead.

You tightened your grip on the butt of the revolver. The dozens of blisters covering your hands burst into flames. Dutch was the sole reason for their presence. If you burst them, would the blood of the victims you had killed for him flow?

“You're not my father,” you continued despite your quavering voice. “My father died when he chose to side with this traitor.”

Her index finger left the grip.

“Kid, put the gun down.”

If he'd wanted you to be an obedient daughter, why had he taught you to shoot at seven?

You went over the guard.

Empty lungs.

You exhaled.

A daughter's loyalty to her father knew no bound, except for the one Betrayal erected.

Then, filial rage spared nothing.

Not even the Father.

[hildergard]

Hello!! My english its not perfect so sorry if i make any mistakes, I noticed that you havent posted in a while, just hope you are doing okay! ive read all your work and cant wait to read more! Take care!😊

Hello! I’m so sorry for my inactivity: life has been rough lately and writing is not my top priority. On top of that, my laptop is down because I spilled water on it so I do not have access to my Scrivener files :( I’m writing BOTBS at snail pace but, I promise, I’m writing! <3333

[hildergard]

hey! sorry to bother you, i was just wondering about the pirate!reader fanfic and if you plan to post it soon. love your work💗

Hello, Anon! I am working on it. Sorry it’s taking longer than expected. Life has been hectic and I’m more often than not too tired to write. But I promise, it’s coming! <3333

[hildergard]

Okay but imagine reversed gentle hands? She gets hurt or she gets smacked by Mylene (or whatever the gulag keeper lady's name was) and Aemond comforts her like she did him (after killing the gulag keeper ofc)

GULAG KEEPER 😭 That’s so⏤ (true)

Did you hack my computer and read Part 2, Anon? Because it’s eerily familiar to what I wrote haha.

[hildergard]

Anxiously waiting for Aemond x pirate!reader!!

I cannot wait for you to read it! It is taking me a longer time to write because it’s massive and I’m also working on my two novels⏤a bit overwhelming if I’m honest but hey, I always love a challenge.

[hildergard]

i cant help but imagine aemond x pirate!reader with a kinda jack sparrow personality, his reaction to her would be the funniest thing ever

I’m currently deep into my Pirate!Reader one-shot and, though she has moments reminding of Sparrow, I can say that she is much more like Barbossa. It troubles Aemond all the same!

[hildergard]

just thinking about aemond x lowborn!reader (I found myself in love with that trope) he helps her by giving her food, money, clothes, and stuff. but the reader is a younger daughter or lives in a toxic environment and everything is monopolized by her family and when aemond finds out he simply sees red. i'm sorry if this doesn't make sense, but the idea is there!!!

PRECIOUS ★ AEMOND TARGARYEN

PAIRING | Aemond Targaryen x Lowborn!Reader

TAGS | Swearing, suggestive content, dysfunctional family

WORDCOUNT | 2.7k

NOTE | Enjoy this thing I wrote in one sitting and did not edit. If you see any mistake... no you did not. There probably is⏤English is not my first language. In my mind, they are "rich" enough to buy food so I focused on gifts instead. I hope you'll like it nonetheless. I tried to keep it short this time and, for once, I think I succeeded! Thank you for requesting this great prompt <333

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

Downstairs, the intoxicated patrons sang their bawdy songs and shook the walls of the inn. Their lewd rhymes travelled through the dingy floorboards and vanished against your parted lips. 

A hand went up your spine, grazed your shoulders, and stopped on your sweaty neck. 

“Where is it?”

The voice hit the air and sent shivers down your spine. That authoritative tone, those proudly exhaled consonants, those whispered vowels... His words exuded nobility and education and set your whole body ablaze. You closed your eyes for a second and imagined yourself blessed with such gift of the gab, but your sentence fell awkwardly from your bruised lips.

“What do you mean?”

The sticky sheets crumpled under your weight. You squinted to make out the silhouette of your lover. In the moonlight, his hair looked as if it had been woven from the stars. 

“Where is your necklace?" Aemond asked.

Mindlessly, your fingers hit an infinity of naked flesh. You gulped. 

“Oh... Well... I didn't want to wear a beautiful object liked that in Flea Bottom. Thieves are everywhere with the blockade–”

“I gave it to you for you to wear it," he cut you off. 

The pitch-dark night itself could not hide his discontent. 

“I know, my love," you say softly. 

He had been so happy to give it to you. The gold chain and the sapphire still sparkled in your dreams. Sometimes, at night, you would remember Aemond's delicate fingers against your neck, the refreshing coldness of the precious metal on your flesh, its weight against your throat... And then, the sun would tear you from your dreams and the only thing left around your neck would be the knot of your guilt.

“No matter," he finally said. 

Your prince's fingers descended on your chest, brushed against your nipple but did not linger, much to your regret. Aemond got out of bed and left your body cold⏤it was so easy to let yourself be consumed by dragonfire. It burned your heart oh so beautifully. 

Without a word, Aemond bent down and took a packet out of his leather bag. You looked away from his naked body, your cheeks aflame. The many nights you had spent with him, learning the map of his muscles and flesh, had done nothing for your shyness. It died in an explosion of pleasure each night but would always be reborn in the painful awareness left in the vanishing carnal bliss. 

Aemond came back and handed you the gift, one knee resting on the thin mattress. A lump twisted in your throat and rendered you speechless. With a trembling hand, you pulled the ribbon and let the fabric fall to reveal a magnificent dress. 

You closed your eyes for a moment and forced a smile onto your face.

“You shouldn't have," you said through clenched teeth. 

“You say that every time," he laughed. “And you know very well that I will not stop. You deserve to be pampered, my love."

You don't command a nobleman, let alone a Targaryen. Perhaps that was why Aemond kept ignoring your request, for it never changed. Every gift was answered with this phrase. There was no false modesty there, just the familiar, creeping guilt⏤an old enemy coming to torment you. 

“It’s beautiful.”

Your fingers brushed against the blue bodice, where golden threads wove in a fine, expensive, embroidery⏤a huge dragon slumbered in a field of flowers. 

At your words, Aemond smiled brightly and kissed your forehead. His lips left their wet imprint, which you did not wipe away. You would cherish its feeling a little longer. He moved down your cheeks and finally attacked your lips. You groaned and buried your hand in his hair before pressing your chest against his.

“I must go now," he said reluctantly between kisses. 

You stepped back with a sigh and glanced at the window. The hour of the wolf was darkening the sky. Downstairs, the patrons had quietened down. Heavy, awkward footsteps echoed in the corridor and doors slammed. 

At last, the more festive souls were going to bed. 

If you listened carefully, you could hear the bakers already hard at work. The first to rise, they sweetened the dreams of citizens with the sweet and greedy fragrances they distilled in the streets. 

Aemond slumped onto the bed one last time and pulled you in for a last kiss. 

“The next time I see you, I will rip that silk off your body," he smiled before pointing to the discarded dress. 

You nodded, avoiding his gaze, and kissed him one last time. 

Aemond⏤hood falling on his head⏤disappeared with an uttered I love you and left you alone with your guilt. A sigh shook your chest. 

You got dressed and went downstairs, leaving the stains on the linen as the only trace of your love. You absently nodded at Denyse, busy wiping the tables, and set off into the streets of Flea Bottom. 

It would take you a good hour to get to the forge. 

You already longed for your bed on the other side of the town. 

Flea Bottom, for all its faults, provided the discretion you needed to meet your prince every night. It was Aemond who had shown you this little inn after you refused to use the secret passages leading to the Red Keep⏤you would not throw yourself into the dragon's jaws.  

Your feet cursed you, but your heart thanked you for these precious moments⏤away from the reproaches and the forge, the vices of the court and the pressure of power. In this dingy room, the Prince softened and removed his iron mask to reveal the gentle soul hidden behind it, while you forgot the shrill cries that tormented your days. 

It took you longer than usual to reach the Street of Steel. As you passed through the wooden door, the hour of the Nightingale was casting its first rays of sunshine and waking up the workers. 

Your mother was waiting for you, arms crossed and a bucket of water at her feet. 

Without delay, she ripped the dress from your hands and replaced it with the bucket. A few drops splashed onto you, soaking the front of your sweaty tunic. 

“Where did you get that?” her sharp voice asked. “You stole it, didn’t you? How many times do I have to tell you–”

“I didn’t– It's not–”

She cut you off before you could come up with an excuse.

Her fingernails scraped at the embroidery, which held firm. 

“That’s some good work..." she mumbled. “We'll get a few silver stags out of it... Maybe enough to repair the oven. Meredyth? Meredyth! Come downstairs and take this to the weaver next door!”

You held out a shaking hand to try and retrieve the dress, but your mother glared at you. You lowered your head, your eyes wet. Aemond's face appeared in your thoughts and the guilt⏤always there⏤ignited. 

You no longer had the strength to fight the inevitable. Dawn, beautiful as it was, always had its share of disappointments in store for you. Every morning, your prince's gifts were snatched from you without remorse and sold to the nearest merchant. All that remained of your jewels and dresses was a thick leather purse hidden under the floor of your parents' bedroom⏤both took great pleasure in lecturing you about stealing and sinning. 

Your mother could pretend all she wanted to be pious and kind, a good believer with a guiltless conscience, but you knew the truth. She would never go through with her threats, far too happy with the gold dragons piling up under her pillow. 

Your sister ran down the stairs and grabbed the package before examining its contents. 

“Oh, Mum, it's so beautiful…” She took the dress out of its wrapping and pressed it to her chest before twirling around, not minding the dirt on the silk with her ashen fingers. “Can we keep it?”

Your mother scoffed. 

“To do what? You don't need an embroidered dress to forge swords and shoe horses. Why don't you go and see if Claere can take it? And you!" she turned back to you. “Clean the grindstone. You’ll sharpen the commissions next. Corwyn isn't here.”  

The knot tightened around your neck as you nodded and disappeared into the workshop. 

The hours passed. Sweat stuck to your forehead and the sparks from the grindstone bit your fingers. At last⏤to your delight⏤ nine o'clock struck the end of the day. You gave Duncan⏤a golden cloak⏤the dagger he had ordered, pocketed the fifty silver stags and wished him a good evening. 

When he closed the door, you hurried up to your room, washed yourself with the bucket of cold water, put on one of your best dresses and ran to Flea Bottom, ignoring your mother's cries, which faded under the beating of your soles. 

You arrived at the inn out of breath, but happy to be away from home. Denyse greeted you with a wink and watched you stride up the stairs. The steps creaked under your weight, but you did not care. Habit and euphoria carried you to an innocuous door. 

You opened it and a body flung itself against yours. A smile lit up your face. Aemond did not wait and pulled you to the bed. 

As his lips peppered your neck with kisses, his hands slipped under your body and roamed the length of your back. They clung to your dress and sought out the threads of your bodice, but suddenly stopped. You tensed. Gently, Aemond straightened up. He looked at you before his eye fell on your cotton dress.

“What is this?” 

“Aemond, I–” 

“Wasn't it to your liking? You should have told me. I would have asked the royal weaver to make the necessary alterations. We just received Essos fabrics. Perhaps it would have been wiser to talk to you about it before commissioning it,” he frowned. 

“It was perfect.”

“Was?”

You sighed and embraced him. Immediately, Aemond's hands searched for yours. Your fingers intertwined. He pulled you against him and tucked his chin into your neck. As he spoke, his breaths hit your skin and made you shiver. 

“What are you not telling me, my love?”

His closeness calmed you. With the tip of your pointer finger, you brushed his back and caressed the hollow of his spine. Your hand came to rest on the small of his back and traced invented letters that told of all the love you felt for him. He smiled against your neck and kissed it, understanding the gibberish you were writing with an ignorant hand. 

The language of love knew no illiteracy.

“Y/N?”

Your sigh struggled to come out, blocked by the muscular torso against your chest. It struggled to find its way to your lips and  when it did come out, it poured all its guilt into the air before suffocating you. 

“It's just that... I mean... Don't get angry, please, I couldn't bear it,” you begged.

“Never, my love. Now tell me.” 

“Your gifts… My parents… They sell them.” 

He straightened up and sought your gaze, but you turned your head away. Guilt lacerated your throat. You swallowed to get rid of the horrible feeling, but it remained. 

The Gods were punishing you. 

“They sell them and use the gold for the forge or when they feel like it.”  

He said nothing, which worried you. 

“Stop offering me more," you stammered. “I beg you, Aemond. I can't bear the guilt any longer. Please, Aemond. You must understand…”

He hushed you and gently caressed your cheek. You took refuge in the warmth of his palm and closed your eyes. His lips wiped away the few tears that rolled down your cheekbone. 

“It is all right.”

“Is it?”

“Yes, my sweet. Now please, do not cry. I cannot bear this sight.”

After your conversation, Aemond stopped bringing you gifts. Your heart sank, but you told yourself that it was for the best⏤your parents would, at last, no longer monopolise his fortune. Now, all your prince had left to offer you were his caresses and words, but you felt richer than if he had given you a piece of jewellery. 

Your hammer struck the iron, sending sparks flying. They nicked at your cheeks but did not dim the smile on your face. Your thoughts drifted back to last night, Aemond's warm skin against yours, his hand between your thighs, his warmth and his thrusts… 

A metallic noise brought you back to reality. You raised your head and blinked, expecting to find Corwyn in the workshop, but there was only you. 

It comes from the shop, you realised. 

You frowned⏤thinking about the person behind the counter⏤and wiped your hands on an old towel before walking to the front. Worry settled in your chest as you quickened your pace. 

Your father never dropped his tools. Years of experience had turned his hammer into a part of his hand. He was no longer the young apprentice you or your siblings still were. 

You stumbled into the shop. 

“M’prince!" your father stammered. “To what do we owe this honour?”

Your wide eyes met Aemond's satisfied one. The towel fell to the floor. 

“Would you like a sword? I have several that might please you. No Valyrian steel around here unfortunately," he chuckled, "but they cut just as good.”

“I’ve come to discuss your daughter's affairs.” 

“Meredyth?” 

“Your youngest daughter," the Prince replied. 

Your father gave you an incredulous look when you reached him. His fist tightened around the hammer he had picked up. 

“I heard a rumour that rather annoys me, I must admit. A rumour about valuable objects that have an unfortunate tendency to disappear.”

Your father grabbed your upper arm to keep you in line⏤ unwilling to sully his image in front of the Prince Regent. 

“Her mother and I...! We've told her a hundred times not to steal! She's a good girl, m’prince. She's just a little... lost. Youth, you know," he smiled nervously. “No need to make a big deal of it. Don't you think?”

“Oh, your daughter is innocent. You are the problem, sir.” 

“M-me?”

“You see, those objects were gifts. From me, might I add. And I take great offence that you not only stole them but shamelessly sold them for your own gain, embezzling money from the crown. This is an act of treason, did you know that? I could have your head for this.”

You massaged the bridge of your nose between two fingers and sighed, cursing your lover's hot blood and praying to the Gods to give you the strength. Three eyes burned at your temple⏤two of embarrassment, one of pride. You met your father's gaze and shrugged. 

“I… I beg your pardon, m’prince. We didn't know.” 

Your father set down his hammer on the counter and curtsied. His callused fingers waved, unsure of what to do, before plunging into the centre pocket of his leather apron. 

The prince stared at your father for a few more seconds, gloating as he squirmed with embarrassment, and moved towards you. Gently, he took hold of your wrist. You gasped when a cold sensation touched your hand. You looked down and found a magnificent ring on your finger⏤a fine circle of twisted gold with several sparkling sapphires.

“And there it was. Something as precious as you," he smiled, stroking the jewel with his thumb. “A thousand stones could not compare with your eyes, but I must admit I cannot wait to see it on your finger tonight. It will be all the more beautiful under the moonlight.”

Aemond kissed your hand before straightening up to glare at your father. 

“If I hear this ring has been sold, you will suffer the consequences. Is that clear?”

“Yes, m’prince.”

“Hmm. Good.”

He left the forge with a confident step and slammed the door behind him. 

Silence stretched on. Your teary eyes remained riveted on the jewel. The imprint of his kiss still warmed the back of your hand and made your heart race. You shook your fingers, welcoming this new weight, and smiled brightly.  

After several minutes, your father, his mouth ajar, finally turned to you. 

“Now, what on earth did you do to seduce a prince, girl?

[hildergard]

Funniest thing possible for "gentle hands" would be Aemond being as freaked out by her as She is by him, more even.

He so is! I think at first it all started with the strangeness of the situation. Like… “Who is this maid and why does she have so much power over me?” And then he starts to notice that by the gods, she is pretty and so gentle… That’s the end of him. He is now officially lost and has to resort to this big bad boy persona to try and hide his mushy self.

[hildergard]

Okay I think it's obvious that many-many ppl liked "gentle hands" But I'd like to elaborate. I love your writing style, I love the way the dialogue and interactions are written and I especially love that it's not rushed to the "main course" and the actual interaction with Aemond himself was basically near the end of the short. I love how you introduced and placed all the characters that are tied to Gentle Hands (I actually adore that as a nickname for the maid) and how they interact with each other and what she thinks about them, It's all went so smoothly and felt quite natural. Absolute gem, I love it. Amazing. Spectacular give me 14 of them

I just might frame this comment and put it on my wall because this is the nicest thing someone has ever said to me on my writing <333 Thank you so much!

I'm so happy you loved these little details I spent so much time on⏤the interactions, the characters... all the "unnecessary" worldbuilding, really. You stating it feels "natural"? That's the kindest thing you could’ve said to me, the very feeling I hoped to convey. I am a slut for realism after all, even in a fantasy setting.

& I am so happy you liked the idea of the nickname!!!

I am currently planning Part 2 and I was struggling⏤should I just focus on Aemond and Reader or continue adding those characters, those little details? Well, the choice is obvious now! But we’ll see more of our lovebirds. Can we even call them that?

Anyway, once again, thank you, Anon <3333

[hildergard]

We waited years for this writing? This finale? They butchered the book and the solidarity of the Greens. Yeah… I am team Aemond from now on. Why is he the only one acting like there is a war?

[hildergard]

BLOSSOM OF THE BLUE SOWING: TEASER ★ AEMOND TARGARYEN

SUMMARY | The peculiar behaviour of the dragon Grey Ghost leads the Greens to believe it is courting a potential rider. With Rhaenyra seeking to tame more dragons, the Prince Regent does not have a choice. Aemond Targaryen will win this war⏤even if it means sullying his legacy of Fire with the filthy blood of the Sea.

PAIRING | Aemond Targaryen x Pirate!Reader

NOTE | This is going to be a big one-shot. I can't know for certain when it will be published but I hope around August 15th. If you wish to be tagged when it comes out, please say so <333

READ A SNIPPET BELOW ↓

“We must craft a plan, Your Highness. Sunfyre has not been sighted since Rook's Rest and we cannot solely rely our forces on Vhagar. The dragons are the key to this war. Without them, we are lost. Rhaenyra’s seat may be Dragonstone, but she does not hold power over all beasts. Perhaps it would be wise to try and tame new dragons as well. We now need to look beyond Targaryens."

“Are you suggesting I give up my birthright to filthy blood, Ser Criston?" Aemond gritted. “The dragons are the last remains of Old Valyria. They will not be seduced by vile paupers who bow down at their feet, speaking nonsense in broken High Valyrian."

The tip of a cane rasped against the floor and put an end to conversations. A man, his back to Greydon, straightened up as all heads turned towards him. He hummed and finally deigned to look at the Prince Regent.

“Whispers say otherwise, Sir. The dragon Grey Ghost has been spotted off Driftmark. Nothing out of the ordinary so far, but fishermen in Blackwater Bay also report seeing a white creature flying through the clouds. This has never happened before. The dragon is growing restless and its behaviour is changing. Something is driving it to travel. We all know dragons are sedentary and only migrate for one reason. It would seem the dragon is courting a potential rider, Your Grace, a potential ally for the Greens.”

“The Bay, you say? Hmm... If Grey Ghost is prowling around, there is a good chance its rider lives in King's Landing. Dragons only accept Valyrian blood as riders. Do we have any idea who this person might be? The Gods know my uncle and brother have their share of bastards in Flea Bottom.”

The members of the Council exchanged glances and fidgeted. The man, the one with his back turned to him, cleared his throat.

“No, Your Highness, but the beast avoids the coastline and retreats into the waters. Clearly, the one it… covets is not in the capital, otherwise it would certainly be approaching the city.”

“Grey Ghost is notoriously shy and feeds on fish," Prince Aemond retorted. “It is a peculiar creature. We cannot rely on its movements alone.”

Greydon raised an eyebrow.

“But never mind," the Prince continued. “I rely on your sources, Larys, to find the dragonseed, whether it lives in Flea Bottom or Duskendale. You are right. Our ranks are in dire need of another dragon. If Vermithor and Silverwing are indeed tamed and the Blacks decide to send all their dragons on a single front... I'm afraid even Vhagar will not be enough.”

The Prince stood up and paced in front of the windows. Clearly, this plan was bothering him. Or perhaps it was the weakness of his ranks. There was nothing more fragile in this world than the ego of a nobleman, and nothing more dangerous than a threatened Targaryen.

He turned to the assembly.

“Send heralds and summon the remaining dragonseeds to the Keep.”

[hildergard]

hi!! im in love with your work, it’s all so good! do you plan to do more parts for the fic “gentle hands”?

Hello, anon! Thank you so much. I’m glad you like it <33 I’m currently planning a part 2 but I want to finish another big one-shot before that! I promise it’s coming though! I just have too many ideas and want to write all of them lol

[hildergard]

just to say, i just read your "gentle hand" work and wow, i'm in love with your writing

Thank you so much, Anon, for your kind words! That’s so cute <333 I’m so happy you liked it!

[hildergard]

Could you do something where Aemond is already married/betrothed to a highborn lady that’s been approved by Alicent and Otto but he has a relationship with a low born woman (a brothel worker or any lowborn really) and once he becomes Prince Regent he starts bringing her around the castle, giving her a room to herself, treating her better than how a lowborn should be treated in Alicent and Ottos eyes and they don’t like it but Aemond doesn’t care.

MINE TO PROTECT ★ AEMOND TARGARYEN

PAIRING | Aemond Targaryen x Lowborn!Reader

TAGS | Suggestive content, swearing, possessive behaviour, classism

WORDCOUNT | 4k

NOTE | I have seen a lot of fanfictions where the Reader is a brothel worker so I made her a baker instead. I hope that's alright with you! Thank you so much for this great request! I had so much fun writing it <333

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

In the seedy streets of Flea Bottom, rumours travelled in a precise order, memorised by all.

A Lord, drunk with lust, would disclose the Crown’s secrets to a simpering whore, who would be quick⏤once the gold dragons were in her purse⏤to repeat what she had just heard, noble semen still running down her thighs. The other, much less wealthy, customers would then talk about it loudly in bars, attracting the attention of patrons who, once sober, had only to spread the news.

Today, the rumour burst into your little shop when Old Gerald came through the door, looking for his daily loaf of bread. 

 “Prince Aemond’s been made Regent," he said. 

For a second, you did not move. The dough fell on wood. Your floured hands remained stuck in the sticky, flabby mixture. It would have to be kneaded again. The sight of your dirty fingers woke you from your torpor. You gripped the towel from your apron and wiped your palms roughly before turning your back on your customer⏤less to get the fresh loaves of bread out of the oven than to regain your composure.

He had done it. 

Your shovel rasped against the burning slab of clay and peeled off the loaves. 

A few days earlier, when night had enveloped the citizens of King's Landing in its thick cloak, he had told you of his plans and dreams⏤the two were always intertwined, for Aemond Targaryen provoked fate rather than waited for it. His touch had done nothing to soften the brutality of his words. Sordid tales of fire and blood, the kind that filled the tomes of the Citadel. 

Even the Targaryens could not play with fire indefinitely. Aemond rose in the flames. For how much longer? You had protested, your voice hoarse from the moans he had managed to draw from your throat, but he would have none of it and simply told you to trust him, as if all this were far too complicated for you. 

And perhaps that was the case, for what did you know of war and power?

“What about his Majesty?" you asked.

Old Gerald tossed you three coppers, which you pocketed, before handing you a thick piece of cloth. 

“They say he perished in dragonfire. Seems Targaryens are closer to men, after all. With all this quarrel for t'throne, it were inevitable. And, let me tell you, it'll happen again. Today, a brother sits on t'throne. Tomorrow, it'll be an uncle or a sister. Things like that never end.”

You carefully wrapped the golden loaf in the cloth. 

“Wi' Rhaenyra in Dragonstone and his brother's heir dead, he’ll no doubt be crowned King. And the Lady Baratheon, Queen.”

You winced at the name but immediately hid your reaction with a tight smile. Gerald, bless him, took no notice of your torment. You handed the loaf of bread to the old cobbler, who nodded at you and returned to his shoes. 

The rumour ran on and kept you thinking all day. You burnt a dozen loaves of bread, spilt two sacks of flour and forgot to deliver her apple pies to Dorthy Porter, making you lose a silver stag and a customer.

When the key finally turned in the lock of the shop and cut you off from the rest of the world, your shoulders slumped. The sun and all its problems gave way to the moon. Under its silvery eyes, other rumours would no doubt spread but you did not wish to hear them. You longed for your straw mattress and the comfort of your dreams⏤perhaps your love would visit you there, also freed from the pressure the Gods were piling on his shoulders. 

Tiredness weakened your knees⏤you dragged your body more than you climbed the stairs to your modest bedroom. In the middle of the room, the bed and its pillow stretched out its arms to you. You let yourself fall into the feathery embrace and closed your eyes for a moment, praying to the Gods that you would find sleep easily. 

They ignored you. 

The doorbell rang. 

Your eyelids struggled to open. Sleep paralysed them⏤it clutched at your eyelashes and tried to keep them closed but you fought the temptation and, at last, gazed into the dim light of the room. Another series of blows, more hurried, struck against the wood. The whole  shop seemed to shake. 

“I’m coming, I'm coming…” you mumbled. 

You gasped as two members of the Kingsguard appeared on your doorstep, their cloaks far too white to be dragged through the muddy streets of Flea Bottom. 

“The Prince Regent, His Highness Aemond Targaryen, summons you.”

They did not care for your reply and seized you. You protested, demanded to be told the reason for this summon, but nothing would do. The guards dragged you like a rag doll through the streets of King's Landing, indifferent to your screams and struggle. Above and around you, the candlelight in the windows intensified. Some people poked their heads out to watch the racket. You lowered your chin and remained silent, but the damage had been done. 

Already, rumours were spreading. The baker had been arrested. What had she done? Who would make their bread from now on?  

The dizzy shadow of the Red Keep loomed larger and larger. Just the outline of it made your skin crawl. For the first time, you would be treading on the floor of Kings and Queens. You were being plunged headfirst into this unknown, powerful and dangerous place, populated by men and women who despised people like you. One of the guards tightened his grip around your arm. You yelped. Why were they taking you there? Aemond always came to you, not the other way round. 

Did someone know? You blanched. Impossible, you thought immediately. You had been cautious. 

But what if... What if someone had seen you, despite all your precautions? 

 Were they taking you to the Keep to put you to the sword?  

 A flash of fear stabbed you in the guts.  

You finally passed through the large gates of the castle. They were still open, yet, no one was in the courtyard. The swords were resting on the workbenches and the horses were asleep. Only a few guards patrolled the ramparts, their heads turned skywards in search of a dragon. 

“Hurry up, girl. The Prince is waiting.”

A solitary, proud figure emerged at the top of the stairs, in front of the entrance. His long white hair fluttered in the wind and the bluish moonlight accentuated his strict features and pale complexion. The mere sight of his face reassured you. You defied the guards and walked towards him. 

His rough hand⏤hardened by duty and war⏤gripped yours before thin lips kissed it. The Prince pulled you towards him. Your heart slowed as his familiar scent enveloped you and your shoulders relaxed. For a second, you surrendered to the comfort of his warmth and love. The smell of musk and leather soothed your body, but your head kept its wits about it.

“What's happening, Aemond?”

He closed his eye as his name fell from your lips and smiled. His hand came down and grasped your waist in a possessive embrace. You leaned into the touch. 

“There are rumours that Aegon–”

You squeaked. His fingers had dug painfully into your flesh at his brother's name. 

The mere mention of him brought back painful and humiliating memories, which your lover had confided to you, his head on your pillow. Even today, the wounds had not healed. They continued to transpire in every aspect of his life. You are the only thing he has not stolen from me, he had told you one night. Saying that name was like throwing his past back in his face and breaking your promise. He'll never succeed, you had replied, but today, Aegon was on your mind. What did his wound mean for the Crown, for you?

“Is it true?" you managed to articulate. 

“The Council has made me Regent," he nodded. “We will not need to hide any longer, my love.”

“What do you mean?”

But Aemond did not answer you. He smiled, tucked a lock of hair behind your ear and let his fingers brush your neck. With a nod, the kingsguards left. The clink of their armour echoed for long seconds, but the din faded with the tenderness of his gestures. His finger traced the veins in your chest. They led him to your breasts, hidden by your dress. Aemond grunted⏤terribly offended by this affront⏤and pulled at the fabric but it held on. 

Claere Linstar's work was reknown throughout Flea Bottom. You could not find a better weaver⏤today, you were thankful for the two silver stags you had spent. The garment would become the guarantor of your dignity, the bulwark against your desire. 

When you realised that your Prince was not going to answer your question, you took a step back. His hand fell limply between the two of you as a brief look of pain clouded his face. 

“Aemond?”

He straightened up and held out his hand to you. 

“Follow me.”

The labyrinthine corridors made your head spin. You lost count of the turns you took, the staircases you climbed and the alcoves you passed. The beauty of the mouldings and frescoes drew admiring sighs from you several times, but Aemond did not care. He walked past them without giving them a second glance. He's used to all this, you reminded yourself. People of his rank bathed in this luxury and grandeur since birth.  

On the way, maids dressed in red and white stopped at your sight. Their gaze fell on your face, on your body, on your hand locked in the Prince's... Your cheeks heated and you tried to pull away, but Aemond tightened his grip. Out of habit, his thumb caressed your skin. This time, his touch only made you tense. You bowed your head, ashamed. 

They knew. 

The thought stayed with you. 

You only lifted your head when Aemond stopped in front of an ornate door. The mouldings curved into flowers and birds⏤an ode to spring and renewal. Your eyes swept the decor, stopped on a bush of camellias and, finally, met the Prince's satisfied gaze. 

“We've arrived," he announced. 

Aemond opened the door with a confident gesture. Inside, an immense room stretched out and seemed to never end. Wealth oozed out of every corner, from the four-poster bed to the dressing table adorned with sapphires. On the wall, frescoes of flowers had been painted to match the powder pink drapes⏤an explosion of colour that turned drab the corridors you had been raving about just a few minutes before. 

“Is it to your taste?”

You turned back to Aemond. Although his chin was up and his back was straight⏤proud as ever⏤red bloomed on his cheeks. Your lover seemed embarrassed, a far cry from his usual composure. Almost timidly, his hand sought yours. He couldn't help it, you realised. His fingers always found yours⏤skin against skin to find what he had been deprived of all his childhood. 

“I don't know anyone who wouldn't like it," you replied.

“Hmm. Good.”

He pulled you to him. His hands went down to your buttocks and pressed you against his chest. Your pelvises collided. Suddenly, the room made sense. You let yourself drown in these familiar gestures. Your hand caressed his muscular shoulders, moved up to his jaw and brushed against his lips. Aemond kissed the pad of your thumb before replacing it with your lips. Soon, the wet sound of saliva echoed through the room. The sweet melody ignited a fire in your lower abdomen and moved down between your thighs. 

Your hand resumed tracing arabesques on your lover's smooth skin. It stopped at the buttons on his doublet and hastily undid them before wandering lower and lower…

Aemond stopped you before you could take him in your hand. His hand grabbed yours. He kissed your palm and pressed it against his cheek. 

“These will be your quarters.”

The fire went out, leaving you frozen with shock. Your heart skipped a beat.��

“What do you mean?" you asked breathlessly.

“Now that I am Regent, we will not have to hide any more.” 

A new glare lit up his eye. Purple turned black and made you shiver. Flames seemed to dance in his pupil, crushing all remains of the second son he had once been. That Aemond was dead. In his place was a Regent who thought himself above laws and men.  

“It's not proper, Aemond," you tried to protest. “If it gets out that I'm here... If the Dowager Queen or the Hand–”

“They have no say in the matter. My word is law now.”

 “If you want me here… Perhaps I could serve the Crown, join the kitchens. Anything but that, Aemond," you said, gesturing to those quarters, far too luxurious for someone of your breeding. 

“You do not belong in the fucking kitchens," he scoffed. “No. You will be by my side, as my equal.”

“You're engaged," you retorted. “The Lady Baratheon won't take kindly to my presence here. You nobles can make Small Folk disappear in a blink of an eye and no one would notice or care.”

Alira Merchin's story was remembered as a cautionary tale for young girls naive enough to think love could conquer blood. The fable was classic⏤hundreds of similar romances filled libraries, and perhaps it was these very ones that had encouraged the girl to seduce the heir of House Harte. The man fell in love and made the pretty merchant his lover. 

This did not please his wife, the daughter of Lord Chelsted. 

She got rid of the merchant with disconcerting ease. The poor girl was found trampled by horses in white and green bards. That day, Lord Harte lost his true love and spent the rest of his life suffering the consequences of his betrayal. 

Your heart dropped. What would happen to you if you tickled the stag? Ours if the Fury. Their motto was an ode to their rage, to their thirst for violence. If Floris Baratheon found out that Prince Aemond was bedding you... and in the Keep nonetheless…

The storm would come for you and you would perish in its eye. 

“It's not a good idea, Aemond," you finally said. 

“Do not fret, my love. Nothing will happen to you as long as I am here to protect you.”

The Prince pulled you into bed. 

Your protests died on your lips, muffled by moans and the exquisite feel of his skin against yours. 

Your fingers tightened around your thighs. The soap made your skin slippery but did nothing to wash away the shame that had been clinging to it for days. It colonised your flesh and left it tainted, eating away at your muscles and weighing down your heart. 

On the first day, after a passionate night, maids had arrived to prepare you, but you refused their care. You were no Lady. You had bathed alone all your life and would continue to do so. More than anything, you wanted to escape their watchful eyes, which would no doubt have noticed the hickeys on your chest and thighs. 

You did not know how rumours got around in the Keep, but you were sure that they first burgeoned on the maids’ lips. They blossomed as quickly as in Flea Bottom⏤the inquisitive nature of man was innate⏤, but it would not be Old Gerald getting wind of it. No. The stakes were much higher in these parts, and the consequences even more dire. 

The door to your quarters stood in the way of the horror surely awaiting you, but for how much longer? 

Your hands massaged your calf, hoping to rediscover a cherished routine. You longed for the feel of dough beneath your fingers. What would become of your shop? Would you have to sell it? Maybe someone had already moved in⏤abandoned houses never stayed so for long in Flea Bottom, the cradle of the poor and the homeless. 

You could not cherish the roof above your head, yet, you supposed you had to learn to appreciate it. Aemond did not seem eager to let you go.  

Aemond. 

Every day, the sun tore him away from you. His hours were devoted to the Small Council and military strategies, only half of which you understood when he explained them to you. Your Prince needed to talk, to get rid of the weight that was arching his back. You became the shoulder on which he rested, the ear into which he poured his doubts, the flesh in which he forgot himself. 

“I wish to be with you every hour of the day, to attach myself to your side, but the Gods will only grant me this pleasure when I win this war. I am fighting for you⏤for us,” he had told you. 

The moon brought him back into your arms. Every night, without exception, he would cross the threshold of the door and wrap you in a reassuring embrace. His arms would block out your gloomy thoughts and chase away shame and regret⏤all seemed worth it if it kept him close to you. The stars looked down on your love. When the bells rang the hour of the owl, you indulged in the pleasures of the flesh, whispered sweet nothings or simply enjoyed the peaceful silence that the other's presence guaranteed. Sometimes, Aemond, lying on the bed with your head on his stomach, would read you stories with his hand buried in your hair. 

And then, the hour of the Nightingale would sound, its tranquillity burning away in the first rays of sunlight. The enchanted interlude would close and you would spend the day dreaming of a life where sun and duty did not separate you. 

Shame would reappear, its weight with it, and fear⏤tangible and vibrant⏤would turn your stomach. 

The spectre of Floris Baratheon never left you. It haunted you. In the frescoes of camellias on the wall. In the bouquets of flowers dotting your quarters. In the venison served for dinner. The tales of her beauty reached you and left you bitter, but what they said about her quiet authority made your blood run cold. 

She would come for you. 

The Lady Baratheon occupied all your thoughts, so much so that you forgot about another much more dangerous threat. 

One day, Alicent Hightower stalked into your room. 

You dropped your embroidery in your lap and hastily sat up. The needle fell to the floor with a disturbing chime. The bell was tolling⏤this farce had gone on far too long and it would now end. 

The Dowager Queen dropped a small leather bag on the table. Its contents clinked and masked your gasping breath for a second. Your heart was pounding against your temples. Soon, the air would run out. Already your throat was closing up and you were struggling to swallow. 

“What is it?" you asked weakly. 

“Five thousand gold dragons. Enough to buy you a new life, far from the Keep, far from Westeros.”

Away from my son, she meant. 

“I won't leave Aemond.”

He needs me, you thought. 

“The Prince Regent does not need you," the Queen scoffed as if she could heard your mind. “He is engaged. Or have you forgotten that? Whoring yourself in the way you do… It would appear so. Have you thought about the repercussions of your actions when people find out about you? The risks it means for Aemond? Your very presence here jeopardises this entire war.”

“I have tried to–”

“He does not love you, you fool. He just wants a cunt to fuck without having to spend a single penny.”

You recoiled, surprised to hear the famously pious queen speak so vulgarly. 

War transformed souls. It made them ugly. Alicent Hightower’s wide eyes and pursed lips twisted her face into a terrifying expression. 

She sighed and, for a moment, her features became those of a compassionate woman. 

“I don't know what… hold my son has over you," she continued in a calmer voice, “but you seem smart enough to understand this will end badly. You must leave. Take the gold and let us be done with this farce.”

The door slammed against the wall before you could even consider the proposal. 

Aemond reached your side with a confident stride. 

“What's going on here? Mother?”

When the latter did not answer, he looked to you for answers. You lowered your head, unable to bear the look of concern in his purple eye any longer. 

It fell lower, onto the table and the leather purse.  

“What is the meaning of this?” he raised his voice. 

Silence stretched before Alicent Hightower relented. 

“You cannot… support a lowborn in such manners, Aemond. The girl must go.”

The Prince ignored his mother and took you in his arms. His nose nestled under your ear as his hands buried themselves in your hair. He guided your head into his neck and whispered comforting words, which you could not hear. You did not care. His familiar scent embraced you and brought tears to the corners of your eyes. They wet your cheeks and his collar. 

You should never have come here. 

“Out.”

His mother protested. 

“Imagine the shame for your future wife, the Lady Baratheon! For her house! If we lose Storm's End because of... because of this w–” 

“Hold your tongue and leave.”

“Aemond, if you do this, we are lost!”

“Get out!”

Footsteps retreated. A door slammed. Aemond sighed. His hand drew abstract symbols on the back of your head for a moment before encouraging you to look at him. 

“Oh, my love," he said, seeing your misty eyes. “All is well now. She will not hurt you any more.”

The danger you had put yourself in was greater than you had thought. Fear dried your mouth and exhausted your words. You stammered a few excuses before taking a deep breath. Your Prince's fingers did not weaken. They continued to comfort you and, at last, gave you the courage you needed to finally speak. 

“Maybe I should return to Flea Bottom. I–” 

“No," Aemond’s voice cracked. 

His hands framed your face and pulled you closer until your noses were touching. 

“You are not leaving me.”

His lips were harsh, covering every inch of your skin. He kissed the bridge of your nose, your warm cheekbones, your wet eyelids. Tears ran aground in the cracks of his lips and dried up under his exquisite tenderness. No beauty spot, no eyelash, was spared. His lips erased his mother's words and the doubts in your heart. 

“You belong here, with me. I do not care for blood or war. I only wish for your love.”

Aemond filled the space between your mouths. His hands reached down and grasped your breast. He feasted on your lips and the taste of them like a hungry man. Tingles caressed your spine and tickled your lower abdomen. You rolled your hips, searching for his, but your lover pulled away.

You didn't want him to stop. 

The Prince shushed your complaints and pushed you to the bed. Your back bounced on the goose feather mattress. Eager to feel his skin against yours, you sat up and tried to pull him to you, but Aemond took a step back. A petty smile stretched his lips as he heard you whimper. He ignored you and stood silent, admiring you. His eyes, now black, gazed down at your body, contemplating its shape and softness.

“Aemond, please…”

Your lover grabbed an ankle and kissed it. You moaned. He moved up your calf, caressing your knee and digging his fingers into your thighs before spreading them apart. His teeth nipped at the flesh, which his tongue immediately soothed. Your breathing quickened and breathy moans fell from your swollen lips, intoxicated by his touch. He skipped over your dripping cunt, his hands grazing your hips and sides.  

Suddenly, Aemond stopped touching you, placed a farewell kiss on your belly and sat up on his elbows. 

“I will take care of everything, my love. You will never have to fear for your life. It is mine to cherish, mine to love, mine to protect," he said before reaching up to capture your lips with his. “Mine.”

“I love you," you sighed. 

Aemond smiled, as he did every time the words fell from your lips. One could not get used to the sweetness of love. It forever stirred the heart and soothed the soul. Your Prince placed a chaste kiss on your lips before moving down and disappearing between your thighs. 

His words vanished in desire and pleasure. You forgot them the next day, when the hour of the Nightingale struck.  

You should have known that Aemond Targaryen would keep his promise.

Three days later, the Lady Baratheon was found dead in the Kingswood, impaled on a stag's antlers. 

[hildergard]

REQUESTS: AEMOND TARGARYEN ★ OPEN

I am accepting requests for the one and only Aemond Targaryen!

I'm still new on Tumblr and would like to try my hand at writing shorter stories (around 2k, let's hope I can control myself).

You could say I like to experiment so if you have a peculiar idea (such as the reader's occupation or the story's scenery, for instance), do not hesitate to ask! I love to write niche characters and plots.

You can send me an ask here with your request (detailed or not, I do not care) if you wish <333 I cannot guarantee I will assuredly write all requests but I will try my best.

Please, I'm in dire need of a change of scenery⏤my next one-shot is a long and hard write (but fun!).

[hildergard]

WORKS ★ HOTD

I. A GENTLE HAND (PART II*) | Aemond Targaryen x Maid!Reader *Coming soon!

II. MINE TO PROTECT | Aemond Targaryen x Lowborn!Reader

III. PRECIOUS | Aemond Targaryen x Lowborn!Reader

━━━━ WIPS

I. BLOSSOM OF THE BLUE SOWING | Aemond Targaryen x Pirate!Reader

II. RENEGADE | Aemond Targaryen x Stark!Reader

III. THE BENEVOLENT QUEEN | Aemond Targaryen x Claimant!Reader

[hildergard]

Istg, your fanfics are heavenly.

The interactions with Aemond??? The way you wrote Aegon's personality? (THANKS FOR MAKING ME HATE HIM EVEN MORE!! He's disgusting) everything is so well written

I think I've read it at least four times and I plan on reading more than that, because good god I can't get enough of it

Oh wow, thank you so much, Anon! I am so happy to see you liked it enough to reread it. It means so much to me <333

Fun fact, I was quite unsure about Aemond's interactions with the reader when writing them because they're not as... direct as what you expect from a fanfiction on Tumblr. So thank you for the reassurance haha!

Also, the pleasure's all mine concerning Aegon.