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hii!! I had a silly question, and honestly if you don’t feel comfortable you can decline :P im making an oc to ship with aemond and i had a lot of it planned out but i really liked your plot for “pet” and i was wondering if i could use like two details from it? the only two details being: i want her to be an orphan, and i want him to teach her how to read. their dynamic won’t be similar to your fic, i wont include any of the other events you wrote about, and i would introduce her to aemond before he loses his eye. i feel like ive made enough changes to where its not plagiarism, but i just wanted to double check :( i’m not even sure if i’ll post art of them publicly but in the off chance i do, i wanted to check in with you.
Warnings: porn with no plot, PiV, mirror sex, unprotected sex, MDNI, table sex, bruising, clothed male, unclothed female, creampies, mentions of becoming pregnant, dirty talk
Notes: I had to research armour names and parts for this lowkey went into a rabbit hole. sorry for any spelling errors
2.4K
“What is that?” you asked Aemond, staring at him with wide, interested eyes.
He paused, his hands stilling on the fastenings of the newly forged breastplate. The armor was darker than most, sleek and intimidating, with sharp lines. At your question, his single eye met yours, and a flicker of that old, guarded tension returned.
"It is… necessary," he said, his voice flat. He did not explain. He just turned slightly, presenting the armor to you as if it were the answer. The pauldrons were etched with subtle, coiling dragon motifs, and the steel was the color of black, smoked iron. It was not the gleaming plate of a tourney knight; it was the functional, intimidating harness of a man expecting war.
He saw the concern in your gaze, the unspoken question.
Why now?
"The realm watches," he stated, the words clipped. "They will not see a prince with a... a weakness. They will see a weapon." The last word was spoken with a cold finality.
But, Gods, he looked… good. Too good.
“Come here,” you breathed out, your eyes unable to leave the formidable form of him.
He froze at your command.
He turned his head slowly, his single eye searching your face, finding not fear or disapproval, but something that made the breath catch in his throat. The heat in your gaze was a different kind of weapon, and he was utterly defenseless against it.
A low, involuntary sound escaped him. He took a single step toward you, the heavy greaves and sabatons making a soft clink against the stone floor. He stopped again, just out of reach, as if the very air between you had become charged.
"You... approve?" he asked, the question almost disbelieving. His hand, encased in a gauntlet, lifted slightly, then fell back to his side, the gesture almost hesitant. The armor was meant to intimidate the realm, to project an image of strength. Yet here, before you, he felt laid bare by your eyes alone.
You licked your lips, nodding eagerly. That alone looked sinful, Aemond shivering. “I do,” you murmured. “I… wow..”
The last shred of his control shattered. Your words, your eyes, the sinful view of your tongue; they were a spark to dry tinder. In a few steps he closed the distance between you.
He did not kiss you… yet. Instead, he caught your chin in his gauntleted hand and tilted your face up, his single eye blazing with a hungry fire.
"‘Wow," he repeated, his voice a velvety rasp. He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "You have seen me in silks. You have seen me bare. But this…" He pulled back just enough to let you see the stark intensity in his gaze. "This is what takes your breath away.."
Only then did he kiss you, the kiss hard and demanding. He was yours, irrevocably, in every form he took, in every piece of clothing he wore and weapon he wore at his belt.
“I have seen you bare,” you said softly, a small smile on your lips as if you were most proud of that fact. “But this…. This is different. You look… dangerous. But so… so ravishing.”
A shudder ran through him at your words. Dangerous. Ravishing. They were not words the Realm used for him. They used words of fear and whispered scorn. But you… you called him ravishing.
A low sound escaped him, a half-moan. He captured your mouth again, the kiss deepening into something frantic and consuming. The cold metal of his vambrace pressed against the small of your back as he pulled you flush against the steel of his breastplate.
"Then let me be dangerous for you," he breathed against your lips, his voice ragged with want. "Let me be who you ravish. Let me be your husband." He kissed your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. "The armor stays on," he commanded, the order a dark, thrilling promise. He would show you exactly what this new, dangerous version of him could do.
“Yes--keep it on-“ you moaned out, shivering when you felt his hands eagerly tugging your skirts up. And that was all the permission he needed.
The cold plates of his armor pressed against your soft skin, a delicious contrast. His gauntleted hands were not gentle as they pulled your skirts up, the steel scraping faintly against your skin—a reminder of the strength he possessed, now entirely at your service.
"I will," he growled, the word hot against your throat. He lifted you with ease and carried you the few steps to the nearest sturdy table, clearing it with a sweep of his arm. He set you down upon the edge, stepping between your parted legs.
He looked down at you, his breath coming faster, his expression one of unfiltered possession. "You wanted a dangerous man," he murmured, his hands settling on your hips, the metal cool through the fabric. "Now you have him."
A shiver went down your spine, growing even more intense when he removed the eyepatch. His face was hovering above yours, now his one eye and his sapphire staring into your soul. “Gods-“ you gasped, “just—do whatever you want to me-“
He tossed the eyepatch aside, a discarded piece of the mask he wore. Here, with you, he needed no disguise. He felt exposed, but in your gaze he saw only heat and acceptance. Something that made him feel impossibly powerful.
"Whatever I want," he repeated, his voice a dark, reverent echo.
And what he wanted was you. All of you.
He claimed your mouth again, the kiss intense and punishing. He was not gentle. He could not be, not like this, not when the beast you had unleashed was roaring in his blood.
Fuck, he was hard. He’d been so busy with war planning, he’d nearly forgotten the heat his own wife always brought him. With some shifting and manoeuvring he managed to safely pull his hard cock out, brushing the tip against your heat.
He groaned, the curls between your legs soaking wet. “All me, huh?” He breathed out, nearly cocky in the way he said it. His hands grabbed your thighs tightly, the metal biting into your skin. You whimpered, another shiver going down your spine.
He entered in one smooth thrust, the sound of metal hitting skin the only sound in the chamber next to your moans and his pants.
“Fuck-“ you moaned out, the table creaking underneath you. Aemond groaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His bit the skin, and with a sharp tug you forced his mouth on yours. He kissed you deeply, sloppily. His tongue slid against yours, and a sharp gasp escaped you when you felt him bite on your tongue.
“You’re so tight,” he groaned, fucking into you again and again and again—
“Look at me,” he ordered you, “look at me as I fill you up.” One of his hands moved up your body, a gauntleted hand wrapping around your throat. You whimpered, staring at him with lidded, lust blown-out eyes. His hips snapped hard against yours, the metal digging into your skin again and again and again.
“I’m gonna—I'm gonna-"
He didn't even finish the sentence before he came, his whole body shuddering violently as he buried himself as deep as he could, his fingers digging into your thighs as he came undone inside you. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, his heart pounding
You were panting on the table, his seed dripping from your core down onto the wood. His armour had left angry red marks on your soft skin, even a few bruises.
You were a mess. Yet still wanted more.
Aemond pulled back, his own breathing harsh in the quiet room. The sight of you—marked, claimed, utterly ravished, sent a fresh, primal surge of possession through him.
He reached out, his gauntleted fingers surprisingly gentle as they traced the vivid marks on your inner thigh, the stark red against your skin. A low sound rumbled in his chest. “Mine,” he breathed. You nodded obediently.
He leaned down, bracing his armored forearms on the table on either side of you, caging you in again. “You are insatiable,” he murmured, his voice rough with awe and renewed desire. He kissed you, deep and slow. “You take my violence and ask for more.” He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. “I shall give you more.”
In one fluid motion, he gathered you up into his arms again, the armor cold against your heated skin.
You purred in delight, arms wrapping around his neck.
He did not take you to the bed. He carried you to the full-length mirror that stood in the corner of the chamber. He stood behind you, your back pressed against the cold, hard planes of his chest plate, and forced you to look.
“Aemond..” you started, but he silenced you.
“See,” he commanded, his voice a dark whisper in your ear as he held you before the glass. “See what you do to me. See what I do to you.” His hand, still in its gauntlet, slid possessively over your skin.
His hands moved, tugging all of your clothes away until you were left utterly bare before him. He, again, forced you to look.
Gods, he knew exactly what he was doing. You looked utterly ruined, your powerful husband removing your dress in his stunning, intimidating armour. Sword at his hip, dagger at his other. You mewled softly.
And that soft, helpless sound you made was sweeter to him than any victory cry. He kept you pinned against him, his arm a band of iron across your collarbone, his other hand splayed possessively over your lower stomach. The sword and dagger at his hips pressed cold against your back and thigh.
"You see?" he murmured, his lips against the shell of your ear, his eye locked on your reflection. "The dragon and his treasure." He pressed a kiss to your temple, a shocking tenderness amidst the harshness. "You unmake me. And from the pieces, I become this... for you."
His hand slid lower. "You mewl for me," he observed, the words thick with arrogant satisfaction. “Like a little, helpless kitten."
You shivered when he pressed between your shoulder blades, making you bend over slightly. His other hand kept your face upright; he wanted you to watch. And you couldn’t stop staring.
"Watch," he commanded, his voice a velvet-wrapped blade. "See how you take me. See how you fit me." The first thrust was slow, deliberate, making you gasp and arch back against him. Aemond didn't let up, his other hand sliding around to grip your hip, the metal digging in just enough to leave marks. He watched your face in the mirror, the way your eyes went wide, the way your lips parted, the way you looked so completely taken by him.
"Yeah, that's it," he muttered, his breath hot against your neck as he picked up the pace. He leaned over you, the dragon-etched pauldron brushing your shoulder, his lips against your ear. "You are the only one who sees me," he gasped, the admission torn from him, raw and true. "So watch." And he drove into you, claiming you with a ferocity that was both punishment and devotion, ensuring the image burned itself into your mind forever: your powerful, armored husband fucking you deeply.
“M-my dragon-“ you moaned, and you swore you could see your stomach bulging at his size. It was maddening how turned on you were. “I c-can feel you in m-my stomach--!”
His entire body jerked at the word, his grip tightening on your hips so hard the metal nearly cut the soft skin. A dark, guttural sound tore from his throat, a half moan, as he buried himself even deeper, his large frame shuddering against you.
"Fuck," he choked out, his voice dropping into a rough, broken whisper against your ear. "You say that again. Say it again for me, wife."
He didn't wait for you to answer before he started driving into you with renewed, feral intensity. He wasn't being gentle anymore; he was relentless, his large hands sliding from your hips to press firmly against your stomach, pushing himself as deep as possible.
"Yeah, that's it," he growled, his breath hot and ragged against your neck. "Feel me. Feel how much I’m stretching you out, how deeply I fill you." He watched your face in the mirror, his purple eye blown wide with lust, dark and predatory, as he watched your expression crumble under the pleasure.
"You like that? You like how big I feel inside you?" His movements became faster, more desperate, the sound of your bodies colliding filling the room. He was coming apart at the seams, his control slipping away completely. He buried his face in your hair, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your shoulder as he groaned your name like a prayer.
"You are mine," he chanted against your skin, a ragged prayer. "My wife. My queen. My mate." The last word was a primal claim, deeper than any law or vow. His armoured fingers rubbed your clit harshly, the cold and hard feeling of them making you jolt and clench around him.
His body tensed, his muscles corded tight as he came hard, his entire frame shuddering against you as he emptied himself deep inside you.
Slowly, painfully, he pulled out with a wet, squelching sound, his breath still coming in ragged gasps. He didn't move away immediately, instead wrapping his arms around your waist from behind, pulling you back against his sweaty chest as he leaned his head down to press a lingering, shaky kiss to your shoulder.
"Fuck," he whispered, his voice wrecked and raw. "You're gonna be the death of me." He let out a shaky laugh, his hands sliding down to rest loosely on your hips.
He held you until the last shudder passed through you both. Only then did he gently lift you, cradling your spent form against his armored chest. He carried you to your bed, where he set you down gently, then tucking himself away once more.
You smiled lazily at him cupping his face, tracing his features. “I think you put a dragon inside me today,” you smiled softly. Aemond laughed shakily.
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Hi guys!!! I wanted to write a lot more but I ended up getting sick pretty badly. I’m slowly getting better though so I hope to post something sometime soon!! ❤️❤️
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The servant clothes you were wearing were oddly comfortable. They were thick, warm, and had plenty of layers.
For him to take off.
But not yet.
You forgot whose idea this had been. A mix of both, in the end. But both had been excited for it. And when you had entered your chamber dressed as a maid? He lost it.
You bit your lip demurely, staring down at the stone floor. “Forgive me, your grace,” you breathed out, voice soft, “I did not realise the tea had already grown cold.”
Aemond was staring out of the window, turning slowly only when you finally spoke. “Cold tea..” he repeated nearly with a scoff. “Cold tea is not why you’re here, is it? No…” he slowly crossed the chamber, drawing closer where you were standing in the middle of it. “You are only here because I caught you.”
He stood still right in front of you. “Look at me,” he commanded, making your eyes snap up, looking into his lone one. He saw those familiar eyes, which made this impossibly more arousing to him. The corner of his mouth twitched, but he suppressed his smile. “You have been spying on me,” he said quietly, and you felt your toes curl in the ragged boots you were wearing. “Do you truly believe I wouldn't notice if someone was spying on me? A prince?” He leaned even closer to you, and you felt the warmth of his breath. “Or do you perhaps enjoy the danger of it? The risk of being caught… by me?”
A shiver went down your spine.
“Your grace… I would never,” you whispered back, “I was… I was just doing my duties--for the royal family.” You heard yourself stammer, felt the weight of his gaze. He was intimidating. And you loved it.
Aemond just scoffed, standing upright again. “Duty,” he repeated, clearly not believing a second of it. He clasped his hands behind his back, slowly circling around you. “Well,” he started, “tell me more of your… duties. Did they teach you to bring tea that is ice cold? Or did they teach you how to make the prince’s bed, but only after laying in it?”
You felt your cheeks flush.
“Or perhaps,” he finally said, “they teach you what the exact hours of my schedule are… so you know when to find me all alone.” He stood still before you again, clearly waiting for your answer.
“I… well, it can be… dangerous, and…” you spoke, trailing off. Aemond noticed you were struggling to stay in your role, making a slight smile curl his lips. He knew exactly how to play you, exactly what you liked.
“Dangerous…” he said, head tilting, “you believe me to be in danger?”
“I didn’t say that,” you replied, “I meant that I could keep watch and--”
“Spy on me?” He finished your sentence. You pressed your lips together.
“I have been working here for years, your grace, and-”
“And yet you still,” he started, sitting down in his chaise, “have never learned about the rules, and learned to respect your superiors.”
“Superiors?”
“Owners.” he said, looking at you intently.
“I… just came to clean, your grace,” you spoke after a beat of silence, licking your lips. “I wouldn’t dare to intrude, truly-”
"Lies do not become you," he murmured, his voice low. His single eye searched your face, missing nothing; the quickening of your breath, the slight part of your lips. "You did not come to clean… the dust lies thick on the shelf by the door. You came to look." He leaned forwards in the chaise. "So look,” he whispered, “do I frighten you, girl?"
“My prince of course not-“ you spoke. You gasped when Aemond spread his legs, tapping them. You bit your lip.
With slow, unsure movements, you walked closer. You slowly draped yourself over his lap, feeling him ruck the rough skirt up to expose your behind.
“You are bold… for a serving girl,” he spoke softly, dangerously. His hands found the softness of your skin under the skirt, the fabric of the simple gown suddenly feeling like an insult. He traced the warm skin, his hands moving from your thighs, to your soft behind, to the small of your back. He dragged the skirt up, bunching it around your waist. “Consider this a lesson…” he spoke, clearly as affected as you were, “for your… intrusions.”
The first spank made you jolt, a mix of a yelp and a gasp escaping you. His hand stayed on the hot skin, gently squeezing it.
“M-my prince!” You gasped, the sound of your voice sending a hot jolt through him.
“Silence,” he commanded, but his voice was strained. He spanked you again, his hand finding the exact same, now sensitive skin. You whimpered, his bucking. “You will address me properly.” His eye stared into yours, not allowing you to look away. “It is ‘your grace’ for you, maid.”
Another spank.
“You. Will. Learn.” He spoke, spanking the hot skin between every word. You moaned, your eyes lidded, lips parted. His free hand slid upwards to your nape, grabbing the hair tightly, forcing your face to stay right in front of his.
“Oh, gods-“ you whimpered, your back arching. You felt his hand move down every spank, slipping between your legs for a moment, just to tease.
“Aemond-“ you whined, unable to keep up the roleplay. Now, you were his betrothed again, utterly desperate. But he wasn’t having it.
He tugged at your hair, spanking you a final, hard time. “Have you learned nothing?” He hissed, eye boring into yours. “Must I teach you again to address me by my title?”
“Oh, please-” you whispered, and that undid him completely. He lifted you up with ease, carrying you to his bed. Your bed. He kissed you deeply, like a man starved, completely dominating it. This was not a man kissing a servant, this was a man kissing his soon to be wife. It was filled with need, hunger, and love. He stared at you for a moment, his own need mirroring yours.
“You undo me,” he spoke, before saying your own name. He kissed you again, his hand grabbing your jaw, holding you exactly how he liked.
“I’m bad at acting,” you breathed out, earning a soft laugh from Aemond. “I tried, but… I can’t do it. And I do not know how to act like a servant-“
Aemond cut you off with another kiss, finally setting you down on your bed. “Stop talking and spread your legs,” he commanded, your eyes widening. And then you obeyed. He dragged the rough fabric up your legs, revealing your skin inch by inch. The stockings you were wearing halted at the top of your thighs, and when he pulled the fabric up the last inches, he was rewarded with the sight of your soft pink cotton undergarments. You knew just by his expression he was about to comment on them, so you bucked your hips up, his knuckles grazing the heat.
“More..” you whispered.
“More?” he repeated, his voice a low rumble that made you shiver. He pinned both of your hands above your head, his other hand tracing a slow path from your stocking-clad thighs upwards. “I will give you more,” he murmured, “and you… will give me every gasp, every moan… they will be mine.” He dipped his head, his lips finding the sensitive skin of your throat. His fingers pressed against your clit through the fabric, and he relished in the moan that escaped you. His teeth grazed your soft skin, making your hands struggle against his restraints. You heard him chuckling softly. “So needy…” he murmured, “I wonder who got you so pent up?”
You couldn't even reply, moaning when he slipped a finger inside of you. “Let’s keep these cute panties on, hm?” He murmured against your lips, swallowing your needy gasps. His finger moved in and out of you, slipping a second one in quickly, almost impatiently. “So wet, sweetheart…” he murmured, curling them inside of your heat.
You could barely kiss him back, tongue sliding against his, eyes rolling back into your head. His hand tightened on your restrained wrists, and you could only moan and buck your hips, fucking his fingers deeper.
“Needy, needy…” he murmured more to himself, sliding his fingers out of you. “Be a good girl and clean me up?”
He held his soaked digits in front of your lips, smearing some of your slick on your bottom lip. “As a reward I’ll let you suck my cock..”
The sound you made was anything but composed. Your lips parted, and he slid his fingers in. You sucked on them, cheeks hollowing, moaning around them. You tasted yourself, and also that familiar taste he always had.
He watched you intently, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. “Greedy girl,” he murmured, “my greedy girl.”
He pulled them out, placing his hand on your throat before kissing you deeply. He tasted you on your tongue, and he wanted more, needed more. He let your wrists go, quickly working to undo his breeches. You slid onto the floor, feeling the rug under your knees.
“There you are,” he breathed out, sitting on the edge of the bed. “You wanted this, didn’t you? Wanted to suck your prince’s cock.”
You nodded eagerly, whining softly. “Yes-“ you whimpered. “Want so badly—“
He hummed, tapping your chin. “Show me,” he murmured, watching as you opened your mouth and stuck your tongue out. Just as he’d taught you. “Good girl..” he purred again, slapping the tip twice on your tongue. “Suck.”
He tried to be gentle, truly, but the way you were staring at him, eyes looking up at him, he couldn’t help himself. He bucked his hips forward, and you took as much of him as you could into your mouth. He tasted salty, tangy, utterly him. You hummed around him, using your free hand to stroke the rest of him.
“Ah, fuck…” he groaned, watching you work him. You looked so pretty sucking his cock. He placed his hand on your head, urging you to take him deeper, to take more. You whimpered, squeezing your eyes shut.
“Good girl,” he panted, “good girl.”
He sucked in a breath when your other free hand went to his balls, rolling them between your fingers.
“Fuck, get off-“ he panted, and you released him with a pop, drool running down your chin. He grabbed your jaw, staring at your dazed expression. “Look at you..” he muttered, nearly laughing, “so fucking needy.”
You squeezed his thighs, earning another hiss. But he understood your meaning. He helped you back up, pulling you in for another deep kiss. “My pretty girl,” he breathed between kisses. “My perfect little cocksucker.”
“Aemond-“ you whimpered, and within seconds he had removed the ridiculous servant’s dress from your figure.
“No more of that,” he breathed out, his hands finding your warm, bare breasts. “Only the most expensive silks… and diamonds, and…”
You kissed him, hands tangling in his hair. “Fuck me-“ you begged, “fuck my pussy, please, please—“
He let out a shaky breath, pressing you back into the pillows. “Such wanton words, darling,” he teased, attaching his mouth to one of your nipples. You gasped, arching your back. His teeth grazed the soft bud, earning another deep moan from you. “Oh, gods-!” You gasped out, tugging at his white hair.
“Those aren’t words of a princess, are they?” You could hear his smile in his words, the teasing sound of them. “Well, you’re not a princes… yet. A fortnight left…”
The thought alone made you whimper. Two weeks left until your wedding. And you would be a Targaryen. You would be his.
“You talk a lot suddenly-“ you breathed out, teasing him back. “The stoic prince has found his tongue.”
He just rumbled out a laugh, biting on the skin connecting your neck and shoulder. “Shut up,” he hummed, earning a small laugh from you. He spread your thighs wide open, claiming your lips in another deep kiss.
“Fine,” he murmured, "I will be quiet-”
And in one smooth motion, he pressed himself inside. You let out a surprised moan, the feeling of him stretching you wide open making you hiss. “Holy shit-” you gasped, earning another fond chuckle.
“What?” he replied, "isn't this what you were begging for?”
He set a hard pace, pulling out until only his tip remained, before fucking hard back into you. His hands were on your thighs, holding them spread open, his eye locked onto the sight of his cock moving in and out of your pussy.
“Look how much she’s gripping me…” he nearly cooed, making you clench around him. “Prettiest pussy.” He slid his fingers through the thatch of curls above your mound, before pressing hard against your clit. “So fucking tight-” he groaned, and you could only moan in return.
“Aemond-” you gasped his name, your nails digging into his back. He groaned softly, dropping his face in the crook of your neck. You felt too good around him, and his hips stuttered a few times.
“Please..” he murmured barely audible, his fingers rubbing harshly over your clit, “please cum, please, please, please-”
You had never heard him beg before, and the sound of it combined with his fingers and cock pushed you over the edge.
“Gods--fuck!” you gasped, back arching, toes curling. You heard him groan your name, his hips pressing against yours, filling you to the brim as he came. You felt his release inside of you, making your eyes roll back.
He fell on top of you, breathing heavily. But he didn’t let you go. Not for a second.
After a moment he came back alive, pressing kisses along your jaw, throat, before finding your lips.
“My maid..” he mumbled, earning a playful slap from you.
Summary: two broken people bond in an unhealthy way. Based on "Wuthering Heights"
Warnings: reader is characterised as annoying and bratty, unhealthy 'relationship', reader is an orphan, Aemond is insecure, voyeurism, masturbation (f), finger sucking, angst (?)
Notes: hi lol . not proofread
8.5K
You had been found when you were just eight years old, near the gates of the Red Keep. And as Alicent returned from prayer, and saw the small shivering child, she couldn’t just leave you.
So she took you in.
Aegon was quickly bored of you; you hid and trembled and barely spoke. So Aegon had shoved his younger brother into the bedchamber you were hiding in, nearly shouting as he spoke:
“She’s your pet now! I don’t like her!”
And he slammed the door. Aemond heard the shaky breath from under the bed, but you didn’t speak.
A Valyrian name. That was the name his mother had given you. ‘Stupid pet’ was how Aegon called you. Helaena wasn’t allowed near.
You shivered again.
Aemond stood frozen in the doorway, the echo of his brother’s cruel words still ringing in the chamber. He did not move for a long moment, his single violet eye scanning the dim room. It was a small, forgotten chamber, smelling of dust.
He heard it then—a faint, shaky breath. It came from beneath the large, unused bed. Aemond closed the door softly behind him, shutting out the noise of the Keep. He approached the bed slowly, his steps deliberate and quiet. He did not kneel, did not kneel to look under the bed where he was sure you were hiding. He could recognise that shaky breathing from anywhere; the sound of someone frightened.
“He is gone,” Aemond said finally, his voice flat and devoid of the mocking tone Aegon had used. He did not call you ‘stupid pet.’ He did not call you by your given name.
“You can come out.”
You didn’t move, couldn’t move. Aemond tried to wait patiently, but the lack of movement made him clench his jaw. Though not in anger. He knew how it felt when one wanted to be invisible, to disappear in order to feel some sense of safety. Since the incident with the pig, and especially since losing his eye, he had become an expert in it.
He walked to the window and leaned against the stone sill, his back to the room. He gave you the privacy of his turned shoulder, if you wished to come out without him watching. He stared out at the sky, watching the clouds drift by slowly.
“My brother is a fool,” he murmured. “He gives away things without knowing their value.”
He fell silent again, and waited. He had nothing but time, and this strange, shared understanding with a creature, an orphan, hiding under a bed. You were not his pet. You were, similar to him in a way, a fellow outcast. And in the cruel economy of his family, that made you his.
You wanted to come out, but every single nerve ending inside of your body was making you stay under the bed. It was cold, and dusty, but the boy’s voice was so kind. So different from the other prince. But here, under the bed, you were safe. Felt safe. And Aemond understood in a way.
Aemond finally moved, but not towards the bed. He went to the hearth, where old ashes lay cold. Kneeling, he began to arrange logs and hay from the stack beside it. His movements were careful, efficient. He struck a flint, and after a few tries, a small flame caught, starting a gentle fire. You felt the heat almost immediately, and it was more than welcome.
He finally stood up from where he was kneeling, and walked to the chest that was standing against the far wall. From inside it he retrieved a warm woolen blanket, shaking it free from dust before he walked back to the bed. He didn’t kneel down, once more allowing you the safe space under the bed to be yours alone. Instead, he just dropped the blanket on the floor, right beside the bed. You flinched for a moment, before realising what he had dropped.
A warm blanket.
You blinked.
Why was this boy so… kind? So patient? He was similar in age, you were sure, just as the other boy had been. Yet he had treated you with cruelty not this patience.
You stared at the soft blanket, then the boots standing next to it.
You reached your hand from under the bed, brushing against the blanket, before touching the leather of the boy's boot instead.
It was steadying for you.
He could crush your hand by stomping on it, yet he did not. You held his ankle, a silent word from you.
Thank you, perhaps. Or maybe; I’m scared.
Aemond froze at the touch. At first he had wanted to pull away, but he knew he shouldn’t. The tiny bit of contact he had made with you felt too fragile to ruin by pulling away. He felt the coldness of your hand through the leather, making him nearly shift a bit with uncomfortableness. For a long moment, the only sound to be heard in the dark room was the sound of the fire crackling in the hearth. And then, he spoke again.
“My name is Aemond,” he told you silently. His weight shifted, and he saw your small hand retreat back under the bed. “Use the blanket. It would be bad if you got a cold hiding underneath there.”
He walked further back. “This chamber is unoccupied… I shall make sure no one bothers you here.”
He exited the chamber, and you listened to his footsteps disappear down the hall. And for the first time since being brought there, you believed someone’s kindness.
The first time he saw you was a few days later. You were wearing servant’s clothes, and looked quite small. He supposed the lack of nourishment of being abandoned had stunted your growth. You were dirty, hair hanging limp down your back, but your eyes still showed a fighting spirit, even if you were exhausted.
Aemond paused.
Because not only was he seeing you for the first time, you were also in his chamber, right in front of the hearth. How did you figure out this was his room? And how had he not noticed you sneaking around the corridors of the Red Keep?
He closed the door behind him, watching the way you flinched when you heard the sound of it. You hid further under the blanket you had wrapped around yourself, and he noticed immediately that it was the woolen blanket he had dropped on the floor for you just a few days ago.
Once again, he didn’t walk closer. He stayed still in front of his now closed door, simply studying you with his lone eye.
“You left your hiding place,” he said finally. “Why?”
But you didn’t answer him. You stayed quiet, those wide eyes staring at him, and your hands clutching the woolen blanket tight around yourself. He couldn’t hold your gaze for a long time. It felt awfully exposing, and it made him shift his weight.
Were you staring at his missing eye? At his eyepatch? At the scar running down his cheek that was still a violent red?
Instead, he looked away, towards the small table where a tray of food had been left. Bread, cheese, a slice of cold meat. Untouched.
“You should eat,” he said, nodding toward the tray. “Strength is important. You have none.” His words were harsh, but his words were meant well.
He pushed off from the door and walked to the tray, picking up the bread. He broke a piece off, holding it in his hand as he turned back to you. “You cannot live under a bed forever.”
It was the first time he had spoken to you so directly. His eye meeting yours, holding out a piece of bread almost like a pact offering.
You stared at the prince for another long moment, before accepting the bread carefully. After some hesitating, you ate it, yet spoke no words yet.
Aemond gave a slight approving nod. You listened. To him.
The slight pattering of the rain outside made him avert his gaze, looking outside instead. "You do not speak," he said, turning back to look at you. He noticed that you were still studying him, your eyes tracing every single inch of his face. He felt a strong urge to turn his scarred side away from you, but he forced himself to remain still, to endure your scrutiny. If he was finally allowed to see you, you would be allowed to see him.
"The maesters say a storm is coming from the Narrow Sea," he said, changing the subject. "Vhagar can taste it on the wind." He looked back out at the rain. "When the storm breaks, I will fly above the clouds.” He fell silent again, the only sound the rain and the crackling fire. He was offering you a glimpse of his own safe place, the only one he had before you appeared under that bed. It was the closest thing to vulnerability he could manage.
He heard you moving silently, before you suddenly stood beside him by the window. You were looking up as well, at the stormy sky. It was very dark.
“Dragon,” you mumbled.
Aemond’s head turned sharply at the sound of your voice. It was so small, so raspy from disuse, that he almost thought he’d imagined it. But the word hung in the air between you.
Dragon.
He looked down at you. You were so close he could see the tremble in your shoulders that had nothing to do with the cold. There was no fear in your gaze now, only a profound curiosity.
“Yes,” he said, his own voice quieter than he intended. “A dragon. My dragon. Vhagar.” He found himself speaking with more warmth than normal. “She was the mount of Visenya. She conquered kingdoms. She is history made flesh and fire. And she is… mine.”
He watched your face, seeing only that deep, unwavering focus.
“The storm does not frighten her,” he continued, almost to himself. “She is older than the Seven Kingdoms. She is the biggest dragon in the world.” He paused, then added, the words leaving him before he could stop them, “When the rain lessens… I could take you where she rests. You could see her. From a distance.”
It was a huge offer. He never took anyone to see Vhagar. Not Aegon, who would only mock. Not Helaena, who would whisper strange secrets to the dragons. But this silent, watchful girl he would take to see his dragon.
You.
And perhaps, in some small way, you would look at him, the one-eyed prince, and see not a maimed boy, but the rider of Vhagar.
Years passed. The silent girl who clung to his ankle became his shadow. And he, yours. You were a pair, a matched set of oddities. Where Aemond walked, his posture rigid and his single eye glaring defiance, you were a half-step behind, a quiet presence in simple but clean dresses.
He was your shield. A sharp word from Aegon, a sneer from a courtier, a lingering look that felt too assessing, and Aemond would step forward, his silence more threatening than any shout. He did not need to speak; his cold stare a big enough warning.
You were his solace. In the library, as he guided your small hand to form letters, your frustration would melt away under his patient instructions… sometimes.
“Again,” he would say, his voice low. “The ‘A’ is not a ‘U’. Focus.” He believed you could learn, and so, stubbornly, you did. Though not without sighing and complaining.
You were two halves of a whole. He was your fierce, stoic protector. You were his calm, his safety net. And in the sky, on the back of his dragon, Aemond would sometimes look down and see a small, distant figure on a balcony, looking up, and feel a strange pang that was not loneliness.
It was the opposite.
“Wait for me!” You shouted at Aemond. It was pouring rain, and you were still nowhere near the Red Keep. Aemond knew there was a small shed near, so he ran quickly to it. “Aemond-!” He heard you again.
You were twelve now, him thirteen.
He skidded to a halt in the mud, whirling around. He couldn’t see you clearly through the heavy rain. A bolt of pure, cold fear went through him.
Fool.
He left you.
In his haste, he had broken their most important rule: you stayed together.
He plunged back the way he came, his boots sucking in the mud. He found you a dozen yards back, struggling, one foot caught in a sinking patch of mud. You were fighting it, but the more you pulled, the deeper it seemed to take you.
Without a word, he sloshed to your side, ignoring the rain plastering his hair to his skull. He dropped to one knee in the filth, not caring about the ruin of his clothes. He wrapped his arms around your middle, his grip firm.
“Stop pulling,” he commanded, shouting over the storm. “You fight it, it wins.” He braced himself. “On three. One… two… three!” He hauled backward with all his strength, a grunt tearing from his throat. The mud relinquished your boot with a wet, sucking gasp, sending you both tumbling into the mud. You yelped, but Aemond had already stood up, dragging you up and pulling you along with him.
“Not much further!” He shouted, and within minutes, you were now both in the small barn, panting, caked in mud, and soaked to the bone.
“You are t-too fast-“ you shivered, utterly soaked from the rain.
“I know,” he said, the words tight. He stripped off his own soaked doublet, the fine leather now ruined, and tossed it aside with a wet slap. His undershirt was little better, but it was better than the soaked leather.
“You must say it louder,” he muttered. “Not a request. A command. ‘Aemond, wait.’ I have to be able to hear you.” The rain hammered a relentless rhythm on the roof. “I will be slower,” he said quietly. “But you must be louder.”
You were both silent for a long time, your shivering getting less, but not disappearing. And then, after ten minutes, you started laughing.
The sound was so unexpected, that for a moment Aemond thought he was hearing things. But then he heard it again. A soft, hiccuping laugh that grew, shaking your shoulders.
He looked down at you, his single eye narrowed in confusion. “What,” he asked, his voice flat, “is so funny?”
You tilted your head up to look up at him, your face smudged with dirt.
“We look,” you gasped between little bursts of laughter, “like two d-drowned rats.”
Aemond stared at you. He looked at your mud-caked legs, the ruined clothes. He saw the absurdity of it; Aemond and his shadow, utterly soaked and covered in dirt.
A weird feeling gathered on his chest. And then, even surprising him, he chuckled. It was a bit uneven, almost awkward. But it was genuine.
“Rats would be drier,” he mumbled, the words gruff. Their shared, ridiculous misery of it all seemed to burn away the last of the chill. He found he didn’t mind the mud, or the rain, or the ruined clothes. Not if it meant this: your now soft laughter beside him. And suddenly, the sound of the rain felt peaceful.
“We look ridiculous,” you said softly after your laughter died down. “But I’m glad I’m stuck with you.”
Aemond went very still. He was not used to such declarations. They were not given to him. He was the spare, the boy with the scar. He was tolerated or pitied. He was not… wanted. Not like this.
He looked down at the top of your head, at the rain-darkened hair. He could not see your face, and he was glad he couldn’t. He did not want you to see whatever unguarded expression might have flickered across his own.
“Ridiculous is a price I will pay,” he said finally, his voice low. “To be… stuck.” He tested the word. “It is more preferred than being alone.”
He fell silent again, listening to the steady rhythm of the rain. He had Vhagar. He had his books and his blades. But this… this small, shivering weight beside him, this person who saw him and not the prince… this was different. It was a quiet, unasked for loyalty that felt more real than anything.
“The rain is lessening,” he observed, though he made no move to leave. “We will wait until it stops. There is no hurry.”
You nodded, your shivering almost completely having stopped. You moved one of your hands, still wet from rain, and intertwined your fingers with his.
And Aemond did not pull away.
When you both had arrived back at the Red Keep, drenched and caked in mud, the Queen had scolded you both. She had sent you to your chamber, where you were bathed and scrubbed and dressed for bed.
Aemond was scolded more by his mother, Alicent calling him dangerous and foolish for nearly getting both sick or killed.
Night fell, and the both of you had been sent to bed. When the hour of the owl arrived, you snuck out of bed. You tip-toed into Aemond’s chamber, whispering his name.
“Aemond..?” You whispered as you closed the door behind you. “Aemond, are you awake?”
He was.
He was lying rigidly on his back, staring at the canopy above his bed. His mother’s sharp words still echoing in his skull. Dangerous. Foolish. He had been reckless. He had failed in his duty.
He turned his head on the pillow, his single eye finding your form in the darkness. You were in a clean nightshift, your hair still damp from your bath, smelling of lavender soap instead of rain and mud.
He did not ask why You had come. He did not tell you to leave. He simply lifted the edge of his heavy woolen blanket in silent invitation.
“Come here,” he said, his voice soft in the quiet chamber.
When you crossed the room and slipped into the space beside him, he immediately turned onto his side, facing you. His arm draped over you, pulling you firmly against his chest, tucking your head under his chin. He was still in his own sleep clothes, his body tense.
“She was wrong,” he muttered into your hair, his voice thick. “About you being a burden. You are not.” He held you tighter, as if the pressure of his arms could shield you from all future scoldings, all future storms, all future dangers that he might lead you into. “You are mine to protect. And I will. Better.” It was a silent, yet strong vow.
You stayed close to him, looking into his lone eye. “You would never keep me unsafe,” you whispered to him. “You protect me.”
“You trust too easily,” he murmured, his voice low. But even as he said it, he was pulling you closer, his arm tight around you, his face burying against the crown of your head. He inhaled the scent of lavender, letting it steady him. “But you are mine,” he breathed the words into your hair. “And I will burn this city to ash before I let any harm come to you that is not by my own hand.” It was a possessive Targaryen promise, full of fire and blood. But it was the only kind of love he knew how to give. He fell silent then, simply holding you, listening to you breathe.
And you were his, you knew it. Aegon had called you Aemond’s pet, but you didn’t mind. You were.
“I would follow you to the end of the earth,” you whispered, “like a dog. I would. For you.”
Like a dog.
Aegon’s cruel taunt, thrown at you for years. Yet you had taken it, not as an insult, but as a title.
Aemond pulled back just enough to cup your face in both hands, his thumbs stroking over your cheekbones.
“Do not say that,” he commanded, his voice breaking on the last word. “You are no dog. You are… you are mine.” He said your name like a prayer. “You are the girl who is not afraid of my scar. Who sees Vhagar and does not scream. Who laughs in the mud.”
He leaned his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours. “If you follow,” he whispered, “it will not be at my heels. It will be at my side. Do you understand? Where I go, you go. My shadow.” He kissed your forehead then, a soft, almost unsure press of his lips against your skin.
Ten years passed. You were a woman grown now, recognised nearly as a noblewoman. And you looked the part, too. Your looks got noticed in court, even having poets write poems about the colour of your skin alone.
You and Aemond were still attached to the hip, though you both were more bratty and direct with each other now. Gone were the days of being shy children.
You were still asleep, having missed Aemond’s practice. And he was not happy. You never missed his morning practice.
He walked through the halls of the red keep, storming towards your chamber. And he was angry.
Servants and knights melted against the stone wall of the keep, knowing it would be smartest to stay out of the prince’s way when he was angry. And he was. Very much.
He didn't knock on your door, he simply threw it open, the wooden door slamming against the wall. The morning light streamed into your bedchamber, from the windows and the now wide open door.
You had promised to come, as you always did. Yet you hadn’t been, and he had felt your absence in every clash of his sword against his opponents.
“Wake up.”
He spoke firmly, speaking your name with an impatience you didn't hear often from the prince. His voice was low, angry as he spoke. “The sun is high. The yard is empty. You gave me your word.”
He finally stood still at the end of your bed, staring down at your mussed form. “Or have the poets’ pretty words addled your sense of time?”
It was a low blow, he knew. But the jealousy he felt when others commented about your looks was one he didn't feel any other time. He hated knowing others looked at you.
“Wha..” you mumbled half-awake, your eyes blinking and still blurry.
“Wha,” he mimicked, his voice a sharp, mocking.
The sight of you, all soft and warm from sleep did little to quell his anger. It made him more annoyed, that you hadnt even noticed you had missed his training. Like you didn't care.
He leaned over the bed, his arms still crossed. The scent of you, soft and warm and clean, assaulted him, a taunting contrast to his rage. “Is that the extent of your vocabulary this morning? I was in the yard for two hours. Two hours, waiting. Watching an empty balcony.”
You rubbed your eyes, looking utterly defenseless. “I…” you started, but he didn't let you finish. He didn't even let you start.
“You swore you would be there. Or has your new status as the court’s favorite muse made you forget your promises? Forgotten who you belong to?” His anger started trickling into fear, an uneasy feeling forming at the back of his neck, crawling down his spine.
His words started registering in your mind, but you didn't feel pity, only annoyance. “Aemond-!” you groaned, throwing one of your small throw pillows against his chest. “You--you… leave me be! Can't a woman sleep in peace?”
The pillow bounced off of his chest, and he just scoffed. It was pathetic, really. You were acting like a pathetic, spoiled girl.
“Sleeping? It is nearly noon,” he retorted, pulling the bedsheets off of you, which made you gasp in shock. “I did not pull you from the mud and teach you your letters so you could sleep in. you will get up. You will dress. And you will come to the training yard. Now.”
He walked to the side of your bed, his strong hands settling on your waist, a clear threat. Come on your own volition, or he would simply carry you. The contact was electric, a reminder of the claim that had existed since you were children covered in filth.
“Don’t you dare-“ you warned him, but he was already pissed off. “Aemond, NO!” You shouted, but he had already lifted you up on his shoulder.
“Put me down! You’re barbaric! You’ll drop me and I will die-!” You were kicking your legs and arms, but he didn’t seem phased.
“If you die, it will be from your own dramatics, not my lack of care,” he retorted, his voice cold and flat, though a flicker of grim satisfaction twisted his lips.
You were awake now. Furious. Alive. His. This was preferable to the peaceful, distant beauty the court admired. This was real.
He carried you down the corridor, ignoring the stunned looks from a pair of maids who scurried out of his path. “You should have considered the consequences before breaking your word to me,” he continued, his tone lecturing. “This is the result. You will watch the remainder of my practice. You will pay attention. And you will remember your place.”
“Aemond I am in my nightgown!” you retaliated, but he barely listened. Though he did stand still at the top of the staircase.
“A fact you should have considered before choosing sloth over duty,” he shot back, unmoved by your thrashing and complaining. But your nightgown was indeed thin, and he was acutely aware of it. “The entire keep can see your lack of discipline for all I care. Let it be a lesson to them as well.”
“No! I am sorry! I promise!”
And to your relief, he carried you back to your chamber, throwing you back down on the bed.
“Thirty minutes,” was all he said, making your eyes widen.
“Thirty? That is hardly enough-!”
“Twenty,” he said, and turned away.
“Absolute brute,” you bit again as you walked through the high grass of the highlands. The sun was high over the highlands, painting the grass in gold.
It was an hour later now, after you had quickly been dressed and got your hair done. He had barely even allowed you to eat breakfast, rushing you along.
“You cannot act that way. You cannot just… just carry me like that! I nearly died.” You puffed your cheeks out, walking ahead of him.
Aemond followed a few paces behind, his earlier storm of temper having settled into a cold silence. You were a vision now, the picture of noble grace you were expected to be.
It was a mask. He knew the girl who had thrown a pillow at his head just that morning was still there, simmering beneath.
“You did not ‘nearly die’,” he stated flatly, his voice cutting through the rustle of the grass. His long legs easily kept pace with your annoyed, quick one. “You were inconvenienced. And you survived. As you always do, when I am there.”
He reached out and caught a trailing piece of silk from your sleeve, not to pull you back, but to force you to acknowledge his presence. “And how do you propose I ‘act’?” he asked, his tone deceptively mild. “When you break a promise. When you are not where you are supposed to be. Shall I write you a poem instead? Shall I sigh by your door like one of your simpering admirers?” He released the silk.
“You know me better than that. I am not one of your courtly gallants.”
“Perhaps you should!” You retorted, dragging your skirts with you through the grass. “Their pretty words please me very much.” You sighed, tilting your chin up. “Perhaps I shall have to marry one.”
You glanced sideways at Aemond, who was still silent and walking with you, just two steps behind.
“I said,” you started, “perhaps I shall have to-“
“I heard you,” Aemond gritted out, cutting you off.
Aemond stopped walking. He did not look at you. His gaze was fixed on the distant horizon, where the sky met the green hills. His jaw was clenched so tightly a muscle jumped in his cheek.
“Marry.” He repeated the word as if it were a foul taste. He finally turned his head, his single eye locking onto yours. “You speak of marriage as if it is a choice of ribbons. As if it is a game to provoke me. To speak so carelessly of such things is not brattish. It is foolish. It is dangerous.”
He looked you up and down, his expression unreadable. “If pretty words please you, then by all means, listen to them. Let them fill your ears. But do not,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper, “ever use the prospect of your hand as a toy to wave before me again.”
He turned and began walking again, away from you. “We are returning to the Keep. Your frivolous mood has soured the air.”
“You have soured it,” you huffed out, pretending as if you hadn't been listening to his words at all. “And I do not wish to return yet. I like the outside air and—“
In one strong motion, Aemond had lifted you up and into a dead tree. You gasped loudly, staring at Aemond.
“Aemond!” You yelped out. “Aemond, get me down from here! I can’t get down in these skirts!”
Aemond did not look up at you. He stood beside the gnarled trunk of the dead tree, arms crossed over his chest. He had placed you on a thick, sturdy branch about seven feet off the ground, high enough to keep you stuck, not high enough to be dangerous.
“You said you liked the outside air,” he remarked, his voice devoid of emotion. He tilted his head, studying you for a moment. “Now you have a better vantage point to enjoy it. And you are safely out of the way of your own poor judgment.”
He leaned his shoulder against a nearby tree, settling in to wait. His posture was relaxed, but his single eye remained fixed on you, watching you struggle with the heavy fabric.
“Get me down!” You shouted again, cheeks flushed pink. “You are so regretting this when I fall down from here and die!”
“You will not die,” Aemond stated, his voice flat. He did not move from his post against the tree. “The fall might bruise your pride, which appears to be the only part of you currently in any danger.”
He watched your flushed cheeks, the genuine distress in your eyes. A lesser part of him, the part that still remembered the cold girl under the bed, twinged. But he smothered it. You could not wield your safety, your future, as a weapon against him. Not ever.
“Oh, the horror,” you said, some strands coming loose from your braid. “They will write of this. The poor muse who fell from a tree and died.”
You looked down, seeing a puddle as well. “I’ll get dirty!” You yelped this time, groaning and huffing. This was a nightmare. An utter nightmare.
A faint, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. The sheer, overblown drama of it all, it was amusing.
“A tragedy for the ages,” he agreed, his voice dry as dust. “They shall sing of this. ‘The Ballad of the Muddy Muse.’ It will bring courtiers to tears for generations.”
“It’s not funny!” You retaliated, your hands still holding tightly onto the dead branch.
He uncrossed his arms and took a single step closer, looking up at you with his head tilted. “The puddle is perhaps two inches deep. You have survived worse filth with me, as I recall. Or has a decade of lavender baths erased the memory of our childhood?” He let the memory hang between them.
“That was ages ago,” you said weakly. “I am not as—not as agile, not as careless as I was then!”
He sighed, the sound exaggeratedly long-suffering. “Very well. Since the thought of soiling your gown inspires such genuine terror…” He moved to stand directly below you, his boots on the edge of the puddle. He did not reach up to lift you down. Instead, he held out his arms, a clear, wordless command.
Jump.
You let out a dry laugh. “You cannot be serious…” you looked down at Aemond, who was waiting patiently.
“I’ll break my neck and die-“ you said again, biting your lower lip.
“Your neck is made of sterner stuff than your vanity,” Aemond retorted, his arms still outstretched. “And you have called me a brute often enough. Do you truly believe I would let you fall?” There was a challenge in his tone now.
He took half a step closer, his boots now squarely in the shallow puddle. “Your choice is simple: a small stain on your silks, or you may sit in that tree until the night falls. I am prepared for either outcome.”
A faint smile touched his lips, visible only for a second. It was the look he used to give you before you did something reckless as children. “Or are you waiting for a prettier invitation? Shall I compose a sonnet to persuade you? My lady, perched so high and fair…” He let the terrible verse hang, the sheer absurdity of it hanging in the air. The message was clear: it was time to come down.
To him.
You tried to bite your own back, but smiled anyways. “You are ridiculous,” you said, acting as if you hadn’t cried about dying thrice in the past ten minutes.
“Catch me,” you said finally. “But if you let me fall..”
“If I let you fall, you may haunt me for the rest of my days,” he finished for you. “I am aware of the threat. Now, jump.”
When you finally let go, with an undignified scream no less, he caught you with the ease of long practice. He did not set you down immediately. He held you against his chest for a moment, your arms around his neck. The scent of your hair, the lavender and sunshine, mingled with the earthy smell of the highlands.
“There,” he said, his voice a low rumble close to your ear. “Alive. Unbroken. And only a small bit dirtier.” He finally loosened his hold, letting you slide to your feet, but kept one hand firmly on your arm to steady you. He looked down at the faint smudge of mud on the hem of your gown, then back up at your face. “A small price to pay for learning that your safety is not a jest. And that I do not make offers I cannot keep.”
You held onto it for a moment longer, your hands holding onto his leather tunic. Your eyes met his, and you swallowed, before taking a step back.
He released your arm, searching your face for a moment.
“Are we done with today’s theatrics?” He asked you plainly.
“I’m not dramatic,” you huffed out, straightening out your now dirtied skirts. “You are the dramatic one.”
You turned and walked towards the Red Keep, chin held high.
Aemond fell into step beside you, his long stride easily matching your pace. A low chuckle, dry and genuine, escaped him. It was a rare sound.
“Of course,” he agreed, his tone laced with amusement. He reached out and plucked a stray leaf from your loosened braid, twirling it between his fingers before letting it fall. “Walk faster. Your sulking pace is even more dramatic than your shouting.”
Just a few days later, during a grand dinner hosted at the castle, you got your wish. Dressed in your finest silks, you walked down the stairs, relishing in all the attention you were getting. Lords, poets, attention.
You held your chin high as you walked through the grand hall, getting swept away in conversation and dances. And one person’s gaze never left you.
Aemond’s.
He stared as you were almost being passed by the eligible lords and poets alike, listening to their sweet words and their jokes, even laughing with them. He scoffed. He knew what your laugh sounded like, and it wasn't this.
He watched you from his place at the high table, a goblet of wine in his hands, untouched. Each time you offered a lord a smile, or your hand, or a spin to ‘show off’ your dress, was a sharp stab in his chest. This entire… performance you were putting on, it was a lie. An act to impress low lords and poets.
He hated it.
Here you were, showing off your smile, and your wit, and your silks. And that was all they saw. They didn't truly see you. The girl that had hid underneath the bed. The girl he grew up with, who would hold his hand in silence when words failed him, as they so often used to do.
That girl was nowhere to be found tonight.
When a particularly bold lord leaned close to whisper something in your ear, eliciting another fake laugh, Aemond’s restraint snapped. With a silent, sharp movement, he pushed his chair back and stood up. He offered no explanation to his mother or his brother Aegon, who was already drunkenly leering at a serving girl. He simply turned and walked away from the high table, exiting the hall silently, yet quickly.
He didn’t look back. He knew you saw him leave, he had felt your eyes on him. But he didn’t stay. And you didn’t follow him. And that hurt him more than he’d like to admit.
When he was finally alone, his insecurities seemed to scream louder than before. Did you prefer them, after all? Were your theatrics the truth? Your laugh was fake, but it was constant. And your smile…
Did you see him as a monster, a broken man who was too cynical to enjoy his company? Did you perhaps only spend time with him in private, where no one saw? He had given you his loyalty, his protection and his… affection, how complicated they may be. He had given you his trust, a shattered and delicate thing, and you had traded it all for an evening of attention from strangers.
Only hours later, when the moon was high in the sky, did he hear the soft sound of a knock on his door. He knew it was you. But he didn’t turn. He didn’t even reply.
He heard his door open, then close quietly behind the figure.
“Aemond,” you said softly, quietly. Not at all in the way you had been with those poets and…
“Aemond..?” You spoke again, still hesitant.
But he stayed silent. He would let you bridge the distance you had created yourself. He was jealous, and it was an uncomfortable feeling, low in his stomach. And he didn’t know how to treat it. He only knew how to let it fester.
“You are ignoring me,” you spoke finally, which made him clench his jaw. You’d treat him this way? After what you had pulled earlier?
“And you are surprised?”
“I am asking—“
“I am clearly not ignoring you.”
You opened your mouth, before closing it again. He truly was angry. If it wasn’t for the way he was speaking, so curt, you saw it in the way he was standing. His shoulders lifted and locked, his fists balled and his jaw clenched.
“You are angry, then,” you said carefully, taking a step closer to him. He just let out a dry laugh. This was ridiculous. This entire thing was just ridiculous.
“You came here with a reason? Or did you just come to laugh at me?”
Your brows furrowed at his words, his words harsh and mocking. “Laugh at you?” You spoke, this time taking a step back. “Why would I do such a thing?”
He just shook his head, another dry laugh escaping him. “Do not,” he warned lowly, “do not act a fool now. Not after the way you were acting out there.”
Your head twitched at that. The way you were acting? You tongued your cheek, taking a second to control yourself.
“The way I was acting? You mean socialising and being a kind person?”
He stared at you, taking three large steps towards you. “Kind?” he hissed out angrily, “you call that kindness? That simpering, that… that giggling? It was a performance. You gave your laughter to every lord with a title and every fool with a rhyme. Do you think I do not know the sound of your true laugh? You insult my intelligence as well as my patience."
Your eyes widened at his words, at the furious sound of it. He was towering over you now, using his height to his full advantage. He didn't even let you reply, didn't want you to reply. He was too angry.
“Tell me,” he breathed out, “Were you comparing? Measuring their worth to mine? Finding their whole faces and pretty words a more pleasing fit for your silks than my scars and my silence?"
You gasped. “I would never-”
“You would not? You did not look at me once.”
“You won’t let me speak!”
“I do not wish to hear it!” He shouted, his words a final, thundering blow. He watched your face contort in hurt, making his stomach twist uncomfortably. He hadn’t meant to, he had not…
You set a step back, then another. And without a word, you ran out of his bedchamber, ignoring him calling your name.
He hadn't meant to shout, but his jealousy…
His anger burned out, leaving only an aching sadness and loneliness. His chamber felt too cold suddenly, too big. He stared at his bed for a moment, his fingers picking at his leather tunic. He messed up. He turned to look at his open bedchamber door, where you had run out. He would find you. He would. And he would apologise.
You should have known he would have reacted this way. He had already been on edge all day, nervous for the event that evening. And you, foolish as you had been, had brushed it off. You, of all people, should know how much he hated these public affairs. He would be stared at, with gazes filled with either pity or fear. And he hated it. And you knew. Yet still…
You didn't go to your own bedchamber. You were too hurt to sleep, too sad. You went outside, towards the stables instead. It was far too late for you to do that, but it would calm your mind. You would see your mount, in a stable next to Aemond’s. And in a way, it would feel as if you were closer to him again.
“I am a fool,” you whispered to yourself, petting the snout of the white stallion. “I am.”
A sudden noise, a shout, made you look up quickly. Who was that? And why was another soul at the stables so late? You rushed further into the stables, hiding in a dark nook, behind a wooden wall with plenty of gaps between the wood.
“...are you going to listen?” you heard a male voice, making your heart pound. You saw two figures approaching, a woman--a maid--who was gasping and giggling as she made her way towards the stall. She turned then towards a man, who was holding a lantern in his hand.
“You have been a bad girl, haven’t you?”
Your head tilted, unable to look away. The woman was with her back against a tall haystack now, staring as the man approached. What was going on? The woman darted away suddenly, but the man was stronger, grabbing her by the waist and pinning her back against the hay.
“I will teach you…” he breathed out, the woman staring at him with darkened eyes. You watched as he set the lantern down, your face nearly pressed against the wood now, and started pulling her skirts up. Within moments his mouth was on hers, kissing in a way you had never seen before. This wasn't a chaste kiss you saw married people give each other. This was intense, all consuming, messy.
You couldn’t look away.
His skirts were around her waist, and he worked on his breeches, and--
A hand suddenly covered your mouth from behind, keeping you from screaming. You felt your heart speed up, before you heard a familiar voice silence you. You kept staring at the couple, until his other hand covered your eyes.
Darkness. The sounds of two people in pleasure. Aemond’s scent surrounded you, his strong body pressed against your back. It was warm. He was warm.
He held you against his chest, a firm hold, while denying you your sight. “Don’t look,” was all he whispered, barely audibly. You could feel the rumble of his chest as he spoke, and your breathing hitched against his hand.
The sounds grew more urgent, the maid's gasps turning to muffled cries. Aemond did not move. He remained silent, his own breathing steady and deep against you. It was a strange intimacy, being blind and mute in his hold, surrounded by the sounds of passion. The contrast was dizzying.
When the sounds finally subsided into heavy breathing and soft, sated laughter from the couple, Aemond did not immediately release you. He waited until you heard the rustle of clothing and the distant murmur of their departing voices. Only when the stable was silent again, did his hand slowly lower from your eyes.
He kept his other hand over your mouth for a moment longer, his single eye searching your face in the dim light.
Finally, he removed his hand from your mouth, but he did not step back. "You should not be here," he said, his voice low. "It is not safe. And it is... unseemly."
He swallowed heavily, the closeness to you having affected him deeply. You had never seen anything like this before, he was certain. He knew you were untouched, a maiden. He himself had made sure of it, keeping any suitor at bay.
And he could tell you were affected, too. The way your breathing was uneven, the rise and fall of your chest.
“I have to-” you started, taking a dizzy step away from him, “I have to leave. I have to-”
He guided you back. And this time, both were deadly silent.
You had barely slept. All you could think of was the feeling of his chest against your back, the feeling of his hands on your mouth and over your eyes. What if you had pressed back? Or, heavens forbid, what if you had opened your mouth? Would he have… would he have pressed a finger inside of your mouth? Would you have sucked on the digit?
The dawn had barely broken when you had shot up in bed, needing to get out. You put on a robe and boots, putting the hood on before exiting your chamber. You needed fresh air, and the cold, moist dawn would help set your racing thoughts straight. You were certain.
You walked through the wet grass for twenty minutes before sitting down against a polished stone, burying your face in your hands. What was happening to you? Your palms were clammy, heart pounding heavily, and the warmest pressure had started forming between your thighs.
And you were alone.
A final look around, before you lifted up your cloak and nightgown, pressing a hand against your core. You whimpered against the wind, the memory of the stables making your head spin. The memory of the feeling of him pressed against you, the feeling of his hand over your eyes, and, Gods, over your mouth. Another weak gasp.
But he had seen you. Had seen your cloaked figure move with haste through the corridors. Sleep hadn’t come for him, so he had stayed awake, remembering with devastating clearness how you had felt against him.
And then you rushed out, and he had followed. All the way onto the windy highlands, where you were half-hidden behind a boulder. He thought he was dreaming at first, when he saw your hands moving. But he wasn’t. You were pulling up your skirts, and your hand moved, and--
He froze.
The sounds, the movements, it was all too much. And yet he couldnt see your face.
He needed to.
He moved then, quietly, carefully-
Snap.
A twig.
Aemond froze. He saw you freeze, too.
Your eyes widened, heart pounding. You didn't dare to turn, to see who it was. You pulled your digits out of you, wiping them on your skirts before straightening yourself out. There was no way this was happening. You waited a second. Two seconds.
You stood up on shaky legs, turning to run back to the Red Keep, when you ran right into a tall figure clad in black.
“Gods, no-!” you shouted, moving around Aemond and running further away from him.
“Don’t run from me-” he breathed, but you kept moving, your pace slowing to a quick stride, heart pounding.
“This is so embarrassing!”
“Do not be embarrassed-”
“I am! Oh, Gods-!”
He moved quickly, his hand shooting out to grab your wrist, halting you. “Stop.” He spoke, low and certain. You froze, but refused to turn to look at him. You had never been this embarrassed in your life, your stomach sinking. “Look at me.”
You turned slowly, so slowly, and he saw the mortification burning in your eyes, the way your lower lip trembled. He saw it all, and he wanted more.
“I didn’t mean for you to see that,” you whispered, barely audible.
“There is nothing to be embarrassed about,” he said again, and this time you audibly scoffed.
“It is! I was--I was acting like a harlot, and you just watched!” You took in another deep, shaky breath. “Oh, Gods, you saw me, and now--”
You fell deadly silent when you felt him tug you closer, raising the hand to his face. The same hand you had been pleasuring yourself with.
“Aemond, don’t-” you breathed out. He stayed silent, eye locked onto yours, and brought your fingers to his lips.
He did not break eye contact. Slowly he parted his lips, taking the two digits into his mouth.
Your lips parted.
He tasted you, sweet and tangy and utterly you. He moaned as he sucked them clean, and you were sure your knees were about to buckle.
“Aemond-” you whimpered, feeling his tongue slide against your skin. After a moment he let go of your wrist, releasing your fingers from his warm mouth. You kept staring at him, the heat inside of you hotter than it had ever been before.
After a long silence, he finally, finally, spoke.
"Does my touch," he asked, the words dangerously quiet, "haunt you so badly that you must try to recreate it with your own?"
Im still working on the wuthering heights imspired one!! I hope to release it soon but im not done yet. Here’s a snapshot tho fish work harder challenge
“I would follow you to the end of the earth,” you whispered, “like a dog. I would. For you.”
Like a dog.
Aegon’s cruel taunt, thrown at you for years. Yet you had taken it, not as an insult, but as a title.
Aemond pulled back just enough to cup your face in both hands, his thumbs stroking over your cheekbones.
“Do not say that,” he commanded, his voice breaking on the last word. “You are no dog. You are… you are mine.” He said your name like a prayer. “You are the girl who is not afraid of my scar. Who sees Vhagar and does not scream. Who laughs in the mud.”
He leaned his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours. “If you follow,” he whispered, “it will not be at my heels. It will be at my side. Do you understand? Where I go, you go. My shadow.” He kissed your forehead then, a soft, almost unsure press of his lips against your skin.
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im not gonna talk about wuthering heights and if it was good or not BUT I did watch it and it was so broody Aemond and bratty reader im inspired idgaf I’m cooking something up after two months
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