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targaryen-jpg · 1 year

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like real people do — ch. 8

part eight: in silent screams, in wildest dreams

part one, part two, part three, part four, part five, part six, part seven, part eight, part nine

pairing: aemond targaryen x tyrell!oc

summary: at their engagement feast, adria is faced with a choice. her family, or the man she loves?

notes: this fic is canon divergent from this point on! it will still follow the dance of the dragons but a lot will change. pls leave me your thoughts on this chapter in the comments!!

whilst a smile painted adria’s features, aemond sat beside her, stony and silent.

conversation flowed around them as guests poured into the great hall, mingling with one another before finding their seats. the great lords of westeros had assembled for the royal wedding — those loyal to king aegon.

the new king sat in the throne previously occupied by his father, already deep in his cups, while helaena, to his side, seemed transfixed by the stitching on her napkin. the queen mother and the hand’s places were empty as they greeted the other hightowers. they were such a stark difference from the targaryens; brown curls and green eyes, sunkissed skin.

“aemond,” adria turned to the man, but his eyes were fixed on the doors at the end of the hall, jaw set.

the ancient wood creaked as the doors swung open, and jacaerys and lucerys velaryon entered. a wave of silence passed over the crowd, while knights and lords stood, weapons at the ready.

adria stood, and aemond followed, dagger already unsheathed.

the crowd parted for the two princes and their party, and whispers began to follow in their wake.

they stopped below the high table, and king aegon stood. around the room, the kingsguard stepped forward. the air was thick with tension from both sides.

“prince aegon,” jacaerys called, “my brother and i come as envoys. a symbol of queen rhaenyra’s good will. we bring her, and prince daemon’s, congratulations to the couple.”

queen rhaenyra. as the words washed over the room, low whispers floated about. aemond’s eyes darkened, staring down the boy.

but it was adria that met jace’s gaze. his jaw was set but his eyes were soft. a look of hurt flashed through them that made her want to scream out her apologies, tell him that he was a good man — that she had never had a choice.

aemond took notice, and placed his hand protectively atop adria’s. a warning.

jace turned back to aegon, “we would ask that you allow us to stay for the occasion.”

aegon studied at them for a moment, then lifted his cup, “of course, nephews. the more the merrier!”

lords around the room relaxed, and the kingsguard stepped back. adria wondered what game they were playing by coming here—what aegon was thinking in letting them stay.

the two boys bowed, and peeled off to find seats.

“music!” aegon called, plopping back down in his chair, and a lively tune filled the hall.

———

adria’s heart hammered as she and aemond took the floor for the first dance. for the first time in her life, all eyes were on her. including aemond’s.

his hands were calloused, but his touch was soft as their hands met, lacing together like it was what they had been made for. he pulled her in close, resting one hand across the small of her back.

slowly they spun, working their way across the dance floor in the precise steps they both knew so well. aemond moved with the grace of a braavosi swordsman.

“and how are you this evening?” aemond murmured, brushing her knuckles with his thumb. his gaze was soft, but she could see the tension bubbling beneath the surface.

adria let a soft smile emerge, admiring the way he glowed silver and gold in the candlelight, “i’m very well. though you do not seem so.”

“really?” he raised his eyebrow, the corners of his mouth twitching up, “i thought i was the very picture of joy.”

“aemond,” adria insisted, squeezing his hand gently, “what troubles you?”

“my nephews,” his jaw clenched as he glanced over her shoulder, “they’re playing a dangerous game. one i don’t understand.”

“i believe they have pure intentions.”

he rolled his eye, “you believe in fairy tales.”

“i believe,” adria flicked him gently on the shoulder, “that people are good, in their hearts. even brooding targaryen princes.”

“hmph,” he gave her a sideways glance but the corner of his mouth ticked up, “you see the world so sweetly. i believe every man is capable of evil when what he loves is threatened.”

“and that may well be true, but the velaryons are not stupid enough to attempt something here. not with the kingsguard, the watch. you.”

“whether you want to admit it or not,” he murmured into her ear, voice low, “we are at war. what they will or will not do, we have yet to find out.”

the song ended with a crescendo. aemond bowed and stalked off before she could speak.

———

adria’s vision blurred as she was spun for the tenth time by some lord or another. pulled in and out, around and back as the music soared. the quick tempo had her gasping for breath by the time the song ended. she had scarcely sat down since the evening had begun and was beginning to feel it.

she curtsied, and made to finally leave the dance floor, but she was stopped by a hand outstretched.

“may i have this dance, lady adria?” it was jacaerys.

she hesitated for a moment, searching the crowd for aemond — who was nowhere to be found. dancing with a traitor to the crown was most definitely a poor idea. but when he smiled, he was no prince. just jace, the kind man who had offered comfort when he had no obligation to do so. he was just jacaerys, and she was just adria.

“you may,” she smiled tentatively and took his hand as the music started again. she thanked the gods that it was much a slower waltz.

“jacaerys-”

“adria-”

they spoke at the same time, and jacaerys laughed, “you first, my lady.”

adria smiled, grateful that his kindness had not been stifled by recent events, “i only wished to apologize. i had little choice in all of this, as i’m sure you did. but you are a good man, jace. whoever you do marry will be a lucky maiden indeed.”

“and the same to you, adria. but i must confess… i lied about my true purpose here,” he spun her with practiced precision and bent down to whisper, “my mother wishes to offer you a choice. an escape, should you wish it.”

her lips parted in confusion, “an escape?”

“adria, i know my uncle and he is not a good man,” jacaerys’ voice was so quiet, his tone pleading, “come with luke and i back to dragonstone, and we can still be wed. you would be queen someday.”

adria’s mind spun.

she could leave this place, see her family again after so many years apart. marry a good and kind man, be queen of the seven kingdoms.

if she stayed, she would betray her house, alienate herself. she would never leave king’s landing alive, she was sure of it.

but she would have aemond.

jacaerys was right, he was not a good man. but he was kind in his own way. devoted, to his family, to her. he vexed and angered her to no end, but he would do anything for her. he had already cut a man’s throat with no hesitation.

so the question remained: where did her loyalties lie? her family, or the man she loved?

“i don’t know,” she murmured, barely seeing the room around her as they danced.

“i must warn you, if you don’t, you will be a traitor to the crown, same as my uncles,” he murmured, “if we meet again, it will be as foes.”

they came to a halt as the music ended.

adria started to speak — to say what, she didn’t know, but a figure in her periphery froze her words.

“might i have a dance with my bride?” aemond inquired, not entirely asking.

adria murmured a yes, but before she could take his hand, jacaerys interjected, “my brother and i will leave after the wedding, to return to dragonstone.”

adria nodded in understanding and offered him a small smile, “thank you.”

he vanished into the crowd, and adria turned to the man at her side.

“what did he want?” aemond took her up in his arms and they moved slowly to the beat. his voice was quiet, but firm.

“he wanted to know if i was being treated well,” she murmured, the lie easily slipping from her lips.

“and?” he spun her out, then pulled adria in so her back rested against his chest, arms intertwined, “are you?”

his breath tickled the shell of her ear.

“i haven’t decided,” adria teased, looking up to meet his gaze, “my intended is more married to his dragon than he is to me.”

a thought seemed to flicker through aemond’s mind, and he spun adria out so she was facing him once again, “come. let’s get some fresh air.”

before she could answer, he was pulling her out of the great hall and into the empty yard. the cold night air prickled her bare shoulders as they turned a corner, away from the sight of the great hall.

“what are you doing?” adria demanded, “aemond, it’s freezing out here.”

“it’s cool,” he rolled his eyes, but removed his cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders, “you southerners.”

“aemond.”

he let out a long breath, “what did jacaerys really want?”

her blood chilled beneath the black fur, “i told you—”

“he didn’t come all this way to inquire as to your welfare, adria. what did he say?”

she debated her options for a momet — lie, and hope he believed it, or tell the truth, and hope he didn’t kill the prince, “swear to me that you will not harm him, his brother, or his party. swear on your mother, on me.”

his narrowed his eyes, “fine. i swear it.”

adria let out a breath and gathered her courage, “he offered to take me back to dragonstone with him, if i wished.”

aemond stood so still, the only proof that he was not a statue was his silvery hair floating in the wind. even his breathing seemed to halt.

his voice was soft as he finally whispered, “and what did you tell him?”

“i didn’t tell him anything. i—didn’t know. i don’t know.”

he nodded slowly, a tinge of melancholy coating his words, “it is the smart choice. you would be with your family again, out of this den of vipers. be future queen of my sister’s false kingdom.”

“yet i am conflicted,” adria breathed, taking a small step towards him.

“why?” his hands ghosted over her arms, as if he was afraid to touch her.

she raised her eyebrows as if it were obvious, “you.”

aemond’s eyes were wide as a doe’s as her took her in, “you don’t mean that.”

“i do. gods, aemond,” adria’s voice was desperate, “i know it’s the wise choice. it’s what anyone in their right mind would do. but the thought of leaving you is unbearable.”

“you’re in danger here,” he murmured, closing the distance further.

“so am i there,” adris placed her hands on his chest, feeling the beating of his heart, “the life i have been chosen for will never be safe. but i can choose my heart, instead of someone choosing for me. i can choose you, aemond.”

one of his hands covered hers and he took a shuttering breath, “i’m yours. i have never deserved you, and i never will. but i will always be yours.”

adria leaned up to press a soft kiss to his cheek, at the very tip of his scar, “i am yours, and you are mine.”

aemond clasped her hands desperately, searching her gaze, “then let’s be done with this and wed already. tonight.”

“what?” adria gawked, and had the thought that he was joking. but his gaze was as serious and penetrating as it ever had been, “aemond, we can’t — your mother… we would never find a septon to perform it.”

he pressed kisses to her knuckles, “valyrian ceremonies require no pageantry — no septon. only someone who speaks high valyrian. and our blood.”

“our blood?”

“fire and blood, my love. surely you’ve read of it in those books of yours.”

adria’s mind was racing, pouring over all that had been said, “i have, but, aemond, i’m not even valyrian.”

he cupped her face in his hands, staring at her so intently she thought she might catch fire, “the gods don’t care. once we say our vows, you are a targaryen. a princess.”

her resolve was beginning to crack under the weight of his gaze, his words, “aemond…”

“before the spectacle, the show of a wedding they intend to put on. let us be bound in fire and blood, in the traditions of my house. be mine, at last.”

she wanted it so desperately—wanted him.

“who would do it?”

“helaena,” the corner of his mouth ticked up, “she adores you.”

a moment passed as adria considered her options. but for once, she knew what she wanted, and was determined to take it.

“okay,” adria breathed, a smile slowly spreading across her features, “yes.”

aemond caught her up in a kiss, hands holding her so gently. she could feel him smiling against her as she grabbed his collar.

“we’ll have to say our goodbyes,” he murmured against her lips, “someone might notice if we come back with cut hands and lips.”

adria gaped, and he just let out a low chuckle and kissed her again.

it took nearly a quarter of an hour to extract herself from the endless lines of lords and ladies lining up to shake her hand and give their congratulations. it was only when she complained to the queen mother of feeling faint that she was allowed to go.

helaena accompanied her—not to her chambers, as they had told alicent, but deep within godswood. lit only by candlelight, it seemed like eternity before aemond arrived, toting a small bound volume.

he handed the book to helaena, then took his place across from adria. her stomach churned with nerves, but was settled under his gaze.

“thank you, brother,” helaena flipped through the pages, the ghost of a smile across her face, “you’ll have to forgive my poor high valyrian.”

adria almost laughed, “of course. thank you for this, my dearest friend.”

helaena kissed adria’s cheek, then nodded to aemond, “you must first cut each other’s lips”

adria swallowed as aemond produced a small shard of dragonglass.

“are you sure?” he murmured, swiping his thumb across her cheek.

she took a breath and let the fear filling her body turn to courage, to love, for the man standing next to her, “yes.”

he pressed a kiss to her lips, then took her hand. with the other, he raised the glass and delicately cut a straight line down her bottom lip. the pain was sharp, but faded as he swiped his thumb through the blood and marked her forehead.

then, it was adria’s turn. she did the same, cutting his lip and swiping her thumb across his forehead.

aemond met her eyes and smiled softly, “now for the palms.”

adria nodded, passing the glass back.

he kissed her hand purposefully, leaving a smear of blood across her palm. their eyes met, and adria nodded once more. she gasped at the pain as he cut, clean and quick through her palm.

with her bloody hand, she took his, and did the same. ribbons of red cut through both of their skin as they intertwined.

helaena wrapped a piece of cloth around their clasped hands, and began to recite. her voice was otherworldly, floating through the night air to wrap around them.

hen lantoti ānogar

va sȳndroti vāedroma

mēro perzot gīhoti

edēdroma iārza sīr

izulī ampā perzī

prūmī lantī sēteksi

hen jenȳ maāzīlarion

qēlossa ozūndesi

sȳndroro ōñō jēdo

rȳ kīvia mazvestraski

slowly, as if he was afraid to break some spell, aemond tenderly moved to hold her face. adria leaned into the touch, warmth filling her body. a smile graced her lips, and she soon saw it reflected on aemond. he looked at her filled with such love, such joy, but also fear.

they were both terrified.

he leaned down, and their lips met. a kiss so fierce, so loving and promising that adria nearly crumpled to her knees. but aemond was there, bound to her now by fire and blood, keeping her steady. holding her close.

they parted, and adria reached up to stroke aemond’s cheek, smiling in awe at her husband, “you have blood on your lips.”

he shut his eyes and chuckled before pressing a kiss to their still bound hands, “so do you, wife.”

wife.

the title was like a sip of mulled wine reaching her stomach, warming her from the inside out. she smiled so widely she thought she might never cease, “husband.”

“well, goodnight,” helaena interjected, already floating away, “and congratulations!”

they looked from her departing form back to each other, wonder in both their eyes. aemond let out huff of amusement, and crashed his lips into adria’s once again.

the realization that they were married felt so foreign. a year ago, and she would have called aemond her worst enemy. six moons ago, she would have denied all the feelings she had for him. now they were joined in the most ancient tradition. she was now adria targaryen, wife of aemond one-eye.

a giddy laugh bubbled up from her throat, and aemond cast her a curious glance.

“i would never have guessed we’d end up here,” she admitted.

he let out a low laugh, “i did. from the moment i saw you, all those years ago.”

“and now that you have me, aemond targaryen,” she grinned, pressing her lips to his, “you’ll not soon be rid of me.”

bathed in moonlight, blood still painting their faces, aemond and adria held each other tightly, their kisses deep and slow. time was infinite, time was nothingness. all that they wanted, all that they needed, was the feeling of the other.

next part ->

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targaryen-jpg · 1 year

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oh my god …. the hurt … the comfort….

“forget about jacaerys” i SCREAMED

— DRAGONS BANE, chapter seven ʾ ⋆

CHAPTER SEVEN – salt in the wound

index ; chapter one. chapter two. chapter three. chapter four. chapter five. chapter six. chapter seven. chapter eight. chapter nine.

summary ; it’s been weeks since aemond had brokered irritation between the velaryons and targaryens. the ordeal effortlessly brought him the cold shoulder from you. before jacaerys left king’s landing, he spent most of his time with you, much to aemond’s dismay.

pairings ; aemond targaryen x tyrell!reader , alluded jacaerys velaryon x reader

notes / warnings ; accidentally wrote this with capitalization 😍😍 mm enjoy my pining for aemond. mentions of fighting, cleaning wounds/applying cream, aemond doesn’t like touching his own face,, uhh aemond’s thoughts and aegon being weird

tags ; @gloryekaterina @andysnewgroove @mitsuyaws @vikingsisthenewsexy @signyvenetia @tina-theslytherin @thegreat-annamaria @sana-within-you @averageperhaps @ephemeralninon @sanguinalia @merakiaes @fancylisoo @miaowchan17 @thesnugglingduck @mistalli @rosedovve @itisjustwhatitis @fandoms8 @lizajane2 @sunscreenfeverdream @witchymermaid12 @marytvirgin @s0ph-3 @starddustt @redridingpants @aaleksmorozova @riddlerloveb0t @bcon24 @queenofshinigamis @myspy @ilovepornstaches-69 @woodandwaxwings @muddleofnervouswords @kittykat5742 @moonstruckbucky @tomshollandz @myspotofcraziness @jenoix @bluecatton @ashloonie @zanmorgan @preciouslosers @kirithewitch @m00n5t0ne-blog

Under the hardened cloak of melancholy and lamentation, Aemond has not been granted the privilege of seeing your face or hearing your voice. Truth be told, that was a lie. He had seen you, once or twice, but your face was screwed in an ugly grimace, paired with vile words that spewed out like venom.

It’s been weeks since he had squandered the goodwill and peace that was beginning to ignite between the Hightowers and Velaryons. Weeks since he had denounced Jacaerys and Lucerys Velaryon as nothing more than bastards – all because of a sly sneer and the haunting words of betrothal.

Yet all the same, you treated it as if it happened yesterday.

And since then, Aemond had been at constant ends with himself. So sure, he was once. But the dragon Aemond formerly was, was a dragon no longer. Instead, smiting itself and within the ashes that rained, a plump, pink pig oinks with discontent.

Aegon's annoying laughter, paired with the pubescent giggles of Jacaerys and Lucerys play in his mind like a haunting melody branded into his brain. He grimaces at the faint memory of his childhood.

Fire crackles and burns loudly within the hearth hall. Despite the layers woven of emerald green fabric that made his doublet, Aemond found succor within the dancing heat of orange flames. A book lays idle in his lap, open to a page he hasn’t bothered reading. Most likely, it was old proverbs and poetry, tales depicting the lessons and values of greater men.

Aemond found himself growing with unease at your prolonged absence. What was this feeling? The same burning desire that would only be extinguished by your presence – how else could he quell that feeling?

There is some good in you, Aemond.

His lip twitches.

We cannot rewrite what's already written in the stars.

Aemond feels a strange chagrin claw at his chest and burrow into the depths of his heart cavity. What was once warm, grew cold as he thought. How could the Gods be so cruel to a boy barely of ten? Was it because of his intense avidity to be a great dragonrider, like Aegon the Conqueror and his sister-wives, that made the Gods want to punish him? Was it his ambitious greed for power and control – the ability to change course of what once was?

Aemond wanted to summon the Gods themselves and demand an answer. Despite that, he didn’t think it would help with the foreign, intrusive thoughts that have kindled themself within him.

His mind soon churns as his thoughts turn to Jacaerys and Lucerys. The frigidity further festered and almost bordered on cruelty. There’s spite and anger towards the bastard boys who took his eye – the same bastard boys who would be the future line of succession. There was nothing royal about them; they were merely common, middleborns who happened to drop from the maidenhead of Princess Rhaenyra.

He remembered how he felt the days after his outburst at the family feast. When the Velaryon family had stayed despite the coming storm, and when Jacaerys breathed fire into the growing discontempt. When he took your hand into his and paraded you around the Red Keep. Exchanging glares and sly sniggers.

I know you can be good.

It’s almost as if your words echo in the cavity of his mind, bleaching his anger and burning the hatred from the inside out. He inhales sharply, letting the same breath push from his nostrils. His chest rises and falls with a steady motion.

Was he entirely wrong? Should he have not burdened a festival night by calling his nephews bastards? He remembers very vividly the way your face fell when the word ‘Strong’ was uttered from his lips. The same face that contorted into anger when he confronted you.

They deserved it, he finally reconciles. Though, he assumed it’s more to quell the ache in his heart rather than be actual fact. The same humiliation they received was the same his mother and himself faced the very night he lost his eye, all those years ago. Humiliated, disgraced, and full of contempt.

A belch resonates within the air. It’s deep and guttural, no doubt the byproduct of Dornish wine. The peaceful silence that Aemond had secluded himself to was sullied by one sound.

Aemond raises his head, the ache in his neck becoming more prominent as he cranes his muscles to confirm his thoughts on the identity of the person who wanted to irk him – Aegon.

“Oftentimes, I believe there is wine rather than blood in your veins,” Aemond speaks, his tone even and almost cold.

“Would that not be impressive?”

Aemond deadpans, “It would not.”

His eye narrows at the sight of his brother's disappointed face, but Aemond returns his attention to the forgotten book decorated on his lap. There’s times when Aemond himself wished he was named Aegon. He was much more successful than his elder brother; he knew the arts of literature, he was a formidable warrior that grew successful by every evenfall, and he rode Vhagar, the largest dragon in the world. He’d be doing Aegon the Conqueror a service, not dragging his name through –

“What was the name of that Tyrell girl?” Aegon’s voice is like iron on dried whetstone – unpleasant and almost whiny.

Aemond looks up once more, his head turning much slower than before to give Aegon a pointed look. His brother looked unnerved by the action.

“(Y/N).” Your name is foreign on his lips. He hadn’t spoken it since the argument that happened between you both. He became reminiscent – an action that felt akin to second nature. He purses his lips, nose digging back into the book he wasn’t reading. A long, pointed index moves to trail the bottom of words – something he did to help solidify that he was reading and not thinking. Though, he felt that his brother probably wasn’t observant enough to notice the difference.

Aegon settles into a chair, the pegs of the furniture shrilling loud enough to make Aemond grimace, “She’s pretty, ain’t she?”

“She’s.. fair.” Aemond felt as if this was a trap.

Silence.

“‘Joy of Highgarden’,” he sing-songs, his words carrying an unmelodic ring, “hm?”

Aemond shuts the book in his lap with such ferocity that there’s a deep, thunderous boom when the leather bound cover kisses the aged parchment paper, “Why are you here?” The words were more harsh than he had intended, he’s unsure as to why.

“I cannot enjoy the company of my dearest brother?”

Aemond stares at Aegon. His elder brother never wanted to see him or spend time with him, not unless he desired something that only with Aemond’s help he would get. Years prior when they were nothing but children, Aegon would’ve only seen Aemond to ridicule his little brother in front of his nephews. Now that Aemond was a dog with a rabid bite, Aegon knew better than to stick his nose where it didn’t belong and instead, left his scourge behind and opted his brother for usage.

“Ser Criston expects you for your midday training.”

Ah, yes, the infamous extended hand of his mother's wrath. When Aemond had ridiculed his nephews, he noted that Ser Criston didn’t hold back and often used movements unseemly of a Kingsguard. Aemond wasn’t one to care for honor like his mothers sworn shield had, but it did irk him when Ser Criston swept his legs from under him, his back colliding with the dirt floor. He didn’t enjoy the gasps that followed from the crowd that had gathered to watch.

Ser Criston had effectively dismantled the one-eyed dragon, and he didn’t think he’d let that go.

Aemond rises from his chair, sweeping the book in his grasp to tuck underneath his arm. He and Aegon share a wordless exchange, a message that hopefully Aegon would understand. Aemond saunters out of the room, the notable sound of armor clanking as he passes the threshold of the door. He doesn’t need to turn his head to know that it’s Ser Erryk falling in to step behind him.

Aemond passes the long stretch of hallway that meets the corridor of Maegor’s Holdfast. He had grown so used to the map of the Red Keep that he thought if he was blind, he could navigate it easily without the aid of someone else. He continues forward, steps light and almost deafened by the clanking of Ser Erryk’s boots behind him. Aemond reaches the courtyard of the holdfast, turning on his heel to the spiraled steps of the royal apartments. He climbs them easily, legs long and allowing him to skip a step at a time.

He reaches the level his quarters are located and moves towards it. He opens his door, leaving it ajar as he navigates his way through the dimly lit aura of his quarters to place the book in a safe space. He leaves, shutting the door behind him before allowing his feet to carry himself back to the bailey of the keep.

He reaches a corner and notices a body making a beeline for him. He sidesteps and watches the mess of blues flail about into the chest of Ser Erryk. Aemond has to stifle the whicker that threatens to spill. Ser Erryk helps you gather your bearings, your head shooting to the side to cast Aemond a glare that parallels the combined wrath of the Seven Hells. Ser Erryk’s profuse apologies are quickly casted aside.

“Are you laughing at my misfortune?”

Aemond is surprised that this is the string of words that dances its way through the air and into his ears. They’re light and free of anger, drastically different from the story your eyes told.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Aemond quips back, his voice like honeyed silk; threading itself into a weave of fabric that softens your resolve. Despite the charades, the game of faces, and the deceit you’ve conjured the past fortnight, you've missed the sly remarks of Aemond Targaryen. It’s almost evident in the way your gaze softens, the blazing wrath kindling down to nothing more than forlorn. “No bastard trailing after you, my lady?”

The fire reignites and your gaze darkens at his words. You didn’t miss that.

Scoffing audibly, “You are truly intolerable, Aemond.”

Despite the insult, Aemond’s lips twitch upwards into a small smile, “I should have your tongue for such slander.”

“Yet here I stand, tongue intact.” You raise your head, jutting your chin out. You both stare at each other; Aemond’s is lustrous and goading, clearly enjoying the scene that was unfolding, while yours is defiant and testing, obviously unhappy with his previous statement.

“My prince, I don’t mean to interrupt–”

“Then don’t.” Aemond is quick to respond. He casts Ser Erryk a look, the softness he once bore now melting away like ice near a flame – the coldness returning. Ser Erryk blinks quietly back at him and Aemond suddenly remembers he’s needed elsewhere. He clears his throat. “I am seeing Cole in the courtyard, if you want to accompany me.”

“So I can watch him knock you to the ground?” He should probably be offended, but the fire you’ve shown him here and there is doing everything to make him rapt. He loves it.

“You can only hope.” He dips his head in farewell, his blue eye maintaining its gaze on you. He turns and with a whip of his hair (it seems to have a mind of its own), Aemond returns to his journey towards the outdoor courtyard nestled by the exterior postern of the castle.

He reaches it slower than he intended. The luscious, raven curls of Criston Cole were easy to spot within the small throng that littered the courtyard. He moves toward him, Ser Erryk abandoning him. Ser Criston’s head raises when Aemond nears, allowing a polite greeting of Aemond’s title to leave his mouth.

The next actions that transpire are a silent ritual. Each man allows padded leather to fall over their torsos, serving as a shield from the iron that would attack the protected cavity of their organs.

He casts a glance over the steppe, his eyes observing the faces of each person that’s starting to form a crowd. He’s almost disappointed until his eyes trail to the scaffolding where two figures, one adorned in blue and the other yellow, stood side by side, arms interlocked. Behind, there is a Kingsguard he can’t recognize. He sucks in his bottom lip, sinking his teeth into the flesh before turning his attention back to Cole.

A steward brings Aemond a wooden shield.

Ser Criston enters the small ring dotted with rock markers and Aemond follows. It’s Ser Criston who moves first, swinging his morningstar above his head just enough to create momentum and send the weapon into a steady circle. Aemond steadies himself, eye darting to observe the way Ser Criston stood.

Ser Criston is the first to swing, but his attack misses its mark and Aemond jumps away. They continue like this, playing their game of cat and mouse as you observe their behavior.

Aemond is smooth and calculating, like a watersnake dancing around its opponent. Ser Criston is more or less the same, his steps teetering as he tries to maneuver a mistake out of Aemond. Despite the shrewdness of Ser Criston’s movements, every time he swings the morningstar, it’s brash and brazen – a fury of attacks that attempt to hit their mark.

Iron meets iron and there’s the ringing of metal that sings its way through the air as Aemond deflects each blow. He’s stepping to the side and ducking underneath each swing. He’s graceful the way he moves and it’s mesmerizing, leading you to become almost in awe of his movements. Aemond would surely grow to become a renowned warrior.

Some of the attacks made by Ser Criston land, eliciting sharp gasps and groans to leave the prince. Aemond hisses at the pain, his mouth thinning into a tight line as his attacks become flurried – anger evident in each swing that Aemond does. Ser Criston swings his morningstar once more and it collides with the wooden barrier of Aemond’s shield. It splinters and sends a rippling tingle up his arm.

“You shan’t succumb to your emotions.”

Aemond seems to mind himself when the words force themselves in short syllables from Ser Criston’s mouth. His anger subsides as quickly as it comes.

Soon, the attacks slow and become sluggish. With a final swing from Ser Criston, Aemond parries the blunt of the morningstar, his sword sliding against the iron with a shrilling screech. Aemond follows his sword through and abruptly turns on his heel, driving behind Ser Criston to hold the edge of the blade to his throat. There’s a small smile that creeps upon your lips and you see Helaena clap her hands in delight at the scene that unfolded.

“You’re learning quickly.” Ser Criston remarks after a moment. He moves a tuft of black hair out of his face, “You’ll be a warrior in no time.”

“Save your flatteries for someone else.” Aemonds words are harsh, bearing the fire of a dragon. He twirls the hilt of the shortsword in his grasp, the blade spinning with momentum as Aemond lowers it to his side. He turns, walking away from his master-at-arms. With the adrenaline dwindling down to nothingness, Aemond begins to feel his skin become tender. There’s a dull ache, one that causes him to grimace as he lifts the sword to place back into its socket on the armory rack.

You and Helaena move down from the scaffolding, steps slow so as to not tumble down the flight. The princess is waddling at this point, belly plump and round underneath the luxurious fabrics of her samite gown. Helaena suddenly moans softly, her hand moving to rub at the protrusion of her stomach. She sighs, shaking her head and gently declining the help of her Kingsguard.

“As much as I enjoy the fresh air, the babe doesn’t agree.” She says, her eyes fluttering from the floor to your face. You give her a smile and move forward to hold her hand. Her dark brows furrow slightly as she chews on her bottom lip, “It has eyes, though I believe it cannot see.”

Confusion sprawls across your face at her words, her once enlightened expression had now turned sour, “Helaena?”

“It has eyes, but it cannot see,” Helaena continues, her voice almost pleading for a fragment of understanding. She raises a hand to her head, a tired sigh falling from her lips. “Excuse me.”

Without another word, Helaena takes her leave with the Kingsguard following close behind. You open your mouth to object, but Helaena is already too many paces ahead to call out for. You sigh and take a look around the yard, your posture straightening at the sight of Aemond. He turns his head and locks eyes with you, his stare unwavering. Taking that as your cue to join him, your legs carry you to where he stood.

“You’re here.” You almost confuse the statement for pleasantry and surprise on his part.

“Unfortunately,” You respond, your arms clasping behind your back as you circle Aemond. He’s fiddling with the hilts of the training swords that adorned the armory rack. “You’re bleeding.”

Aemond’s finger gingerly touches his cheek. When he pulls it away, there’s a smear of crimson on the pad of his forefinger. He smacks his lips and rubs it against the darkness of his clothes. “Just a scratch.”

“It’ll be much more if you leave it.” You sounded like his mother; fretting over small things that shouldn’t warrant worry. He hums in response, his hands rubbing at the tenderness that started to scream. He grimaces, but bites back the sharp inhale. Aemond feels as though the soreness is comforting – a reminder that he is indeed human. “There’s ointments for such things.”

He looks up to shoot you a look, but says nothing. His gaze travels down to give you a proper once over. He didn’t notice earlier that your dress had Myrish silver lace decorating the hems. He blinks and decides to lead the way back into the safety of the Red Keep. You assume he wants to keep your company – when you fall into step beside him, he only casts you a glance without a word of refusal.

A whirlwind of thoughts takes your mind. This was going to be the first time you and Aemond were going to be together, alone, after the incident. Undoubtedly, you were hurt. You thought the time spent together, you could help quell the distraught that lingered in his mind. You wanted him so desperately to be something other than a brooding mess of intangible feelings – constantly haunted by the premonitions of the past.

Helaena had told you once or twice about how.. content Aemond was during his childhood. He had both eyes and an affinity for dragons, reading, and sword fighting. She told you about how he used to do anything to make her laugh and how he pretended to be intrigued at her collection of insects. He was sweet once upon a time, she said.

Seeing that kindness he had – the one he had shown to you freely at the night of the festival – made you want to see more.

You reach his room and he opens the door. There’s a fire stoked now, a fresh blaze swelling within the hearth.

You take a look around. His room is quaint, but larger than yours. It’s ridiculously tidy, almost as if no one lived in the room. There’s a painting above the hearth, one of Aegon the Conqueror and his dragon, Balerion. Aegon is waving his sword in the air and Balerion is shooting flames from his mouth.

Out of the corner of your eye, you watch as Aemond fiddles with the contents of his bookshelf. When he pulls away, there’s a small box that he holds in his grasp. When he sits at his table and opens it, you notice that there’s ointments and herbs filling the space.

“Are you a maester now?”

He looks up through the lashes of his one eye and narrows it. You click your tongue and suck in a breath, exhaling out a small, unsure ‘okay’. You walk around the room, noticing that his blankets are black and the Tyroshi carpet is a forest green. You raise your brow and settle on a nearby chair close to the fire.

You’re watching him curiously as he fiddles with the things within the box. Why did he have this in his room? Was he uncomfortable being around a maester?

It seems as if he hears your thoughts.

“The last time I saw a maester, I was told I’d lost my eye.” Aemond unclasps the dragon buckles of his coat, shedding the layer before rolling up the sleeves of his dark tunic. There’s welts littering the pale skin – welts that are slowly forming giant purple contusions. You frown at the sight of aged, yellowed blotches.

He doesn’t say anything more to elaborate, but you assume he’s cynical about the ordeal.

He pulls out a container of ointment, spreading a thin layer on top of the bruises that were starting to form. It was something to help cease the swell, you reckon. You continue to watch silently as deft fingers rummage through the box. He pulls out something, popping it into his mouth and chewing it carefully.

Aemond moves his attention to his palm, examining it as if something bothered the skin. He then starts to pick at the soft flesh, his mouth forming into a tight line. He grunts in frustration and hollows his cheeks, chewing on the tissue that meets his teeth. His eye flicks to you and you raise a brow.

“I need–” The words fail to leave him. He looks down at the table, uncertainty pooling in his stomach and causing heat to redden the tips of his ears. He’s glad his hair is down and in the way, he didn’t need to hear any sly quips about it. “Can you–”

Deciding it’s enough torture for him, you get up from your seat and grab the piece of cloth that he holds up. You dab at the blood that’s trickled from the cut on his cheek.

“I wonder, who would have helped you if I wasn’t here?” You say, not missing the way his eyelashes of his eye flutters closed. Your fingers are leaving ghostly kisses on his skin, sending waves of comfort. He finds himself desiring to lean into the touch.

He wants to retort and claim he didn’t need any help, rather, he wanted your help. Then again, he didn’t want to stroke the flame of something bigger. He opts to stay silent.

“No other companion.. or, friend.”

Aemond knows what you’re trying to get at. As much as he would like to say it, he doesn’t think the words would be allowed to come out of his mouth. To express gratitude was hard enough, but to allow this.. aching to become real by muttering words of its presence? He sucks in his bottom lip and chews on it. He decided he wouldn’t give you the satisfaction.

Once the blood is wiped away, you rummage through the ointments. Your nose wrinkles at the sight of some, but when Aemond’s hand moves to swat yours, you scoff. He, however, meant no ill-will, and instead, plucks the right container out of the box and hands it to you.

“Perhaps I’ll forsake you once more.”

Aemond turns his head slightly to give you a pointed look. The look could’ve been mistaken for daring, or even a simple plea. He doesn’t like the way those words sing freely from your mouth – a threat. The last few weeks without you, in his opinion, was intolerable. Dull affairs had only soured his days and he found himself wanting the fiery companion he had taken for granted.

“Don’t.” The simple word is enough to elicit a smile from you.

You hum in almost agreement, a noise that is squandering his thoughts about you abandoning him, “I thought you’d lost your voice, Aemond.”

Seven Gods, he loved the way his name rolled off your tongue. He had missed it – missed everything.

“Little flower.” The nickname that he’s conjured for you sends a flutter to your heart. His voice is deep and almost wanting. “I.. I..”

His words trail off again and his mouth runs dry. After a moment, you nod your help and gently dab the ointment onto the cut. He didn’t have to say it, but the way his gaze softens and the way he chokes out the beginning of it, is enough for you. It’s a step toward something better.

“I know.” I can see it, you thought.

When you move away, his hand reaches out for your wrist. You look back at him and he’s beautiful under the warm glow.

“Thank you,” he swallows, “for helping me.”

You give him another smile and nod, mumbling out a small ‘you’re welcome’. You place the ointment jar back in the box, leaving his side to return to the kindling fire. You stare at the flames whilst you hear the commotion of glass bottles clinking together. The box shuts and his feet thud against the floor.

“I missed you.”

You turn out of surprise and notice his back is to you. He’s facing the bookshelf, arms against the shelves to steady himself as he stands. With the way he doesn’t move, you’re almost sure you imagined the soft-spoken words.

“You’re a radiance within the dull tenebrosity of this Keep.”

The words warm your heart.

“You’re a maester and a poet,” you tease, biting back the grin that was surly peeking behind the veil of your lips. Aemond turns his head just slightly, his lips puckering. Though, he can’t help the short exhale that shoots from his nose. He’s heard that one too many times, but hearing it from you is something else entirely.

He allows a small smile to curl the corners of his lips. It’s not a sly smirk that he’s shown Jacaerys, or a goading grin that Aegon sometimes saw, but it was a real smile. Gentle and soft. A smile that he once only smiled when he was a child.

You nibble on your lip, hands moving to fiddle with one another in front of your body, “If you must know, I missed you too.” The words of confession are scary, no doubt, and it's evident in the way your voice wavers. Aemond fully turns now, his eye drinking in your appearance. You’re ethereal against the backlash of the orange glow of the fire. There’s something in him that wants to engrave it in his memory and keep it for all eternity.

Aemond feels as if he needs to swallow the bile that will fester in his throat if he voices his thoughts. The first time he did that, you two formed an unspoken bond. He liked the comfort he found within you and he decided that if he wanted to keep you around, he needed to be sensitive and in tune with his emotions – no matter how uncomfortable it seemed for him. It worked the first time, there wasn’t a doubt it wouldn’t do so now.

“I was wrong.” He says, moving slowly towards you. His steps are heavy and thudding against the wooden floorboards. “I shouldn’t have agitated my nephews.”

Your brows raise and your mouth barely parts as you sharply inhale. He’s close now, his next words dropping an octave and lowering to a whisper. It’s enough to send a tingling sensation down your spine.

“I see that now.”

With his proximity, his words go in one ear and out the other. You’re blinded by the intoxicating scent he carries. It’s a mixture of sandalwood, some peppers, and his own musk. It’s heavenly and it forces your eyes to shut with a flutter, an involuntary, deep inhale following.

You should be upset, pushing him and demanding why he was so difficult. You wanted to ask him what weighed so heavily on consciousness that he felt the need to ruin moments of happiness. But then, he looked so pretty and he smelled heavenly. It was enough to lull you into a peaceful serenity, a willingness to do whatever he wanted.

Perhaps it was the effect of the pretty words he sang, or the sandalwood that wafted into your nostrils.

He raises a hand, his blue eye scanning your face. His touch is ghostly over your skin, the calloused skin of his finger pads barely touching the velvet of your face. He cups your cheek with his hand and you lean into his touch, your own hand enclosing over his wrist.

“Aemond.”

He hums, head moving closer to yours. This is the same feeling he had felt rupturing within him when you gave him a kiss. It’s lingering, this time, and it’s more softer than before. The tip of his nose then nudges against your face. You find yourself leaning forward, but Aemond pulls away enough to see your face.

Remembrance of his nephew and yourself cozying up together floats to the front of his brain. He almost frowns at the thought, the corners of his lips twitching downward. He recalls how elated you looked when Jace took your hand into his and invited you for a dance.

“What about Jacaerys?” His tone is partially flat when the name is spoken. He doesn’t like the coil of dithering and resentment that winds itself around his organs, crushing them with a white-hot intensity. He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, a habit.

“Forget about Jacaerys,” you plead. when his hands leave your face, you’re quick to grab him by the shoulders and pull him back to the close proximity. you were exchanging breaths at this point, each air fanning over the others face. Your heart feels as if it’s going to burst out of your chest as his eye searches yours, uncertain.

He’s the first to move. It’s slow, near a snail-pace, until his lips gently brush against yours. They’re soft and warm when he finally connects his with yours. Drastically different from the first kiss, this one is easy and free from any hesitancy or mistake. It’s blinding, becoming more facile when his tongue swipes across your bottom lip. You part your lips and Aemond moves forward, pushing you to look up at him as he kisses you from atop. His grip on your jaw becomes a tad tighter as his kiss turns more passionate, an obvious sign of a voiceless confession for his feelings.

It’s as easy as breathing to kiss him now.

He pulls away and sharply inhales, his eye slowly opening as it searches your face. You’re slow to copy his action – deciding instead to savor the taste of him on your lips. You hum in content, eyes drawing open after a moment.

“That’s much better.”

A ghostly smile raises the corner of his lips up and he moves forward to give you another kiss.

The thought of Jacaerys lingers and burns a hole deep into his mind.

#emilia’s recs #aemond fic rec #aemond targaryen

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