mika’s blog

despite everything people believed about aemond, he was never someone who stopped craving affection.

he simply learned very young that wanting comfort made him look weak in the eyes of everyone around him.

after the incident with his eye, after the teasing, after years of trying to become the strongest man in the room, he buried that side of himself so deeply that almost no one knew it still existed.

but somehow… you found it without even trying. you were older than him, calm by nature, and never treated him like the fearsome prince everyone whispered about.

you fussed over him without making it obvious, fixed his cloak when it sat crooked on his shoulders, brushed stray silver strands away from his face, reminded him to eat whenever he forgot. you never pitied him—you simply cared. and that completely unraveled him.

he would never admit it aloud, but nighttime became dangerous for his self-control.

during the day he was prince aemond targaryen: disciplined, cold, impossible to approach. but when the castle fell silent and his thoughts grew louder, he somehow always found himself walking to your chambers.

sometimes he’d knock once before entering after hearing your permission. other nights he’d linger outside for several minutes, arguing with himself before finally giving in.

every visit was accompanied by the same quiet excuse. “i could not sleep.” “the castle is too warm.” “i wished to speak with you.”

neither of you acknowledged that those excuses stopped being convincing months ago.

the moment he stepped inside your room, something about him softened. his shoulders, usually stiff enough to carry kingdoms, finally relaxed.

you’d smile as though you had expected him all along, pat the empty space beside you, and he’d sit without a word.

at first he’d keep a respectable distance, hands folded neatly in his lap. ten minutes later, after enough silence settled between you, you’d gently run your fingers through his silver hair, and he’d lean into it before realizing what he was doing.

every single time, he’d look embarrassed afterward, only for you to pretend not to notice.

he secretly adored being babied, though he would rather challenge a dragon than confess it.

if you noticed the dark circles beneath his eye and quietly told him, “you’ve been overworking yourself again,” he’d grumble something defensive while allowing you to make him tea anyway.

if you insisted he sit down because he looked exhausted, he’d sigh dramatically… then obey.

there was something deeply healing about someone caring for him without expecting anything in return.

you never made him earn your affection, and that frightened him almost as much as it comforted him.

there were nights when he didn’t even want to talk. he’d simply arrive, remove his boots, and settle beside you while you read or embroidered.

eventually his head would rest against your shoulder almost absentmindedly, as though his body sought you out before his pride had time to object.

you’d stroke his hair slowly, your fingers scratching lightly at his scalp, and within minutes his breathing would become slower.

he never fell asleep anywhere else so easily. with you, the nightmares seemed quieter.

if he ever woke from one of those nightmares in your room, disoriented and breathing hard, you never questioned him.

you’d simply place a comforting hand against his back and whisper, “you’re here.”

those two words somehow carried more comfort than entire conversations. he’d close his eye, lean closer until he could feel your warmth beside him, and stay there in silence.

he wasn’t looking for someone to solve his fears—only someone who made them feel smaller.

his possessiveness wasn’t born from jealousy alone—it came from fear. you represented safety, and he’d spent most of his life believing safety was temporary.

if he found someone else occupying your attention for too long, he’d become noticeably quieter afterward. never childish, never openly demanding, but distant enough that you’d immediately recognize it.

all it usually took was you reaching over to smooth his hair back and softly asking, “what troubles you?” for that icy wall to crumble.

he’d mutter that nothing was wrong, yet somehow end up sitting closer to you than before.

if he was injured after training or battle, he hated having maesters tend to him. they were clinical, detached, efficient. you were gentle.

he’d stubbornly insist he was perfectly fine until you quietly dismissed everyone else and began cleaning the cuts yourself.

he’d sit perfectly still while your hands worked, watching you more than the wounds. whenever you scolded him under your breath for being reckless, there was no bite in your voice—only concern.

strangely enough, being gently reprimanded by you felt comforting. it reminded him that someone worried whether he returned home alive.

the sweetest part was that he never asked for these moments. he simply lingered. if you held your arms open, he’d hesitate for barely a heartbeat before stepping into them, resting his forehead against your shoulder with a tired sigh he would never allow anyone else to hear.

he was taller than you, stronger than you, capable of terrifying almost anyone in the realm… and yet, with you, he became the lonely little boy who once stood dragonless while everyone laughed.

he is absolutely terrible at apologizing with words.

raph is the kind of man who spends hours replaying the argument in his head, getting more frustrated with himself because he knows he crossed a line, but every apology he comes up with sounds weak or awkward.

his pride fights him every step of the way. after enough time passes, though, the guilt starts weighing on him much more than his ego ever could.

eventually he’ll show up wherever you are, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed, looking anywhere except directly at you.

after a painfully long silence he’d mutter something like, “i… shouldn’t’ve said that.”

it’s short, rough, and nowhere near poetic, but for raphael, admitting he was wrong is one of the hardest things he can do.

if he says it, he genuinely means it.

he always tries fixing things through actions before words.

if you haven’t been eating much because of the fight, somehow your favorite food mysteriously appears beside you; if something around your apartment needed fixing, you’ll suddenly notice it’s been repaired overnight; if it’s cold outside, he’ll leave a hoodie for you without saying anything.

he isn’t trying to buy your forgiveness—he simply doesn’t always know how to express affection verbally after conflict.

taking care of you has always been the language that comes most naturally to him, even when he’s still struggling to look you in the eye.

if you ignore him after the argument, it genuinely hurts him more than he’ll ever admit.

raphael can handle yelling, insults, even someone throwing a punch at him, but silence? that’s torture.

every unanswered text or every time you quietly walk past him makes him feel like he’s losing you, and that fear slowly chips away at all that stubbornness.

eventually he’ll crack, following you around until you finally acknowledge him. “come on… don’t do this. yell at me if you want. just… don’t act like i ain’t here.”

beneath all that muscle and attitude is someone who’s terrified of being abandoned by the people he loves.

once you finally agree to talk, he doesn’t interrupt you.

that’s probably one of the biggest signs he’s taking the conversation seriously.

normally raph jumps into every discussion with his own opinion before anyone finishes speaking, but when he knows he’s the one who messed up, he’ll force himself to stay quiet.

you’ll notice him clenching and unclenching his fists while you explain how he made you feel, jaw tight because hearing that he hurt you genuinely makes him sick to his stomach.

he might look defensive at first, but he’s listening to every single word, and later you’ll realize he remembered all of it.

physical affection becomes incredibly important to him after an argument, though he’ll wait for your permission before trying anything.

once he feels you’re no longer pushing him away, he’ll cautiously reach for your hand first, almost like he’s testing whether you’ll pull away.

if you don’t, his shoulders visibly relax. after that he’ll wrap both arms around you and hold you tighter than usual, resting his forehead against yours without saying much.

raph isn’t always good at explaining what’s in his heart, but that hug says everything: that he missed you, that he was scared, and that he doesn’t want another day spent apart over a stupid fight.

if he realizes the argument came from one of his own insecurities, he’ll reluctantly admit it. raphael hates looking vulnerable, especially because he’s spent so much of his life feeling like people see him as nothing more than a monster.

if jealousy, protectiveness, or fear of losing you caused him to lash out, he’ll eventually confess it in a quiet voice. “i got scared, alright? i ain’t proud of it.”

hearing something like that from him is incredibly rare, because it means he’s letting down walls that almost nobody else ever gets past. he’d rather expose that fear to you than let it keep damaging the relationship.

after the apology, he makes a genuine effort to change instead of pretending the argument never happened.

raph isn’t perfect, and he’ll probably lose his temper again someday because that’s simply part of who he is, but if he promised he’d work on something, he’ll actually try.

maybe he’ll stop himself before shouting, maybe he’ll take a walk to cool off instead of saying something cruel, maybe he’ll ask what you’re feeling before assuming the worst. every improvement is small, but it’s real.

when ormund hightower arrived with his men, he had already spent enough years raising daeron to understand him better than almost anyone else.

daeron was sixteen now, no longer the child sent away from king’s landing, yet not quite a man either. he was dutiful, respectful, gentle to a fault, but ormund noticed the quiet loneliness that settled over him whenever the day’s training was finished.

unlike other boys his age, daeron did not sneak away looking for wine or girls or foolish adventures. instead, he wandered through forests, sat beneath old trees with his lute, or spent long evenings staring into the fire with thoughts he never voiced.

so, when they stopped at the estate of a modest lord sworn to oldtown, ormund politely requested that the lord’s daughter accompany daeron during their stay.

he never explained his reasoning, simply saying the young prince could use pleasant company. neither you nor daeron questioned it for a moment, completely unaware that ormund hoped simple companionship might awaken feelings daeron had never allowed himself to explore.

the first afternoon together was almost painfully awkward. daeron greeted you with the careful manners expected of a prince, bowing his head just enough to show respect despite your lower station.

he spoke softly, almost shyly, asking whether there were any pleasant places nearby to walk. there was no arrogance in him, no expectation that you entertain him. if anything, he seemed relieved that you treated him like an ordinary boy rather than a royal curiosity.

soon enough, the silence between you became comfortable. you showed him the gardens, hidden streams, and fields surrounding your home, while he listened with genuine interest to every small story you shared, smiling whenever you became excited over something as simple as wildflowers blooming beside the road.

you quickly discovered that daeron loved peace more than glory.

while the soldiers spent their evenings sharpening swords, boasting about battles they hoped to fight, he would disappear with his lute tucked beneath one arm.

eventually you began following him, finding him sitting beneath ancient oaks where sunlight filtered through the leaves.

he would quietly ask if you minded listening before carefully playing melodies that seemed almost too gentle for a world preparing itself for war. his fingers moved with surprising confidence across the strings, and every now and then he would glance toward you, almost nervously, as though hoping you truly enjoyed the music.

when you praised him, his cheeks warmed with the faintest blush, ducking his head as if compliments embarrassed him more than sword drills ever could.

ormund often watched the two of you from a distance without interrupting. he would see daeron laughing more freely than usual, hear conversations that stretched long into the afternoon, notice how the prince no longer wandered alone through the woods.

there was something comforting about seeing the boy smile so often. neither of you realized that every shared meal, every walk, every afternoon beneath the trees made the older lord quietly more satisfied.

in his mind, this was exactly what daeron had needed—not grand romances or courtly schemes, but someone kind enough to remind him that life could still be gentle despite the dragons and crowns surrounding his family.

what made daeron so endearing was how completely unaware he remained of his own growing attachment. if he found a flower with an unusual color during your walks, he absentmindedly handed it to you because he thought you might like it.

if he climbed a hill first, he instinctively reached back to help you over the rocks without even thinking about it. when it rained unexpectedly, he would awkwardly hold his cloak over both of your heads despite ending up soaked himself.

none of these gestures felt romantic to him. they simply felt… right. he cared about your comfort long before he ever understood why your smile lingered in his thoughts once you had both gone your separate ways for the evening.

by the time ormund announced that the army would continue its march the following morning, daeron was strangely quiet. he spent that final evening sitting beside you beneath the same tree where he always played, but instead of music, the two of you simply watched the sunset.

after a long silence, he admitted in an almost embarrassed voice that this had been one of the happiest weeks he could remember since leaving king’s landing as a child. he confessed that, for a little while, he had almost forgotten he was a prince carrying the weight of a divided family.

aemond wasnt a man who reached for others. he had spent his entire life teaching himself that pain was to be endured in silence, that grief was a weakness to be hidden beneath discipline, and that loneliness was simply another burden expected of a prince.

even as a child, after losing his eye, he had swallowed his suffering until it hardened into something cold and unyielding.

he never sought comfort, never asked for reassurance, and certainly never allowed himself the indignity of needing another person.

if anything troubled him, he disappeared until he had mastered it alone.

that was why the quiet knock at your tiny servants’ chamber in the dead of night unsettled you so deeply. no one visited the maids at such an hour unless something terrible had happened.

you wrapped a blanket around your shoulders and carefully opened the door, only to freeze completely.

aemond stood there in plain black clothes instead of his usual princely attire, his silver hair loose around his shoulders, his sapphire glinting faintly in the candlelight.

he looked exactly as he always did—perfect posture, unreadable expression—but there was something terribly wrong in the way he simply stood there without speaking.

for several endless seconds neither of you said a word.

“…may i come in?” he finally asked, his voice quieter than you had ever heard it.

there was no command behind it, no arrogance or no sharp edge meant to remind you of your place; it sounded almost unfamiliar coming from him.

you stepped aside before your mind had even caught up with your body, silently closing the door behind him. your room suddenly felt impossibly small with a prince standing inside it, and the reality of what he was risking settled heavily over both of you.

if anyone discovered him here, the consequences would be devastating —for you most of all. he knew that and you knew he knew.

he remained standing for another long moment, his eye fixed somewhere on the floor rather than on you.

you had never seen him hesitate before. then, without explanation, he slowly crossed the room and sat on the edge of your narrow bed.

his shoulders seemed… heavy. not physically, but as though every expectation ever placed upon him had finally become too much to carry.

you waited, expecting him to speak, to explain himself, to say anything at all. instead, he quietly removed his boots, lay down on top of the blankets, and turned onto his side with his back facing you.

you stared at him in complete disbelief. for a brief, almost absurd moment, you wondered whether he had fallen ill, whether he had been wounded or whether he had struck his head during training.

this was aemond targaryen —the prince who could silence an entire room with a single glance, the man who carried himself as though nothing in the world could ever shake him. yet here he was, lying silently in the bed of a maid without a single word of explanation.

“…my prince?” you whispered carefully.

he closed his eye. “please…” he answered after a painfully long silence. “do not ask me to speak.”

your heart broke so quietly you thought perhaps only you had heard it, because suddenly you understood: he had not come for conversation, for advice or because he expected you to fix whatever had happened; he had simply come because he could no longer bear carrying it alone.

still uncertain, you slowly sat beside him. every movement felt dangerous, improper and impossible.

your hand hovered awkwardly above his shoulder, afraid he would immediately pull away or remind you of the distance between prince and servant.

instead, after several silent seconds, you felt him lean—only slightly, almost imperceptibly—into the touch: it was permission.

carefully, as though handling something impossibly fragile, you slipped beneath the blanket beside him. he remained perfectly still while you hesitated, wondering whether you had misunderstood.

then, without looking at you, without saying a single word, he shifted backwards until his shoulders rested against your chest and you stopped breathing.

aemond had chosen to be held.

your arms slowly wrapped around him and he went completely rigid. for one terrible second, you feared you had overstepped, then every muscle in his body seemed to loosen all at once.

it was so subtle that another person might never have noticed; but you did.

years of vigilance, of restraint, of refusing himself every softness…all of it slipped away inside your embrace.

he buried his face against the pillow, saying nothing. his breathing remained controlled, almost stubbornly so, but every now and then you felt it falter for just a heartbeat before evening out again.

he would rather die than cry in front of anyone. you knew that much. so you did not search for tears that might never come.

instead, your hand gently brushed through his long silver hair, slow enough to soothe without demanding anything from him.

“you’re safe,” you whispered; he didn’t answer but he didnt move away either.

after a long while, he finally spoke, his voice so quiet you almost missed it. “i despise this.”

your fingers paused. “being here?”

another silence before he replied;: “…needing this.” the admission sounded as though it had been dragged painfully from somewhere deep inside him. “i should not have come.”

“but you did.” you replied

“…yes.” he whispered.

you rested your cheek lightly against his hair “then maybe… just for tonight… you don’t have to be prince aemond.”

he gave the faintest shake of his head. “i do.” there was another pause before he continued: “…tomorrow.”

neither of you spoke again and the castle outside remained silent, unaware that one of its most feared princes had quietly sought refuge in the smallest room within its walls.

it began by accident; you had been carrying fresh towels across the training yard when the sound of steel cutting through the air made you stop.

aemond trained alone more often than not, dismissing knights after only a few exchanges so he could practice in silence.

there was something almost hypnotic about the precision of his movements, every strike controlled, every step deliberate.

after that first time, you found yourself returning whenever your duties allowed, always keeping your distance, always believing he had never noticed the quiet maid standing beneath the archway.

thought he had noticed from the very beginning.

he let you watch for several days without acknowledging your presence.

at first, he was curious to see how long you would stay before fear or embarrassment drove you away. instead, you remained until your chores called you elsewhere, never speaking, never interrupting.

eventually, while lowering his sword after a particularly difficult sequence, he glanced toward your hiding place without turning his head completely.

“if you intend to stare,” he said coolly, “you might as well stand where i can see you.” the corners of his mouth lifted ever so slightly when you froze in place, clearly caught.

once he realized how flustered you became around him, his confidence only grew. he would deliberately remove his gloves one finger at a time while maintaining eye contact, wipe the sweat from his neck with infuriating slowness, or spin his own blade with effortless skill before resting it against his shoulder.

“tell me,” he would ask, his voice carrying that familiar edge of amusement, “am i truly so fascinating, or are your duties simply that dull?” he already knew the answer, and judging by the faint smirk that tugged at his lips whenever you looked away, he enjoyed making you admit it without words.

unlike other princes, aemond didn’t flirt through compliments. his version of teasing was sharper, almost challenging.

if he caught you stealing another glance while pretending to dust a nearby column, he would call you over without raising his voice.

“come here.” when you obeyed, nervous as ever, he would inspect you with his single eye before saying something like, “i should charge you for these lessons. you’ve watched enough to know the difference between proper form and incompetence.” there was arrogance in every sentence, but never cruelty.

despite acting unbearably self-assured, he secretly appreciated your silent audience.

most people watched him because they feared him or wished to judge him. you simply watched because you admired the discipline behind every movement.

that distinction mattered to him more than he cared to admit. on the rare mornings you failed to appear, he found himself glancing toward the archway between drills, irritated by the empty space where you usually stood.

one afternoon, after disarming a knight with humiliating ease, he noticed your expression of quiet amazement.

instead of dismissing the knight immediately, he slowly looked toward you, raising an eyebrow. “impressive?” he asked, almost lazily.

when you nodded before remembering you probably should not answer, his smirk became unmistakable. “i thought as much.”

the poor knight received another hour of training because aemond had suddenly found himself in an unusually good mood.

if another servant noticed your habit of lingering near the yard and dared whisper about your obvious fascination with the prince, aemond overheard far more than they realized.

he never acknowledged the gossip directly, but the next time you appeared, he intentionally dismissed every guard and sparring partner until only the two of you remained.

with his sword resting across his shoulders, he looked at you from across the courtyard. “well?” he said. “you’ve watched everyone else fail against me. perhaps you’ve come to challenge me yourself.”

when you nearly dropped the basket in your hands, he actually laughed—a quiet, brief sound that vanished almost as quickly as it appeared.

there were moments, however, when the cockiness faded. after particularly brutal training sessions, when his old injuries ached or frustration lingered beneath his composed exterior, he would notice you waiting silently with a clean cloth or a cup of water you had no obligation to bring him.

he accepted them without mockery. for a brief moment, the prince disappeared, leaving only a tired young man whose shoulders carried far more weight than anyone understood. but it never lasted long.

being assigned to dress prince aemond quickly became every maid’s greatest source of dread. not because he was difficult—he rarely spoke at all—but because the silence in his chambers felt heavier than armor.

everyone kept their eyes lowered, their movements careful, terrified of earning the prince’s displeasure. somehow, despite being the newest among them, you were the one he requested most often.

standing behind him while fastening the countless clasps of his leather tunic felt almost unreal. his broad shoulders barely moved beneath your fingertips, the warmth of his body seeping through the dark fabric as you worked.

every now and then he would lift an arm without a word, already knowing what you needed before you could ask.

the entire room remained so quiet that you could hear your own heartbeat, painfully aware that you were helping dress the most feared man in the red keep.

the hardest part was always his cloak. the heavy fabric forced you to step closer, your hands brushing along his shoulders as you settled it properly before fastening the silver clasp beneath his throat.

from that distance you could see everything people whispered about—the sharp line of his jaw, the pale scar disappearing beneath the sapphire, the strands of silver-gold hair falling over his back.

it felt almost improper to witness him in such an unguarded state, even if neither of you acknowledged it.

aemond noticed far more than he ever admitted. he could feel the brief hesitation whenever your fingers accidentally grazed the skin of his neck, the way your breathing would catch whenever he turned unexpectedly and your eyes met for only a heartbeat.

instead of embarrassing you by mentioning it, he simply watched your reflection through the polished mirror before him, saying nothing, allowing the silence to stretch until your cheeks warmed.

“are you finished?” he would ask eventually, his voice low enough to make you jump every single time.

when you hurriedly nodded and stepped back, believing your duty complete, he would study himself in the mirror for a long moment before calmly reaching up and undoing one fastening.

after everyone learns he is not the real daeron, the castle changes overnight. the guards no longer bow when they enter his room, the servants whisper outside his door, and some even begin calling him “the pretender.”

you hate hearing it. none of it seems fair when all you’ve ever seen is a frightened boy who barely knows where to put his hands.

so you keep visiting him exactly as you did before, bringing fresh water, food, and excuses to stay a little longer.

somehow, you’re relieved to no longer have to call him “my prince.”

now, when you’re alone, you simply use his name, and for the first time, you see the smallest hint of comfort soften his face.

one afternoon you find him sitting on the floor instead of the chair by the window. when you ask why, he shrugs without looking at you: “…it’s quieter.”

so you end up sitting beside him, your back against the stone wall, talking about nothing in particular. you tell him about how the kitchen boys stole a pie and blamed the castle dogs, about the old maid who swears she once saw a dragon hatch from a chicken egg.

he doesn’t laugh, but you notice his shoulders slowly loosen the longer you speak, until the silence between you no longer feels heavy.

rhaenyra has not yet decided what to do with him, and everyone seems to have an opinion. some think he should be questioned further, others believe he should remain locked away forever.

every time you leave his room, you overhear another rumor about his fate. he never asks you what they’re saying, though you’re almost certain he knows.

instead, one evening, while you’re replacing the candles, he quietly asks: “…do you think they’ll kill me?”

the question catches you so off guard that your chest aches and after a long silence, you sit beside him and admit: “i don’t know.”

somehow, that honest answer seems to comfort him more than a false promise ever could.

despite everything, he begins waiting for you. he never admits it aloud, but you notice the little things.

when you arrive, the untouched food has somehow remained untouched until you came; when you’re late because another servant needed help, you find him standing near the door instead of the window.

one day you apologize for taking so long, expecting no reply. after a moment, he quietly says: “…i thought maybe you weren’t coming today.”

it’s such a small sentence, but it lingers in your mind for hours afterward because it’s the closest he’s ever come to admitting he enjoys your company.

one morning you sneak him a small wooden horse that one of the stable boys carved and forgot about.

“don’t tell anyone” you whisper, placing it beside his cup. he turns it over in his hands carefully, almost afraid he’ll break it.

for several long moments, he simply stares at it before looking up at you. “…no one’s ever given me something before.” the words are so quiet you almost miss them.

you smile and tell him it’s only a toy, nothing special. but days later, every time you visit, you notice the little horse sitting on the windowsill where the sunlight reaches it first, as though it’s become one of the few things in the room that truly belongs to him.

the more time you spend together, the more you realize he was never pretending to be anyone. he wasn’t some clever liar trying to fool a kingdom.

he was simply a frightened boy told to play a role he never asked for, surrounded by powerful people who could decide his fate with a single conversation.

he notices you long before you realize he’s interested. every time you’re near him, his attention drifts toward you, even when he’s supposed to be focused on training or hunting.

he never crowds you, but he always seems to appear nearby, watching with those intense eyes as if he’s trying to memorize every little thing about you.

when another yautja questions why he spends so much time around a human, kwei shuts it down immediately.

he doesn’t care what they think; in his eyes, strength isn’t only measured by physical power, and he sees a kind of courage in you that most of his kind fail to understand.

the first time he decides he wants you as his mate, he becomes unexpectedly protective: he starts leaving small gifts where he knows you’ll find them—strange feathers, polished bones, or pieces of technology he thinks you’ll like. he never explains why, but his gaze lingers on you, waiting to see your reaction.

when you thank him, he goes completely still for a moment.

yautja aren’t used to gentle gratitude, and hearing it from you affects him more than he expected.

after that, the gifts become more frequent, each one carefully chosen as if he’s trying to tell you something without using words.

kwei is surprisingly patient when it comes to courting you.

he knows the differences between humans and yautja are enormous, so he refuses to rush you. instead, he spends time learning your habits, listening when you speak, and letting you decide how close you want to be.

one night, he finally admits his intentions in the simplest way possible: he places his hand over his chest and tells you that he has chosen you. there’s no arrogance in his voice, only quiet certainty, as if he’s offering you something precious and hoping you’ll accept it.

once you become his mate, he becomes openly affectionate in ways that surprise everyone around him.

kwei is still calm and disciplined, but with you he softens completely; he’ll lower his head so you can touch his face, let you trace the markings on his skin, and stay close enough that you can feel his steady warmth.

around others, he remains intimidating and reserved, but the moment you’re alone, he’s gentle.

raph has absolutely no patience for most people. if someone annoys him, they get a glare, a sarcastic comment, or they get ignored completely.

then you walk into the room and his entire expression melts without him even realizing it, his voice dropping into the gentlest tone anyone has ever heard him use.

the others never stop making fun of him because it’s honestly embarrassing to watch. one second he’s threatening to throw mikey across the lair, the next you’re asking him if he slept well and he’s quietly mumbling “yeah… slept better after you texted me goodnight.”

he pretends he hates physical affection in front of everyone else, acting like hugs are annoying.

with you, though, he’s practically attached at the hip, always finding some excuse to keep a hand on your waist, your shoulder, or to pull you into his lap whenever you’re nearby.

if someone is rude to you, they’re lucky if leo gets to them first. raph takes it personally every single time, his protective instincts kicking in immediately, but the second you place your hand on his arm and tell him it’s okay, he takes a deep breath because your voice somehow calms him faster than anything else.

you see a side of him nobody else really gets to. he talks quieter with you, smiles more, laughs without trying to hide it, and even lets himself be vulnerable.

sometimes he’ll just lay his head against your shoulder without saying anything, happy to exist beside you.

whenever you’re tired, he becomes ridiculously attentive: he wraps a blanket around you if you’re cold, carries you if your feet hurt, brushes your hair away from your face, and keeps asking if you’ve eaten enough even though he’s the one who usually forgets meals.

his brothers swear he’s been replaced by an imposter: they’ll watch him grumble at them all morning, then hear you call his name from across the lair and suddenly he’s answering with the softest “yeah, sweetheart?” imaginable.

despite looking intimidating, raph absolutely loves when you play with him. tracing circles on his arms, scratching lightly along his shell, rubbing his cheeks, or absentmindedly running your fingers over his head has him practically melting into your touch while pretending he’s “just comfortable.”

arguments between the two of you never last very long because he genuinely hates upsetting you. he’s stubborn, sure, but the second he notices tears in your eyes or hears your voice crack, all the anger disappears and all he wants is to hold you close until you’re smiling again.

every night before patrol, he always finds you first. no matter how rushed things are, he gives you a forehead kiss, rests his forehead against yours for a second, and quietly reminds you to stay safe while he’s gone.

donnie has never been the kind of guy to assume someone could actually like him back. he sees the way people naturally gravitate toward confidence, charm, and easy conversations, and then he looks at himself.

he hears the way he rambles about quantum mechanics when nobody asked, notices how his fingers never stop moving whenever he’s excited about a new invention, remembers every awkward pause where he overexplained something until everyone else had already lost interest.

so when he starts falling for you, he immediately convinces himself it’s one-sided. he tells himself you only smile at him because you’re kind, that you only listen because you’re patient or that you only spend time with him because you’re polite.

every compliment you give him gets mentally rewritten into something less meaningful: “you’re smart” becomes “you’re useful.”; “i like talking to you” becomes “you tolerate me.”. his own brain is his worst enemy, and no amount of logic can fix emotions that have been building for years.

eventually his insecurities start slipping into actual conversations, though he tries to disguise them as jokes. he’ll laugh quietly while adjusting his goggles and mumble things like: “you’d probably have more fun hanging out with someone who actually knows how to flirt” or, “must be exhausting listening to me explain science every five minutes”.

the words are always delivered with an awkward little smile, as if he’s hoping you’ll laugh and change the subject before he has to admit he actually means them; but instead, one day, you stop what you’re doing and look at him with complete seriousness.

“donnie, do you really think i’d be here every single day if i didn’t genuinely like hearing you talk?”

he freezes completely, because somehow that possibility had never crossed his mind. you step closer, gently flick the side of his shell, and tell him that you don’t want someone who pretends to be cool.

you want the awkward genius who lights up whenever someone asks about his latest project; so you tell him his excitement is one of your favorite things about him and for once, he has absolutely nothing to say.

even after you confess your feelings, donnie struggles to believe them completely. he’ll sometimes stare at you when you aren’t looking, trying to figure out what exactly you see in him.

he compares himself to leo’s confidence, raph’s strength, mikey’s natural charisma. in his mind, they all have qualities that make them easier to love.

one evening, after catching him doing exactly that, you finally sigh and ask him what’s going on. after a long silence, he quietly admits: “i just don’t understand why you’d choose… me.”

it isn’t dramatic, he just genuinely doesn’t understand it. you don’t answer immediately, instead, you reach over, take one of his three-fingered hands into yours, and start listing things:

how safe you feel around him, how he remembers tiny details about you that nobody else notices, how he’ll stay awake all night fixing something if he knows it’ll make your life easier, how he gets this ridiculously adorable smile whenever an experiment actually works…

by the time you finish, he’s looking anywhere but your face because he’s embarrassed by how close he is to tearing up.

physical affection becomes one of the biggest ways you slowly erase those insecurities.

at first, donnie assumes you’ll hesitate because… well… he’s a mutant: he’s taller than you, heavier than you, covered in rough skin instead of soft human skin. every insecurity he has about his personality is matched by another one about his appearance.

so the first time you casually lean against his plastron while he’s working, his entire body just… stops functioning for a second.

“uh… are… are you comfortable?” he’ll ask nervously. you don’t even look up from the tablet you’re holding.

“very” then you wrap your arms around him without hesitation, resting your cheek against his shoulder as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

after that, you make it your personal mission to touch him whenever you can, holding his hand while he explains inventions, hugging him from behind while he’s soldering something and kissing the side of his face completely out of nowhere.

eventually he realizes you aren’t forcing yourself to overlook what he is; you really love every part of him, shell included. and that realization heals wounds he didn’t even know were still open.

the day he finally stops apologizing for being himself is the day he realizes just how much you’ve changed him.

he catches himself getting excited over some ridiculously complicated piece of alien technology and immediately starts explaining every tiny detail to you before suddenly stopping mid-sentence (old habits).

he opens his mouth to apologize for talking too much, but before he can, you gently place a finger over his lips.

“don’t.” you smile so softly it completely melts whatever insecurity was about to surface. “keep going. i love hearing you talk.”

there isn’t a single hint of pity in your voice. only honesty; only affection, so he continues, and for the first time, he doesn’t shorten his explanations or simplify his thoughts because he’s afraid of boring you.

he lets himself be completely, unapologetically donatello. by the end of his explanation, you’re smiling at him with that same look you always have, full of admiration rather than obligation.

the first time aemond truly notices you, its because you dont stare. everyone else in the red keep either fears him or watches him with poorly disguised curiosity, their eyes lingering on the sapphire where his missing eye once was before darting away in embarrassment.

you simply bow, greet him quietly, and continue with your work as though he were no different from any other prince. it’s not disrespect; if anything, it feels strangely respectful.

he finds himself watching you instead, wondering whether your indifference is genuine or carefully practiced. once something captures aemond’s attention, it settles into his mind like a blade driven into wood. he does not forget.

you convince yourself that whatever strange glances he sends your way are accidents. you are only a maid; your hands scrub floors, fold linens, polish silver until your fingers ache. targaryen princes dont concern themselves with women like you.

every time he passes, you lower your head immediately, refusing to indulge foolish dreams that could only end with heartbreak or punishment. meanwhile, aemond notices every single time you avoid looking at him. to him, your refusal becomes almost amusing.

he has spent his life forcing people to acknowledge him, and now the one person whose attention he actually desires seems determined to deny him.

he begins finding excuses to keep you nearby without making his intentions obvious. he requests books from the library, even though servants closer to him could fetch them. he asks for fresh candles despite the room already being full of them.

sometimes he sends for water he barely drinks. you think perhaps you’ve simply become assigned to his quarters more often, never realizing that those assignments quietly change because the prince himself requested them. if anyone dares question it, aemond answers with cold indifference until they stop asking.

every interaction with him leaves you painfully nervous because he speaks so little. when he does speak, his voice is calm and controlled, never wasting words. you constantly wonder if you’ve disappointed him somehow.

if you nearly brush against him, you step back immediately with your head lowered. aemond notices how tense you become around him, and although he understands he is intimidating, he dislikes seeing genuine fear directed at him from you.

strangely, he begins speaking a little more whenever you are alone, asking simple questions about your work or whether the kitchens have prepared the evening meal yet, just to hear your voice answer him.

rumors eventually begin spreading among the servants that prince aemond keeps requesting the same maid and the whispers make your stomach sink. you become convinced that someone will accuse you of trying to seduce a prince for status, so you start avoiding any duties that involve his chambers whenever possible.

aemond notices your sudden disappearance almost immediately. instead of allowing it, he quietly asks why another servant has replaced you. when he learns you requested different duties, he simply says, “send her back” with no explanation following and no discussion permitted.

when you finally gather enough courage to tell him that it would be wiser if another maid attended him, he simply studies you in silence for several long moments.

“why?” he asks. unable to meet his eye, you quietly explain that people are talking, that you are beneath his notice, and that you have no wish to dishonor him.

his expression barely changes, but there is something almost offended beneath the surface. “i decide what is beneath my notice,” he replies evenly “not gossiping servants.”

despite his cold reputation, there are moments when his protectiveness reveals itself in subtle ways. one afternoon he witnesses a knight speaking harshly to you after you accidentally spill water across the floor. before you can finish apologizing, aemond interrupts with icy precision, pointing out that the knight himself left his sword carelessly where anyone could trip over it. the hall falls silent and the knight apologizes immediately —not to you, but to the prince. once he leaves, aemond says nothing more about it, as though defending you required no acknowledgment. you, however, spend the rest of the day wondering why a prince would bother.

you begin noticing that he remembers insignificant details about you that no nobleman ever should. he recalls that you dislike carrying heavy water buckets because of an old injury to your wrist (okay this was a personal example of myself 😭), or he remembers which corridors you usually clean and what time your duties begin each morning.

once, after overhearing you mention that you had missed supper because of extra work, he casually orders food to be brought to his chambers later than usual. when it arrives, he only eats half before dismissing you with permission to take the rest. he never says it is for you, he never has to.

his affection is not gentle in the way songs describe. aemond doesnt flirt with charming smiles or flowery compliments; iinstead, he becomes quietly possessive of your time and attention.

if another lord lingers around you too long, his gaze follows until the conversation ends; if another servant speaks to you with unnecessary familiarity while he is nearby, they suddenly remember other duties elsewhere. he tells himself it is because you serve him well.