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delicrieux · 2 years

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𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫 | autumn features (october edition)

pairing—aemond targaryen x f!reader summary—before flowers can grow they must be nourished, and where is better if not under the gentle care of the red keep? history and prophesy mix into a trigger (29) of horrible things word count—6.7k tagging @thesadvampire since they asked nicely !

written for the october prompt list ♥ masterlist. ☕. autumn features. back to part 1. part 3. extra.

When you found the princess crouched in the gardens, her hands sullied and fingernails black from scuffling dirt, you had schooled your expression into that of politeness. The rumours you have heard prove to be true:

Prince Aegon, your husband-to-be, has idle hands and an appetite for lust.

Prince Aemond, second born son, dragon-less and meek, follows shamefully in his brother’s shadow with nothing to his name.

Princess Helaena, is, by all accounts, an idiot.

The entourage of servants behind you whisper yet one lift of your finger and they all shush, “Wait here, please.” Your voice is sweet as honey-wine, impossibly supple. It’s not an order, only a gentle request. They bow and lift their dresses cordially as you saunter over to the girl playing in the mud. In horror you watch her admiring the vermin she dug out – nasty creatures with many legs and blacker than the night. She does not flinch at the sight of them, or when they try escaping by crawling down her hand. You surpass a shudder as you kneel beside her.

It’s a sunny afternoon, warm, rosy. You tilt your head curiously with a small smile, “…Do you collect them, princess?”

Helaena startles, as if only now noticing you there. She glances at you then promptly looks away, and her tranquil composure is shattered under your watchful eye. Her fingers tremble and cheeks glow red; she releases the critter and it scurries away into the grass, “…I should never wish to harm them,” She says, and her voice is as soft as you had imagined it being, “My apologies, Lady Tyrell. I was unaware that you had already arrived.”

Truly, there had not been an impressive greeting, but only by your family’s request – you are to befriend these children, leave an impression of compassion and sincerity, and impose, onto the King, a show of loyalty.

That was all it was, a show. Having the approval of the King’s offsprings was integral for the safety and prosperity of the Tyrell lineage, of the future Queen.

“Nonsense,” You utter, airy and lovely and Helaena’s eyes bear into the dirt, ears burning behind strands of snow-white hair, “I must admit I am much fonder of meeting you so than in an exchange of curtsy at court.” Your hand finds her dirty one, holds it, “It is my greatest honour to meet you, sister.”

Her expression shifts to a one of almost panic, and both of her hands suddenly grasp yours as she stares into your eyes, “They feast on foals at dawn.”

You hear a giggle from your entourage and shoot them a sharp look. They quiet met with your ire. When you return your attention to Helaena, you offer her a most charming smile, “Come, sister,” You pull her up, glance at the hems of your dress in dismay that such expensive pretty fabric has been ruined. But the varnish does not wear, “I’d like to walk with you. Tell me more of King’s Landing and your brothers – I should love to know more of them before I meet them.”

They are training; passing blows as the courtyard full of men watch them. Aegon, taller, meaner, laughs at the attempts his brother makes to strike him – he evades easily, languidly, as if it were nothing but a game. Only Aemond takes every match as if it was his last, and the cry he lets out when he swings his sword is fearsome, if not desperate.

It’s Ser Criston Cole that notices your appearance by the Princess’ side, arms linked in solidarity. He dips his head in greeting, and hollers for the boys to stop, “Lady Tyrell.” He addresses as the princes spring away from one another. Aegon’s fingers tighten around the hilt; Aemond, in surprise, drops his sword. Distractions do not bode well in battle: his brother’s foot collides with his chest and he’s sent flying to the ground.

“…Idiot.” Aegon snickers, throwing his sword next to his gasping brother. Taking off his gloves, he flashes you a smile, “Lady Tyrell,” He approaches steadfast, though winded. Once close enough, “well met, I hope?”

“The weather is lovely and I’m in high spirits to finally be here.” Your hand steadies onto Helaena’s with a smile; she’s pleased to be included, “I had been especially—“

“--excited to meet me, yes yes, I know.” He sounds bored, seems even more so. Quick eyes wander to your servant girls and stay fixed there for long enough to consider it a slight to your honour, “We shall get to know one another quite well I think in the upcoming days.”

He’s pigly, just as you had been warned, “I look forward to it, my prince.”

He exits with that, and all is left is for Aemond to collect his pride from the ground and dust off his robes. His steps are not as steady and nor is he as composed as Aegon had been, but there’s a certain underlying charm to him, a gentleness that coats his cheeks and nose and ears in deep red. Tilting his chin up he tries to look you in the eye, but never quite manages. He’s more like Helaena, a pliant thing – getting his favour will be easy.

“Prince Aemond,” You bow, “an honour to finally make your acquaintance.”

“…Likewise, Lady Tyrell.” He utters hoarsely, still reeling from Aegon’s blow.

The boys of Princess Rhaenyra, round faced and curly haired, rush to introduce themselves – courteous, though excited. Aemond melts away, unwanted, as the boys, and Heleana, exchange pleasantries and inquire if you had the chance to taste the sweetcake yet.

“It’s good that you did not join them,” It’s your mother’s voice, a song-like, quiet tune that floats through the balmy night air; she sits on the foot of her bed as the moon hangs outside her window like a frozen tear, “for cake.” There’s a lovely smile on her lips, one you mimic often – one that, as time passes, will become your signature, a half-smile, with the corner of your lips turned downward. Faintly amused, somewhat unassuming – it’s a disarming thing, and the greatest armour a lady could wear. A smile, “Be cordial, though its best you make it clear that you came to court not for them. Though I suppose next time they offer, you must agree to avoid suspicion. Take the princess with you. These small sacrifices must be made.”

Its weeks after your ten and third name day and barely half a year into your stay. You stand by the door, with your hands hooked behind your back and a white linen dress covering the curves that are slowly moulding on your body. Hair unmade and eyes droopy, you glance at the waxing candles, the flickering flames emitting syrupy aromas that make your head spin. It’s an early hour, “But I came for Prince Aegon.”

Her face twitches, as if you have wounded her, “Prince Aemond will do.” She fiddles with the silk shawls draped around her neck, her shoulders, lets the silence stretch and sleep seep through you. Then, alerting, like a chime of a bell, “…Perhaps it’s better yet.” She stands suddenly, as if she can’t bear to sit for longer. She’s still wearing her jewellery; long fingers cast in heavy glimmering rings cup your cheeks, “A fine match, indeed.”

You scoff, “He doesn’t have a dragon.”

She tuts, “The Lord Hand had found the most…fitting compromise.”

“Father will not be pleased.”

“Father is not here to council you, child.” She reminds you, gazing into your eyes, “I am.”

“But Prince Jecaerys and Prince Lucerys have dragons,” You tell her, “surely they’d be a better—“

It’s that smile again, and her eyes sweep you like a frozen tundra, “Don’t jest.” Her hands drop from your face and she turns away, leaving a cold spot, “It’s unbecoming of a lady such as you. No, Prince Aemond is a fine match, indeed.”

“But—“

“No more of this, (Name).” She voices, “The hour is late and I am tired. You will read and play chess with Prince Aemond and ask of his interest. You will sit and marvel at Princess Heleana’s collection and you will not complain. And you should never find yourself in a room alone with Prince Aegon. The fate of our house depends on it. Such is your duty.”

Scorned, your eyes glare into the ground, “…I understand, mother.”

The funeral of Lady Laena and the quick betrothal between Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon had silenced the walls of the Keep, as if they had gone to mourning. You did not attend the funeral, and what you have heard only came from rumours whispered between prayers and ceremonies honouring the dead.

The King’s Hand had found you in the gardens picking flowers to bring to the Sept for the memorial of Prince Daemon’s late wife. The evening was golden-orange and King’s Landing was burning in the embers of the setting sun. Your entourage of servant girls were dismissed promptly upon his arrival, and when he, feigning innocence, had confessed that Prince Aemond had returned and had been injured gravely by the savage acts of Princess Rhaenyra’s children, you did not need to ask what was expected of you.

So you smiled, dipped your head in a nod, and as if sensing your retreat the maids flocked and collected white chrysanthemums and black lilies from your hands. Another servant, one of Lord Hightower’s, appeared by his side and passed you a small, heavy box that clattered from within.

“Prince Aemond will be delighted by your company.” The Lord Hand smiled, though it was hard, stroppy, unused.

“Surely no more than I at the news of his safe return.” You said, and the words sounded so hollow, so deeply displeased underneath the sweet coat of a white lie, “Do excuse me now, my lord.”

The empty halls echo with your footsteps, and despite being alone, you feel as if you are watched: by the Lord Hand, by your mother’s all Seeing Eye, by the servants hidden beneath arches and pillars and the righteous glare of the Seven. Your pace is quick and shoulders tense, and when you reach Aemond’s door you halt for only a moment. It’s the last of your hesitation, drained, slowly, as you knocked on his door.

No guards patrolling, as if they had orders to make scarce upon your arrival. You knew that if you were to tend for Prince Aegon, then the spike of anxiety gripping your chest would be well founded. But Prince Aemond is gentle, and it is hardly the first time you visit his room on drawn-out evenings with a book in hand.

But those meant nothing, were simply part of a journey and a built-up to an expectation that was too far into the future to care.

This… is not.

The door creaks open and the face that greets you is gaunt, terrified by your appearance. Pale even in candlelight, Aemond seems to turn to stone, one good eye staring at you, through you, as his hand grips the handle tightly.

Your lips twitch into a lovely smile, like a mask pulling itself into place, “My prince…” There’s a hurtful note in your voice as you regard him, eyebrows pinching, worried, and it’s only partly untrue, “I’m glad to…” You quiet, think, continue, “I’m glad you’re home.”

“Lady Tyrell.” He mutters.

You motion to the box in your hands. His gaze burns there, contemplating, before he curtly nods and steps aside.

His room is clean and well aired, dim and full of dancing shadows. Unlike Aegon’s unmade bed or Helaena’s butterfly collection, there are books and parchment scattered. A broken quill and a spilled bottle of ink lay on the floor, untouched. You take in the sight, and there’s a pang somewhere deep within your chest that you recognise as pity.

You clear your throat, set the box down not minding the ink you step on, or that it slowly soaks into the hems of your dress, “Sit, please.” You offer gently, and he does so after a moment of loitering by the door. His approach is taut and awkward, and when he takes a seat on a plush armchair, he sits rigid, “May I?”

His voice sounds harsh as it says, “You came here all this way for that, didn’t you?”

It takes you slightly aback, but you sparsely show it, “Indeed, my prince.” You murmur, lifting the lid of the box and taking out gauze and some glass bottles with shiny liquids inside, “I wished to confirm for myself that you had returned. And that the maesters treated you well.”

“Surely they’d know better.”

“That they—“

“Or do you doubt the skill of the best maesters the Citadel has to offer compared to your own?”

It’s a brash thing festering within him, one that was not roused by his brother’s taunting, but awoke after the blade—oozed out of the cut. He had not yet learned to pick his words, delighted, even, perhaps, to show his thorns. It’s a frightening thing to grow so cold overnight.

“That I do not, my prince. I know my skills can seldom compare to even a novel scribe at the Citadel.” You admit, but it’s a gracious defeat, a light-hearted statement of simple fact, “But I see no maester here, and if you would prefer him to check your wounds, I would gladly fall back and watch for all I care for is your…” You pause, “…safety.”

He hasn’t learned to master his emotions yet. They play on his features as if in broad daylight – a wave of reluctant emotions that gradually fade to submission, “…My apologies if I offended you, Lady Tyrell.” He doesn’t look at you as he says this, “It was not my intention.”

You merely hum in response, your fingers working on untying the knot on the back of his head. His face slowly flushes red, and once you gently peel away at the gauze he comments, bitterly, “It’s an ugly thing. I would rather you not see it.”

It runs deep, pulses red with barely scabbed skin, pink at the side blooming purple-green. The socket is empty, a mushy crevice that’s tender to air and he flinches once the wet fabric is discarded. Your heart stutters in your chest and the placid smile slowly draws to a thin line, “…It must hurt.” You mutter, “I’m sorry it had come to this.”

“It’s fine.” He mumbles, though clearly it is not, “I gained a dragon. Vhagar.”

“A wonderful beast, I’m certain,” You say, cleaning his wound. His fingers dig into the armchair. He trembles, but does not cry, “The biggest dragon alive, correct?”

“Yes. You should see her, she’s magnificent.”

“I would very much like that, if you were to take me to her.”

Finally, there’s a smile on his lips, one you missed seeing, and he’s gentle again, same as he had been, reluctant, almost, to express his desires, “We can go in the morrow. I’ll tell you all about her.”

“The visit can wait till morning, but I’d like to hear of her now. If you would indulge me.”

“…If you care to listen.”

“I do.”

“Then I will always indulge you, Lady Tyrell.”

You smile, “We are to wed, my prince. Surely you needn’t be so formal.”

You figured it would cheer him up somehow, remind him that your companionship is promised, that you are bound, but it does the opposite. He quiets as you finish cleaning, and remains silent when you wrap a fresh cloth to hide the wound.

Only when you put away your instruments and shut the box does he utter, “I know that I’m not the husband you wished for.” He gulps, “…And I understand that you must feel slighted.”

You don’t answer.

“But know that,” He continues, “I shall treat you with nothing but respect and I shall remain faithful to you only, as a husband should.”

You produce a smile, lovely and heartfelt and almost real—whether he notices, whether he can notice with only one good eye and no true clue to your nature, you can only guess. You snatch his hand, cradle it in your palms, “…I shall be happy to be your wife, my prince.” He stiffens at the affection of your tone. So rehearsed, so refined, yet so affective.

He made well on his promise, made no advances that would defile your honour, and the most he had asked was for your favour.

It was his tenth and seventh name day, a bright, sunny afternoon in which even the ever solemn Queen Alicent seemed joyful. Wine was passed and trays full of food were carried by servants. Lords and ladies mingled, your family among them, chatting idly, though you know they kept their eye on you.

Donned in your best dress and finally free of Helaena’s clutches, you saunter to fill your cup.

“Fancy a joke, my wife-that-never-was?”

It’s hardly a subtle jab, but Aegon had never been much for theatrics – on the contrary, you found him to be quite transparent, vile with his intentions, but he never hid behind his name or the marble carvings of his face. Nursing a cup and chewing on a grape, he leans close to your ear, “Though I suppose your engagement to my brother is humorous enough.”

You smile, “It’s good to see you, Prince Aegon.” You say lightly, “We missed you at the starting ceremony. Seems you have been…occupied.”

He snorts, taking a sip and glancing at his brother, “Not that you’d know. Has he bed you yet?”

“This joke you speak of,” You continue, “I would very much fancy hearing it.”

He grins, “So he hasn’t.”

“How would you know?” You inquire with a raised brow, “Do you spy on your brother and I when we’re alone?”

He laughs, loud, boisterous, drunk—it catches the attention of a few nobles and Aemond alike, “Please, (Name).” He snickers, “I only need my eyes to see it.” You would slap him if you could, and so your hand grips your cup just a tad tighter, “Do you like it, by the way? The one-eyed look. Does it tickle your fancy?”

“I suppose the joke had been you all along.”

He shakes his head, still grinning, “Do you know why my dearest I’m-bored-to-fuck-of-tourneys-brother decided to host one on his name day?” He bites the rim of his glass, like a cat waiting for a treat.

“Do pray tell, brother,” You mutter, noting Aemond’s steady approach, “since you seem beside yourself to speak it.”

He draws closer again, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, “Because I asked for your favour on mine.”

“Aegon,” Aemond’s curt voice cuts the air like a knife. The older brother pushes back, smiling to himself, “try not boring (Name) with your nonsense. Surely she’d rather listen to something else. An execution, perhaps.” You hide your laugh beneath a poorly disguised cough.

“Apologies.” You murmur.

“I should like to speak with you, (Name).” Aemond offers his elbow.

Your hand wraps around it easily, like many times before, “Lead and I shall follow, Aemond.”

“How quaint.” Aegon comments. The two of you easily ignore him.

Out of the Red Keep’s mess hall and in the lush garden, Aemond stops, “What had he told you?”

“I would truly rather speak of the weather.” You state dully.

A smile slips onto his lips, “I imagined as much.”

He’s grown – once a boy barely reaching your shoulder now towers over you. His hair is long and soft as Helaena’s. You would know, you had spent many nights braiding it. Aemond insisted that the servants never got it right.

“Did you wish to discuss something or just save me from your brother?” You ask.

“I doubt you’d need saving, though I would not miss the chance to try.” He responds, “But there is something I wished to ask you.”

“Must be important.” You note.

“It is.”

The two of you wait for the servants to pass, dipping their heads in curtsy and lifting their dresses, offering a passing dessert or a refill for wine. All is declined cordially, though affectively. The garden is vacant, besides you, Aemond, and the flowers. So many had bloomed, opened their petals in celebration. Mother had said it is a sign of good things to come.

“I wish to ask you for your favour during the tourney.” He states.

You blink, “And I shall give it without question, you needn’t ask in advance.”

“I wish for one now, as well.”

You grin, “…I suppose princes make their own rules.”

“You shall be a princess, too.”

“Then I hope to write many decrees that work in my favour.” You say, “But very well, my prince. I shall give you my favour, and if no one asks for it during the tourney, I shall give it again.”

He frowns, “Do think that’s not what I requested.”

“And yet,” You draw closer, “that is what you shall get.”

Your hands land on his shoulders and your lips brush a chaste kiss on the taunt skin of his scar.

He does not move once you pull away – stunned, perhaps, or distraught. Reading him had become difficult. He enjoys his secrets and reveals what he’s thinking only when faced with a challenge. Your wittiness had withstood the test of time. Your mother was pleased.

“I will be most disappointed if you lose.” You tell him.

He hums, “Then I will simply not.”

In the break of dawn you’re back in the room of melting scents; the hot air sticks to your skin, makes it difficult to breathe. Once a waxing moon you slip away from your chambers quietly, masked by shadows, carrying a secret that’s weight had become heavy over the years.

“Well?” Your mother’s voice is rasp, and there are lines around her lips and eyes that had shown more over the years. She’s still beautiful, wrapped in her opulence, drowning in her jewellery and riches, “Any news?” She ceases brushing her hair, puts away the comb and smiles at you – you are no longer young enough to be fooled by it, “He asked for your favour during the tourney, surely he has paid you a nightly visit.”

“No, mother. He has not.”

“And what of you?” It feels as if she struck you, “Did you not knock on his door at midnight?”

Your throat closes – there’s shame swirling in the pits of your belly, a great discomfort that makes the hands behind your back grip tighter, “No, mother. I did not.”

A harsh exhale comes through her nose. Her reaction is expected, yet it hurts all the same. Her gaze slices you – you’re stepping on glass, “…This won’t do.”

You’re quick to speak up, “I do think he likes me—“

“It is not the question of like, my daughter.” She scolds, and suddenly you are young, six or seven, and staring into the depths of the floor where a gem had shattered from your clumsy fingers, “He must love you.”

Something’s burrowing deep within you – a doubt, an irritation – and you try to keep your chin up so you would not appear weak in front of her. She has asked you for many things over the years, but now you feel as if you are privy to knowledge that had been kept from you, part of an unravelling scheme that you had not been an active participant to, but rather a passive rook pushed by an omnipotent hand in the direction of victory.

“What does it matter if he loves me or not?” It was supposed to sound hard coming from your lips, a displeased grunt let out from between the teeth. But it’s pliant, confused, childish. You had outgrown your old dresses, but it seems you had not outgrown this.

“Be wise, daughter.” Have you not been anything but? “A man in love is a man that listens. And there may soon come a time when a request will need to be heard.”

“A husband will support his wife.” You state with quick, anxious blinks.

“A husband will not care for her if he loves her not.” She bites back, and you have never seen her so visibly restless.

Your throat feels scratchy. Nails bite crescent moons into your palms, “And what of honour? My honour, as a lady?”

“And what of duty?” She inquires, “Of sacrifice?” She steps closer and you would step back if the door was not already ghosting your fingers, “Or do you plan on sabotaging what we have spent years trying to create?”

There’s a crack somewhere – your jaw from a harsh bite or perhaps your heart – one that shows through a treacherous tear that rolls down your cheek, “…No, mother.” You reply hoarsely, eyes red but head held high. You stare onward somewhere behind her shoulder, unable to look at the face that looks too much like your own and not enough, “I have no such plans.”

“Then we shall speak no more of it.”

It’s a sombre dawn, wintry – pale and unforgiving, as though the sun reflected from a glacier. Once out of your mother’s bedchamber you release a ragged breath, fold into yourself, and grip at the linen underskirt. She sits there, behind the carved wooden slab, unperturbed by your shakiness, and it feels as if one of her silky shawls had wrapped around your throat and kept you leashed.

You move cautiously after you collect your bearings, mind reeling, tears still falling, and you wish you could gather them for her – she would, in her hands, crush them, cool them, make them into pearls for her to wear, or perhaps give them to you as a token of misery. Had you not done enough? Had it not been years of playing servitude to these lords and ladies, prince and princesses? They adore you, all of them, just as it was meticulously planned, laboriously executed.

Perhaps it hurts because you had grown to love them – the Targaryens and Hightowers and the in-between; perhaps this feeling is but a passing spell and will abate once you’re fully rested, and you’ll be able to think clearly once more.

You move in the direction of your chambers quietly, aching and lost in thought, and you had always been keen to note the mistakes of others and even more so of yourself. This playground is dangerous, and distractions end in losing one’s head. Yet you fail to hear the jarring steps of an approaching knight, and only notice him once he calls you over.

Ser Criston Cole seems rested. His armour glints in the rising sun and his eyes promptly shift from your form to the wall beside you, “It’s an awfully early hour, my lady.”

You are aware of your state of undress, the unmade hair, and waxen eyes; aware of the tremble in your body, both from the cold and from the despair clawing from within. And for the first time in many years, you stare at him and your mind draws blank of an excuse, numbed from shock. But silence frames culprits, and when a smile lifts the corners of your lips your back straightens along with it, “Indeed. I could not sleep after such festivities – and what better way to call forth sleep if not to actively dismiss it? Do excuse me now.”

“Allow me to take you back to your bedchamber, Lady Tyrell.” And he moves with conviction, still not gazing in your direction.

“A kind offer, but surely given the hour you need to meet your own matters. I shall have no trouble navigating the Keep on my own.”

“I insist, Lady Tyrell.” He says, “You must be tired. It would be unwise to wander in such a state.”

He may frame his words as care, though he lacks the poise to make it believable. He is set to make sure you wander nowhere else. He’s not an escort, but a guard, and the hilt of his sword glimmers as a warning. Surely he would not draw it, not unless he felt that you were a threat to the sanctities of the royal family.

You have heard much of him and his shield of righteousness – behind it hides a vexed, easily tempered man. A wrong push and there may be your blood coating his hands soon enough.

“…Very well, ser.” You concede, walking beside him, “You are most generous.”

“I am from the Queens guard,” He starts, and the pride in his voice is unmistakable, “and the Queen cares deeply about you. It would be a terrible misfortune if something were to happen.”

A terrible misfortune.

“It brings me great joy that the Queen cares for me, as I for her.”

“You have her trust,” He says, “and certainly a lady such as yourself would never think to break it.”

“Careful, Ser Criston,” You remind tartly, “for if I were not a lady such as myself, I might mistake your tone for suspicion.” But you smile, “Though, surely it is not for a White Cloak to speak with such insinuation.”

“Forgive me, Lady Tyrell,” He utters, “it must be the hour. I did not mean to offend you.”

He did, and once you are safely in your room he will run with his tail between his legs to tell the Queen all about this encounter. The conclusions they will draw will be anything but the truth, and none will be in your favour.

You had never been more glad to see the entrance to your gilded prison.

“This is where I leave you.” He mutters, bowing, “Rest well, Lady Tyrell.”

You say nothing, already half-way shutting the door.

You are neither cornered nor executed. Weeks pass, and you almost convince yourself that the encounter with Ser Criston was nothing but a waking dream, an omen of what was to happen if you did not focus, entirely conjured by a frightened, sleepless mind.

“Do you ever wish you could go home, sister?” It’s Helaena’s voice that draws you way from the game of chess. Carefully, you move your knight to A6. The marble figures clatter as you strike down Aemond’s pawn. She’s stitching by the window, under the warm afternoon sun, “Back to Highgarden, that is.” She bites her lip, sets down her needlework, “I must admit!” There’s such light, carefree enthusiasm in her voice – you envy it, “I would like to visit Highgarden. We never visit it enough.”

“It’s a long journey, my princess,” You tell her. Your eyes shift to Aemond, “though, I suppose it is considerably lessened on dragonback.”

“Would you go? On dragonback, if we were to organise a trip?” Helaena inquires, “I sure would love to visit Highgarden. It’s so beautiful.” She turns back to look out the window, “Much more beautiful than King’s Landing, I think…” She adds to herself, going back to her stitching. This rendition is of a pale rose, “White from fire.” She says.

Aemond is silent on the other side of the board, contemplative. He assesses the pieces, and his brows are crinkled in concentration. The sun turns his hair to liquid in its glare. He’s beautiful, almost impossibly so.

“Perhaps.” You say, “But I’m not ashamed to admit that Vhagar frightens me.”

Aemond glances up from the board. You meet his gaze with a smile.

“Oh come now,” Helaena laughs, “Vhagar wouldn’t hurt you. Aemond would never allow it.”

His gaze then slides to his sister, and by now you know him well enough to realise that something is amiss. He is resigned to silence often, but with Helaena he has words to spare, and often many. He’s quick to entertain her, mostly for the sole reason that no one besides you does. His silence and the tick of his jaw unnerve you slightly.

“…Helaena,” His tone is light, but the way he regards you implies trouble, “would you give me and my betrothed a moment?”

Tension spikes in the air. Helaena’s laughter slowly dies in her throat as she moves, uncomfortable. Still keeping a cordial smile, she stiffly sets down her embroidery and, before leaving, declares, “I should check on Jaehaerys and Jaehaera. There’s never enough time.”

You stare at the rose she left, the game momentarily forgotten. Aemond moves his bishop across the board, “Would you consider yourself a traveller, (Name)?”

“I would not, no.” You say easily, your palms brushing out the creases of your dress, “I get sick on ship and terribly bored in a carriage.”

He picks up his queen, bone-white, almost the colour of his skin, and admires her for a moment, “…See, that’s not what I heard at all.”

Your smile does not waver, but the warmth in your eyes dissipates, “I did not expect you being interested in idle gossip.” You grasp your pawn and when you set it back down the sound echoes bleakly, like a crack of thunder, “I figured it was beneath you.”

“Where else would you like to go, Lady Tyrell?” He leans back in his seat, watching you closely. He seems genial almost, if not for the smiting look in his eye, “No need to exhaust yourself with options, let’s stick to the King’s Landing. Or better yet, the Keep. Especially on the hour of the owl when everything’s so…” He looks around, “…quiet. It must be quite curious, no?”

“It can be calming after the calamities of a day at court.”

He smiles – it’s a sharp, harsh thing, “I would seldom know since I stick to my quarters. Perhaps you could enlighten me?”

“Of what?” You raise a brow, “A walk to clear one’s head? The maesters recommend it, even. But surely you know that already, my prince.” You try to soften him, appeal to the nature that you know hides behind a hard shell that rarely ever opens. But the varnish is coated in layers and hard and long since dried – your pliant hands can’t do away at it, and your words move him even less.

“Humour me.” He says, “Pretend I don’t know that. Tell me, what is there to see at the Keep when the rest are sleeping.”

You sit just a bit straighter in your chair, “The lonely corridors, silent halls, deaf statues and others of the sort. There’s a certain splendour to it all on late nights or early mornings. Like a vacant Sept. It can almost be…eerie, but I suppose even that eeriness has a dangerous charm to it.” Your eyes don’t leave him, “Frightening, in a way… though undoubtedly beautiful.”

“And this beauty you speak of…” He draws in, “is it tied to a particular location?”

“There’s no one part. It’s all of it. All of that cold loveliness. You wouldn’t understand.”

He hums, tilting his head to the side, “…Perhaps you are correct, Lady Tyrell. That I wouldn’t. But I am curious to what sort of secrets you uncover late at night, if you were to indulge your betrothed still.” He slowly comes to a stand.

You crane your neck to look at him, “Unlike some, I prefer my secrets to be mine alone.”

“Surely you don’t mean me, Lady Tyrell.” He says as he moves closer, so casual that a stumbling servant may think that you’re simply discussing the weather.

“Of course not, my prince.” You breathe out, “It is only…an expression. One I hope did not offend you.”

“I believe that all words coming from a liar have a certain offence.” He halts suddenly, and before you can blink, his hand grasps your jaw harshly. Your heart thunders in your chest, eyes wide, “I would speak now, Lady Tyrell. While I still had my tongue.”

“My prince—“

“You must admit that your secrecy is a cause of concern, no?”

“Aemo—“

“Tell me, where were you headed, undressed and untidy like a common—“

“Don’t.” The voice that leaves your lips doesn’t sound like your own. It’s angry and sharp, like a whip. He swallows down what he had almost uttered, and his grip loosens, enough to wrestle free and come to a stand, “As I am well-mannered, and endlessly forgiving, I am willing to forget what you have just done. But know that if you are ever to treat me so again—“

“What will you do?” He questions, “You’re a lady from a noble family, one of many—“

“Then you are free to marry whichever one of them, seeing as there’s a line of them waiting for me to be replaced.” You state, “I have served in your court for years and never slighted you. I have done all that was asked of me and more, and even now, faced with such contempt, I chose to forgive you, for we are to wed. But so be it. Call it off and I shall return home and you can find yourself a lady one as I from the Stormlands, or better yet, if it’s a common whore you fancy, no need to exhaust yourself with options, my betrothed. For you are sure to find even more of those in the Keep and beyond it, as your brother had.”

He smiles, but it seems cold, cruel, defensive, “…Even cornered you don’t lose your composure.” There’s a hint of admiration as there is a hint of mockery. He stands tall and imposing, but he does not move to touch you again, “Though you insist on playing dumb. Very well, then. Act dumb all you please, it is sure to humour my brother. But you must know, Lady Tyrell,” He’s close now, by your ear, “that now I see you as you are.”

It seems as though from that day forth, you and Aemond had engaged in a different kind of chess – one that’s stakes seemed almost endlessly higher.

notes: thank you everyone for the kind comments! <3 and yes, before you ask, when reader was describing the vacant halls of the keep and their almost sacred beauty, she was actually talking about aemond

also im president of i hate ser crispin club

#aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x reader #house of the dragon #hotd #game of thrones #got #hotd x reader #house of the dragon x reader #imagine #imagines #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen #angst #autumn features 2022

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