Osferthswifey

You opened the door and she walked in ahead of you like she owned the place, which was probably how she walked into every room she’d ever entered. The lobby was empty. You expected her to head for one of the apartment doors on the ground floor, to indicate somehow where she lived, but instead she sat down in the exact center of the lobby and began grooming her flank with the meticulous disdain of someone who had been terribly inconvenienced.

“Right,” you said. “Not helpful.”

You waited. The cat groomed. The elevator went up and came back down empty. Someone’s mail was sticking out of box 3B. The radiators clanked.

“Okay,” you said finally. “I have to go up. If you’re still here tomorrow, we’ll figure something out.”

She paused mid-lick to give you a look that said she had never been dismissed in her life and wasn’t about to start now.

She was still there when you got back from work the next day. Not in the lobby, outside again, on the same patch of concrete, curled into the exact same shape as if she’d never moved. The November dark had settled in thick and cold, her fur was beaded with the beginnings of frost, it made your chest clench.

“Absolutely not,” you told her, scooping her up before you could think better of it. She was heavier than she looked, a dense warm weight in your arms, and she made a sound like a creaking door as you carried her inside. “You’re coming upstairs. You’re eating something. We’re figuring out who you belong to.”

She didn’t struggle. She settled against your shoulder like she’d been doing this for a thousand years, her purr starting up low and rough like a motor that hadn’t been run in a while. Her claws kneaded gently into your coat, catching on the wool.

Your apartment was small. One bedroom, a galley kitchen, a living room that doubled as a dining room that doubled as an office. The cat surveyed it from the threshold with an expression you could only describe as politely appalled.

“It’s not much,” you said defensively, setting her down. “But it’s warm.”

She sniffed the baseboard. She investigated the corner where the radiator met the wall. She walked into the kitchen and sat down in front of the refrigerator with the clear expectation that it would open for her.

“What do you even eat?” you muttered, opening the fridge and scanning your meager contents. You didn’t have cat food. You didn’t have anything that seemed cat-appropriate. But you did have milk, and you did have a package of those cheap hot dogs from a supermarket.

“This is probably terrible for you,” you said, boiling one anyway and cutting it into small pieces, pouring a bowl of milk. “But you look like you’ve survived worse.”

She ate like she’d never seen food before. She drank the milk in laps. She looked up at you with a milk-white mustache on her gray muzzle and made a sound that resembled approval.

“You’re welcome,” you said, and sat down on the floor beside her.

You put up posters in the neighborhood: FOUND CAT, with a photo that didn’t do her justice and your phone number at the bottom. You posted in the local lost pet groups. You took her to a vet to check for a microchip, but there was nothing, which the vet found strange given the obvious quality of her collar.

“This is full-grain Italian leather,” the vet said, turning the collar over in her hands. “And the hardware is eighteen-karat gold plated. Someone spent a lot of money on this cat.”

“But no tag,” you said.

“But no tag,” the vet agreed. “Some people just assume their animals will never get out. Especially indoor cats. How’s she been eating?”

“Everything,” you said. “Anything. I gave her the crusts from my grilled cheese yesterday and she acted like it was a five-star meal.”

The vet laughed. “At her age, that’s a good sign. She’s healthy, just old. Very old. Probably fifteen, maybe older. Keep doing what you’re doing.”

So you did. You bought proper cat food eventually, the decent mid-range kind from the grocery store, and she ate it with the same enthusiasm she’d shown for the hot dogs and the milk and the leftover tuna salad. She slept on your bed every night. She sat in the window and watched the street below. You started calling her Lady, for lack of anything better, she ignored it with the same regal indifference she showed to everything else.

“You’re someone’s, aren’t you?” you said one evening, scratching under her chin while she purred like a broken generator. “Someone filthy rich.”

She closed her eyes and leaned into your hand, offering no answers.

You found the flyer on a Tuesday morning in early December, taped to a lamppost two blocks from your work office. The paper was thick and slightly glossy, the kind of paper that cost money, and the photo printed on it was clearly professional, the same gray cat, the same yellow-green eyes, but photographed against a dark background with studio lighting that made her look like a painting.

MISSING: VHAGAR, the flyer read. $7,000 REWARD FOR SAFE RETURN.

There was a phone number. That was all. No name. Just the cat’s name, the reward, and a number.

Vhagar. You tested the name in your mouth as you walked home, the flyer clutched in your cold hand. It sounded ancient. Mythological. Exactly the kind of name someone would give a cat who wore eighteen-karat gold on her collar and had professional photographs taken of her.

“Your name is Vhagar,” you told the cat when you got home. She was sprawled across your pillow in a pose of magnificent indolence, one paw draped over her eyes. At the sound of the name, her tail twitched. “That’s you, isn’t it? Vhagar.”

She lifted her head and looked at you, and for the first time since you’d found her, she let out a proper meow, short and declarative, as if to say finally, you’ve figured it out.

You sat down on the edge of your bed. Seven thousand dollars. That was two months of rent. That was the dental work you’d been putting off. That was breathing room, actual breathing room, the kind you hadn’t had since you’d moved to this city with its brutal rents and its casual cruelties and its complete indifference to whether you sank or swam.

But it wasn’t the money that made you pull out your phone. It was the way she’d been shivering on the concrete. The way someone had loved her enough to buy her that collar and take those photos and offer seven thousand dollars no questions asked, but not enough to put a tag on her. Not enough to think she might ever leave.

You typed the number into your phone before you could talk yourself out of it.

He answered on the second ring.

“Yes.”

Not hello. Not who is this. Just yes, flat and dry as old paper, a voice that expected the world to get to the point and not waste his time.

“Hi,” you said, suddenly aware that you hadn’t planned what to say. “I’m calling about the cat. The flyer. Vhagar. I think I have her.”

A pause. Just long enough to make you check if the call had dropped.

“Proof,” the voice said. “Send me proof.”

“What kind of...“

“A video that shows she’s alive and unharmed and actually in your possession.”

The demand was clipped, almost cold, and you felt a spike of irritation. You were doing him a favor. You could have kept the cat. You could have ignored the flyer entirely. But you swallowed your pride because seven thousand dollars was seven thousand dollars, and you’d already decided.

“Do you have Whatsapp or something with this number?” you asked, “I’ll send a video.”

He said yes and hung up without saying goodbye.

“Charming,” you muttered to the cat. Vhagar yawned, showing a pink mouth.

You recorded a thirty-second video of Vhagar on your bed, demonstrating that she was indeed alive and unharmed and being gently scratched behind the ears by someone who was not a cat thief. You sent it to the number. Thirty seconds later, your phone buzzed.

That’s her. Where can we meet?

You looked up the name attached to the number, of course. You weren’t stupid. You were about to meet a stranger from the internet to return a cat worth seven thousand dollars, and you wanted to know what you were walking into.

His name was Aemond Targaryen. The social media profile that came up was locked down tight: private, no profile picture, just the name and a cover photo of what looked like a dragon from some fantasy series. You scrolled anyway, finding nothing, until you thought to try LinkedIn.

His LinkedIn profile was not private.

The photo hit you first: a man in his twenties, maybe, with sharp cheekbones and jawlines like cut glass and hair so pale it was almost silver, pulled back from his face. He was wearing a dark suit and looking slightly to the left of the camera with an expression of controlled impatience, like he’d been forced to sit for the photograph and was counting the seconds until he could leave.

Below the photo was a wall of text. Degrees. Certifications. Projects. Internships at companies you’d seen on the news. A master’s degree. A bachelor’s from some private university in Oldtown. Fluent in four languages. Currently serving as Vice President of Strategic Operations at Targaryen Industries, which a quick search revealed to be a multinational conglomerate dealing in everything from real estate to renewable energy to defense contracting.

Old money. Very, very old money. The kind of money that had its own Wikipedia page and several unflattering investigative journalism pieces.

“You belong to him?” you asked Vhagar, who had climbed onto your laptop keyboard and was slowly erasing several paragraphs of an email you’d been drafting. “You belong to a billionaire’s son with a dragon fixation and cheekbones that could cut glass?”

Vhagar purred smugly and stepped on the delete key.

The meeting place was outside a high-rise in city center that looked like it had been designed by someone who hated poor people. All black glass and angular steel, a lobby visible through the ground-floor windows that contained more marble than the average museum. A doorman in a uniform stood at attention by the revolving doors.

Aemond Targaryen was waiting on the sidewalk.

He looked exactly like his LinkedIn photo and nothing like it at all. The photo had captured his bone structure but missed everything else: the way he held himself like a blade, the way his one visible eye tracked movement with unsettling precision, the way the left side of his face bore a long, pale scar that cut through his eyebrow and disappeared into his hairline. He was wearing a long black coat that probably cost as much as the cat’s reward, and he was looking at the cat carrier in your hands with an expression you couldn’t quite read.

“Vhagar,” he said, and his voice was different now, still dry, still clipped, but with something underneath it that you recognized. You’d made that sound yourself, sometimes, when you came home to find Lady waiting for you on the pillow. Relief, maybe. Or something close to it.

“She’s fine,” you said, setting the carrier down. “She’s been eating well. Sleeping a lot. She’s very…opinionated.”

He crouched down, actually crouched, in his thousand-dollar coat on the sidewalk, and opened the carrier door. Vhagar emerged with the slow dignity of a dowager queen descending from her carriage, and when she saw him, she made a sound that was almost a chirp. She headbutted his hand. She allowed him to pick her up, tucking her massive gray body against his chest like she’d been doing it all her life. Which, you supposed, she had.

“Where did you find her?” he asked, not looking at you. His attention was entirely on the cat, his long fingers stroking through her fur with a gentleness that seemed at odds with everything else about him.

“Outside my building. She was sleeping on the concrete.”

His jaw tightened. “How long?”

“About three weeks ago.”

He didn’t say anything. His hand stilled on Vhagar’s back. Then he pulled out his phone, tapped the screen a few times, and your own phone buzzed in your pocket.

“The reward,” he said. “Thank you for returning her.”

You checked your banking app. Seven thousand dollars, transferred and pending.

“Right,” you said. “Well. Take care of her. And maybe…put a tag on her collar next time.”

He looked at you then. Actually looked at you, his single visible eye, the other was covered by a swoop of hair but seemed to be a glass prosthetic, you weren’t sure, fixing on your face with an intensity that made you want to step backward. His eye was violet. A pale, impossible shade of purple that you had assumed was contacts until you were standing three feet away from him and could see the way the light hit it.

“She has never run away before,” he said, and it sounded almost like an accusation. As if you had somehow lured his ancient cat away from her penthouse and convinced her to live on hot dogs and milk.

“Well,” you said again, because his stare was unnerving, “she’s home now.”

He didn’t thank you again. He turned and walked into the building, Vhagar draped over his shoulder like a fur stole, the doorman holding the door for him with a murmured “Mr. Targaryen” that you caught on the wind.

You stood on the sidewalk for a moment longer, the December cold seeping through your coat, and then you went home.

You assumed that was the end of it. You had your money, he had his cat, and your worlds had brushed against each other for exactly long enough to complete a transaction. You unfollowed the lost pet groups. You washed Vhagar’s fur off your pillowcases. You tried to ignore the way your apartment felt quieter now, emptier, the absence of her rumbling purr leaving a gap in the dark that you hadn’t expected to miss.

Four days later, your phone buzzed with a message from an unsaved number.

What did you do to my cat?

You stared at the screen. You had not saved his number but you had not deleted the chat.

Sorry?, you typed back.

The response came immediately. Vhagar. She won’t eat. She refuses her food. What were you feeding her?

You tried to remember. Milk? Boiled sausages? Some tuna. The vet said she was healthy.

The typing indicator appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. Then your phone started ringing.

“Milk,” Aemond Targaryen said when you answered, his voice flat with barely contained outrage. “You fed a fifteen-year-old purebred Persian cat milk and boiled sausages?”

“She liked them,” you said defensively. “She ate them right up. What’s the problem?”

“The problem,” he said, “is that Vhagar’s normal diet consists of sustainably sourced Beluga caviar, free-range quail eggs, and a fish broth reduction that my family’s private chef prepares fresh every three days. She has never eaten processed meat in her life. She has certainly never consumed grocery store milk. And now she is sitting in front of her bowl looking at me as if I have personally betrayed her by serving her the same food she has happily eaten for fifteen years.”

You sat down on your bed. “She ate Beluga caviar? Like, the stuff that costs hundreds of dollars an ounce?”

“That’s not the point.”

“It kind of feels like the point.”

He made a sound of pure frustration, not quite a growl, not quite a sigh. “The point is that she’s refusing to eat. She’s refusing to eat and she’s refusing to come when I call her and she spent the entire morning glaring at me from the top of her custom-built cat tower, which, I might add, has three separate levels and a water feature.”

You tried to picture Vhagar, your Lady, who had slept on a spare pillow and eaten crusts off your plate, in a climate-controlled cat tower with a water feature. The image wouldn’t resolve.

“Have you tried…playing with her?” you asked.

“She doesn’t play,” Aemond said, as if you’d suggested she do her own taxes. “I throw her the toy mouse from Hermès and she demolishes it. That’s not playing. That’s destruction.”

“What about cardboard boxes?”

Silence. Long, profound silence, broken only by the faint sound of Vhagar yowling in the background.

“Cardboard boxes,” he repeated, his voice dangerously quiet.

“Yeah. You know. The things stuff gets shipped in? Cats love them. She went absolutely feral for the box my Amazon order came in. I put an old towel in it and she slept there for three days.”

“You want me,” Aemond Targaryen said, each word precise and clipped, “to give a member of my family, a cat who has been passed down through three generations, who has her own room in our estate, who has been photographed for Architectural Digest, a cardboard box?”

“I mean, it can’t hurt?”

Another long pause. The background yowling grew louder.

“This is absurd,” he said, and hung up.

The cardboard box apparently worked, because two days later he messaged you again. Not a call this time, a text, long and oddly formal, like a business proposal that had been written through gritted teeth.

Vhagar has been eating again. The box was…effective. However, she seems to have developed an attachment to your presence during her time away. She has been restless. The veterinarian suggested she may benefit from continued exposure to you as a source of environmental enrichment, which is a phrase I cannot believe I am typing. I am prepared to offer you a weekly retainer to visit and spend time with her. The compensation would be commensurate with your trouble.

Attached was a number that made your eyes water.

You read the message three times. You thought about the seven thousand dollars already sitting in your savings account. You thought about the way Vhagar had looked at you when you handed her over, that yellow-green stare that had seemed to say this isn’t over. You thought about Aemond Targaryen’s voice on the phone, dry and furious and somehow, despite everything, deeply concerned about a fifteen-year-old cat who missed you.

“This is insane,” you said to your empty apartment.

But you typed back: When do I start?

The first visit was awkward. Aemond’s apartment, if you could call a space that occupied nearly an entire floor of a high-rise an apartment, was a cathedral of minimalist wealth, all pale wood and pale stone and pale furniture that looked like it had never been sat on. Vhagar greeted you at the door with a yowl that seemed to say finally, you’ve arrived, and immediately led you to her custom cat tower, which was indeed three stories tall and featured a tiny chandelier.

“She’s been waiting by the door since this morning,” Aemond said. He was standing in the doorway of what appeared to be a library, dressed in a dark sweater that did nothing to soften the angles of his face. “I don’t understand why.”

“She’s a cat,” you said, sitting cross-legged on the heated marble floor while Vhagar climbed into your lap. “They’re mysterious.”

“She’s never sat in anyone’s lap but mine. And my mother’s. And occasionally my sister’s, though that ended badly.”

“What happened?”

“My sister is allergic. She found out when Vhagar sat on her face.”

You laughed. You couldn’t help it. Aemond was watching you with an expression that wasn’t quite a smile but wasn’t not one either, a slight softening around his mouth, a tilt to his head that made him look more like a person.

“Tea?” he asked, and it sounded almost reluctant, like the offer had escaped without his permission.

“Sure,” you said. “Tea would be great.”

Every Saturday, you took the train and spent the afternoon in Aemond Targaryen’s penthouse, ostensibly to entertain a cat who spent most of her time ignoring you in favor of her cardboard box. But Aemond was always there, hovering, appearing with cups of tea that grew progressively more elaborate, then plates of food that started as simple snacks and evolved into full meals.

“You said you’ve been eating bread and cheese for dinner,” he said one evening, setting a plate of something that looked like it belonged in a Michelin-starred restaurant on the coffee table in front of you. “That’s not nutritious.”

“I’m aware,” you said, but you ate it anyway, and it was the best thing you’d ever tasted.

He started finding reasons to extend your visits. A new toy for Vhagar to try. A documentary about Chartreux cats he thought you should watch. An outing to a cat café that he claimed was for research purposes but that mostly involved him standing in the corner looking deeply uncomfortable while cats climbed all over you.

“You’re not a cat person,” you observed, as a calico tried to scale his leg.

“I’m a Vhagar person,” he corrected, gently removing the calico and placing it on the floor. “There’s a difference.”

“Is there?”

“I’m beginning to think there might be,” he said, and then he turned away before you could ask what he meant.

Winter turned into spring. Your Saturday visits turned into Saturday visits plus occasional Wednesday dinners plus a standing invitation to a Sunday morning walk in a park, which Aemond claimed was for Vhagar’s benefit even though Vhagar never actually walked. He texted you articles about cat behavior and screenshots of Vhagar doing mundane things with captions like She sat in the box again. I don’t understand and The chef wants to know if she can have the sausage recipe.

“There’s no recipe,” you told him. “You boil them.”

“I told him that. He didn’t believe me.”

He started asking about your life. Your job. Your family. The things you cared about and the things you were afraid of and the things you wanted but had never let yourself reach for. He listened carefully, his pale eye fixed on your face, his sharp features softening in increments so small you almost didn’t notice them until one day you looked at him and realized you couldn’t remember why you’d ever found him cold.

Vhagar, for her part, seemed entirely unimpressed with the whole arrangement. She spent most of your visits asleep in her cardboard box, a new one now, because Aemond had his assistant procure them weekly, and only occasionally deigned to acknowledge your presence with a slow blink or a rumbling purr.

“She likes you,” Aemond said one evening, watching the cat knead her claws into an old towel.

“She tolerates me.”

“No.” He shook his head, his gaze still fixed on Vhagar. “She likes you. She’s particular. She doesn’t tolerate anyone she doesn’t like. She bit my brother once. Drew blood.”

“What did your brother do?”

“Breathed too loudly, I think.”

You laughed, Aemond glanced at you, and the expression on his face was something you’d never seen before, open, almost unguarded, his mouth curved into the ghost of a smile that transformed his severe features into startlingly beautiful.

“I’m glad you found her,” he said quietly. “The cat. I’m glad you found her.”

“Me too,” you said, and you weren’t entirely sure you were talking about the cat anymore.

Vhagar yawned, stretched, and went back to sleep, indifferent to everything but the warmth of the room and the comfort of her box.

You learned the layout of his penthouse the way you'd once learned the streets of your neighborhood, by heart, by instinct, by the slow accretion of familiarity that turns the unfamiliar into home.

You learned other things, too. That Aemond took his coffee black but would drink tea if you made it. That he read three books a month and annotated them in a spidery, elegant script. That he had a brother he never mentioned and a sister he mentioned only in passing and a mother who called him every Sunday at precisely eleven in the morning, which he answered without fail even if he was in the middle of a sentence. That his left eye, the one always covered, the one the scar bisected, was a wound he carried with him everywhere, a quiet grief he never spoke about directly but that shaped the way he moved through rooms, always keeping his right side to the door.

You learned about Alys by accident.

It was a Saturday in late March, the kind of day that pretends to be spring but still bites with winter's teeth, and you had arrived at the penthouse to find Aemond already pulling on his coat.

"Something's come up," he said, and his voice had that clipped quality it got when he was trying not to show frustration. "I have to go out of town. I'll be back Monday."

"Okay," you said, hanging your own coat on the hook he'd cleared for you weeks ago. "Do you want me to come back then, or..."

"No." He paused, his hands stilling on his scarf. "I was hoping you could stay with Vhagar. She gets…unsettled when I'm gone too long."

The last time he'd gone out of town, a business trip to Westerlands, three days, he'd called you twice a day with updates on Vhagar's mood and appetite. You hadn't minded. The money was good, and honestly, you'd grown fond of the old cat's cranky companionship.

"Sure," you said. "Where are you going?"

"Riverlands."

You waited for elaboration. None came.

"That's…specific."

He didn't meet your eyes. "Alys lives there. She doesn't like the city."

The name landed in your chest like a stone hurled. Alys. A woman's name, spoken with a familiarity that suggested it had been in his mouth many times before. You realized, with a strange hollow feeling, that he'd never mentioned her. Not once. In all those afternoons and evenings and Sunday walks, he'd never said a word about a girlfriend waiting for him in some small town hours away.

"I didn't know you were seeing someone," you said, and you were proud of how neutral your voice came out.

"It's complicated." He adjusted his scarf, still not looking at you. "We've been together for a while. She prefers her independence. I prefer…" He trailed off, a muscle jumping in his jaw. "It works."

"Right," you said. "Well. Go. Vhagar and I will be fine."

He finally looked at you then, something unreadable flickering across his features. "Thank you," he said, and left.

The penthouse felt different without him. Larger, certainly, all those minimalist rooms spreading out around you like a museum after hours. But also quieter in a way that felt less peaceful and more hollow. Vhagar seemed to sense it too; she followed you from room to room with more persistence than usual, her ragged meow punctuating the silence.

You did what you always did when you were catsitting: you sat on the heated floor with Vhagar in your lap, you watched your shows that Aemond pretended to disdain but always ended up commenting on, you ate from the refrigerator that his private chef kept stocked with things you couldn't pronounce. But your mind kept circling back to the name. Alys. The way he'd said it: flat, contained, like a fact he'd long since stopped examining.

On Sunday morning, the house phone rang at half past eleven. You let it ring. The answering machine beeped. A woman's voice which you assumed belonged to his mother, given the time, came through:

Aemond, I've spoken with the surgeon. He has an opening in April. Answer your phone.

Surgeon. April. Cold settled in your stomach.

When Aemond returned on Monday evening, he looked tired in a way that went beyond travel fatigue. His coat was rumpled, his hair escaping its usual careful restraint, his mouth set in a thin line that softened only slightly when Vhagar waddled over to greet him.

"Good trip?" you asked, gathering your things.

"Fine."

"How's Alys?"

The pause was a beat too long. "Fine."

"She must be something," you said carefully, "to keep you driving hours every time you have a free weekend."

He didn't take the bait. He just bent down to scratch Vhagar's chin, his expression shuttered. "She's very busy. Her practice takes up most of her time."

"Practice?"

"Traditional medicine. Herbalism. Holistic healing." He said it without irony, without skepticism, as if a woman who made her living selling tinctures and salves was the most natural thing in the world for a man with multiple advanced degrees and a vice presidency at a multinational corporation. "She's very skilled."

"I'm sure she is," you said, and left before you could say something you'd regret.

After that, you started noticing things.

The way Aemond's phone would buzz and he'd check it immediately, his expression flickering. The way he'd disappear into his study for hours, his voice a low murmur behind the closed door, emerging with that same tired look he'd worn coming back from Riverlands. The way he never texted Alys, or if he did, she never texted back, because every communication seemed to require a phone call, a ritual, a set-aside block of time he guarded fiercely.

"She doesn't like texting," he explained once, when you'd commented on the absurdity of him scheduling a two-hour call in the middle of a Wednesday afternoon. "She finds it impersonal."

You thought about the string of unanswered texts on your own phone: friends from college, coworkers, the guy you'd gone on two dates with last month before he'd ghosted you, and wondered what it would be like to have someone so devoted to you that they'd carve out hours of their day just to hear your voice, while you couldn't be bothered to send a single line of text back.

"She must be very special," you said.

"She is." But he said it the way someone might recite a fact they'd memorized rather than a truth they felt in their bones.

The pieces assembled themselves slowly over weeks. Alys was older than him. Alys had a practice in a small town hours from the city. Alys refused to move, refused to visit, refused to integrate herself into his life in any way that required effort on her part. Alys gave him just enough to keep him coming back: a phone call, a weekend, a jar of something homemade that he'd place on his kitchen counter and stare at with an expression that made your chest ache.

He was too smart for this. That was the thing that got you, the thing that lodged under your ribs like a splinter. Aemond Targaryen, with his degrees and his four languages and his portfolio of accomplishments that would have been impressive for a man twice his age, was being strung along by someone who couldn't even be bothered to answer a text message. And he accepted it. He accepted it like it was all he deserved, like affection was a currency that could only be earned through suffering, like love was something you had to bleed for. You suspected he was taught to fish out flirts and gold diggers easily, but he hadn't been taught to examine his emotinal needs.

You saw it in the way he was with Vhagar, too. The cat tolerated him at best: she allowed his attention, accepted his offerings of caviar and quail eggs, but rarely sought him out the way she sought you. And yet he adored her. He planned his schedule around her meals. He commissioned custom furniture for her comfort. He spoke about her like she was a revered ancestor, which, in his family, she practically was.

And you. You, who had been hired as a catsitter and somehow become something more: a fixture in his home, a recipient of his cooking, his concern and his increasingly frequent glances that lingered just a moment too long. You, who he'd started looking at like you were precious, unexpected, something he hadn't known he was allowed to want.

The pattern was right there, written in the architecture of his life: Aemond Targaryen attached himself to people who barely tolerated him, and he called it love because he didn't know what else to call it.

The call came on a Thursday in late April.

"I need you to take Vhagar," Aemond said, his voice strained in a way you'd never heard before. "For several days. A week, maybe. Can you do that?"

You were at work, hunched over your desk with a spreadsheet blurring in front of your eyes. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. I just...I have a procedure tomorrow, and I won't be able to care for her."

"Procedure?" Your stomach dropped. "What kind of procedure?"

A pause. You could hear him breathing, slow and controlled, the way he breathed when he was trying to keep himself together. "My eye. My mother found a surgeon. Another one. He thinks there's a chance."

The word another hit you like a punch. How many surgeries had there been? How many times had he gone under the knife, hoping for something that never came?

"I'll come to pick her up," you asnwered.

When you arrived at the penthouse, the doorman let you up without question, you were on the permanent access list now, a fact that still felt surreal every time you thought about it, and Aemond was waiting at the door.

He looked terrible.

His face was pale. His left eye, the one that was always covered, was visible now, hair finally brushed back. He was holding himself very still, very straight, the posture of someone who had learned long ago to carry pain without showing it.

"Before you say anything," he said, "I'm fine."

"You're having surgery."

"Another surgery. They're all the same." He stepped aside to let you in. "My mother is optimistic. She's always optimistic. The surgeon says there's a thirty percent chance of partial vision restoration, which means there's a seventy percent chance of nothing at all. I've made my peace with it. She hasn't."

You followed him into the living room, where Vhagar was sprawled in her cardboard box, a new one, large and rectangular, with a towel that had been arranged just so. She blinked at you slowly and didn't get up.

"When is it?" you asked.

"Tomorrow morning. Early. I have a car picking me up at five."

"You're going alone?"

The question seemed to confuse him. "Yes. Who else would go with me?"

You thought about Alys, somewhere in Riverlands, mixing her herbs and ignoring her phone. You thought about his mother, who had arranged the surgery but apparently not her schedule to be there for it. You thought about his siblings, who he never spoke about.

"I could go with you," you said, before you could stop yourself.

Surprise flickered across his face. "That's not necessary. You're here for Vhagar."

"Vhagar can come. She's a cat. She'll sleep through the whole thing."

"Vhagar in a hospital waiting room?"

"Fine, not in the waiting room. But I can still go. You shouldn't be alone."

He looked at you for a long moment, his good eye searching your face. "Why?" he asked finally. The question sounded genuine, as if he truly couldn't fathom why anyone would offer him comfort without being asked.

"Because that's what people do," you said. "They show up for each other."

"Ah." He turned away, busying himself with a stack of papers on the kitchen counter. "I appreciate the offer. Truly. But I've been doing this alone for a long time. I know how to handle my own treatment. Take Vhagar. I'll call you when I'm home."

You took Vhagar. You packed her into her carrier, which was, of course, custom-made leather with a monogrammed cushion, and you carried her down to the lobby and out to the street, and you stood there on the sidewalk for a full minute before you turned around and went back inside.

Aemond was still in the kitchen when you walked back in, Vhagar's carrier swinging from your hand. He looked up, his expression shifting from surprise to confusion to what that looked almost like relief before he shut it down.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm staying," you set the carrier down and opened it. Vhagar emerged with an indignant yowl and immediately headed for her cardboard box. "You shouldn't be alone, and I'm not letting you send me home just because you're too stubborn to admit you need help."

"The guest room is made up," he said, his voice was very quiet.

"Good. I'm ordering takeout. What do you want?"

"I have a list of approved restaurants in the drawer."

"Of course you do."

The surgery happened. You didn't go with him, he insisted, and you could tell it was important to him, this one last bastion of self-sufficiency, but you were there when he came back, pale and shaking and trying very hard to pretend he wasn't. The bandage was fresh, the swelling worse, and he walked through the door like a soldier returning from a battle he'd already known he would lose.

"Thirty percent," he said, lowering himself onto the couch carefully. "We'll know in a few weeks."

"The guest room is very nice," you said. "Also I made breakfast."

"You made breakfast?"

"Don't sound so surprised. I can cook some things. Eggs. Toast. Coffee. The basics."

He ate the eggs and the toast. He drank the coffee. Then he fell asleep on the couch, his head tilted back against the cushions, his bandaged eye turned toward the ceiling, and you covered him with a blanket and sat in the armchair across from him and watched the afternoon light move across his face.

Vhagar jumped onto his lap and settled there, a warm gray weight, he didn't wake up.

You stayed longer. Aemond was supposed to be resting, but resting turned out to mean pacing the penthouse at odd hours, staring out the windows, picking at the meals you ordered from his list of approved restaurants because apparently your culinary skills didn't extend past breakfast.

"I can make pasta," you offered on the third day, when he was eyeing a container of takeout Thai with the expression of someone who had eaten too much takeout Thai. "It won't be good pasta, but it'll be pasta."

"I don't trust your definition of pasta."

"It comes from a box. You boil it. You put sauce on it."

"Sauce from a jar?"

"Sauce from a jar," you confirmed.

He looked genuinely pained. "Order from the place on 57th. The one with the green awning. They know my order."

"Of course they do."

That evening, as you were eating pasta that had definitely never seen the inside of a jar, you decided to ask the question that had been sitting in your throat for days.

"Does Alys know you had surgery?"

Aemond's fork paused halfway to his mouth. "I mentioned it."

"You mentioned it."

"We talked last night. She's sending a jar of her salve. For the inflammation." He said it matter-of-factly, as if this were a perfectly normal response to your partner undergoing eye surgery. "She says it's very effective. Arnica, mostly, with some other herbs. She grows them herself."

"She's not coming to visit?"

He set his fork down. "She doesn't like the city. I told you."

"She doesn't like the city enough to visit her boyfriend after surgery?"

"It's not that simple."

"It seems pretty simple from where I'm sitting."

His jaw tightened, the familiar muscle jumping beneath his skin. "Alys is…she's not like other people. She has her own life, her own practice, her own way of doing things. I knew that when we started this. I accepted it."

"What does she accept about you?"

The question landed harder than you'd intended. His good eye fixed on your face, sharp and suddenly very violet, and for a moment you thought he was going to snap at you, tell you to leave, remind you that you were just the catsitter and this was none of your business.

Instead, he muttered, "I don't know."

You ate in silence after that. Vhagar, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, climbed onto the table and tried to stick her face in Aemond's pasta, and he let her.

At three in the morning, you found him in the living room, sitting in the dark with Vhagar in his lap and the lights of the city spread out below him like a carpet of stars. His bandage glowed white in the dimness, he didn't turn when you came in, just kept staring out the window with an expression that made something twist painfully in your chest.

"Can't sleep?" you asked, settling into the armchair beside him.

"The pain medication wears off around two. I'm used to it."

"That's not what I asked."

He was quiet for a moment. Then: "I keep thinking about what you said. At dinner."

"I said a lot of things at dinner."

"About what she accepts." He turned to look at you, even in the darkness, even with half his face covered in gauze, the intensity of his gaze made it hard to breathe. "I don't think she accepts anything about me. I think she tolerates me. And I've spent so long thinking that was the same thing."

"It's not," you said.

"No. It's not." He looked back out the window. "Vhagar tolerates me. But she chose you. When she ran away, she found you, and she stayed. She doesn't do that for anyone."

"She stayed for the hot dogs."

"She stayed for you." His voice was barely above a whisper. "I think I understand why now."

Vhagar purred in his lap. The distance between your chair and the couch felt impossibly vast and impossibly small all at once, a gap that could be crossed in two steps or two years depending on whether either of you had the courage to move.

"She's not coming," Aemond said. "Alys. She's not coming, and I don't think I mind as much as I should."

"How do you feel about it?"

He was silent for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough, scraped raw, the voice of someone admitting the truth against his will.

"Relieved," he said. "I feel relieved."

You sat in silence, keeping him company in the small hours of the morning until the sky began to pale and Vhagar yawned and stretched and demanded her breakfast.

Part 2: coming soon...

a/n: Comment if you'd like to be added to this series' taglist.

MINI SERIES

Ch. 1- Something to believe (release date: TBA)

“In those circumstances, we have to assume your betrothal to her daughter is broken,” Otto continued, and while he knew the man to be right, he loathed to face this truth. “And as such, you are now free to make another alliance.”

Aemond’s chest tightened at the prospect—he had been betrothed to you in childhood, no long after the birth of little Joffrey, as a gesture of goodwill and reconciliation, and despite what had occurred later on, he had always been satisfied with such a match. 

The two of you shared interests and had an understanding of duty and your place in the world. Over the years, temperaments settling and characters growing, he had found a kindred spirit in you and had come to privately cherish you, as any man should his betrothed. 

In many ways, you completed him, and by your side, he felt a sense of freedom and belonging he had never experienced anywhere, and in anyone's presence. 

Ignoring his grandson’s inner torment, Otto stood and paced the room as he talked. “House Baratheon does not want for girls to marry, and still has not declared,” he said, and Aemond understood now he had not been summoned for a discussion, but to be given his marching orders like a soldier. “You are to fly out to Storm’s End and choose a bride.”

“I do not wish for a Baratheon bride,” he protested. He loathed how quickly you were set aside, and how he was expected to turn his back on you without a second thought.

The Hand sighed, looking at him sternly. “I understand, but in matters of war, our wishes must take second place now to what is necessary to preserve your brother’s reign.”

Aemond stood in turn, knowing that all protest was futile. His fate had been sealed before he had even stepped into the room. “I understand,” he said as though the words burned the roof of his mouth.

“Lord Borros has four girls, you may have your pick of them,” Otto said as though it was a favor he was bestowing, handing Aemond a roll of parchment no doubt containing the terms of the alliance. “Wed the prettiest, or the most cunning, it matters not. What matters is an alliance sealed in flesh.”

The image disgusted him, but he nodded—in his hand, the parchment weighed more than paper.

Never had you thought that you would live to see a war, and now that it was your reality, you were finding out that it was quite unlike what you had learned in books. It was slow and agonizing, days spent bent over maps and drafting letters, waiting for banners to declare themselves and men to march into place.

This slowness did little to ease your anguish, and even after months, the devastation of Luke’s death still weighed heavily on your mind, grief as fresh and sharp as the first day. It seemed the cruelest fate that he had met his death at the jaws of Vhagar, under the command of the man you had once been promised to, and you could not reconcile it. Even though you knew of the hatred Aemond harbored for your younger brother, you could not bring yourself to believe it had been done out of cruelty. 

In the first days following the death of the king, you had flown to the Eyrie on your mother’s orders, to negotiate with her cousin, only to return to tragedies—the death of a brother, by the dragon of a man who you loved, who had in turn wed another.

Secretly, almost ashamed, you mourned Aemond as well as Lucerys—despite the hatred that now lived in your heart, the love you once felt for him was festering, like neglected flowers rotting in a vase that you could not bring yourself to throw away. Even though you had never spoken those words to him, and he had never spoken of love either, you had found respite and ease in your courtship, admiring his mind and his calm demeanor, and you knew you would have been proud to call him your husband.

It seemed to you as though your future had now been stolen from you, your whole life in ruins around you, and you standing among the rubble. In the deepest corner of your heart, you loathed how quickly he had wed another, and the permanence of it was near unbearable—a simple betrothal would have been easy to break, to buy off in gold, but a marriage was permanent.

Such thoughts plagued your evenings until sleep claimed you, exhausting forcing you into rest, which you spent in the library, searching for escape in books. One such evening as you were pouring over a tome on the Reach, footsteps interrupted you.

It was Jacaerys, dressed in his riding clothes, hooded cloak draped over his arm. “Why aren’t you abed?” you inquired.

“I can sit still no longer. I must act,” he replied, to which you discarded your book to the side and rose, suddenly worried as he was prone to rash actions. “The Freys control the crossing at the Twins, and Cregan Stark’s men are marching south.”

“Are you flying out?” you asked, coming to face him. He took your elbows into his palms, your hands curling at his forearms, and nodded decidedly.

“If his men had a direct route into the Riverlands, we would not have to wait for Daemon to act,” he explained with conviction. “I will treat with The Freys to secure it.”

“And leave me here, being forced to play the coddled princess,” you retorted.

“You may find an expedition of your own,” he encouraged. “Hide my absence from mother, and I shall hide yours when I return.”

With a sigh, you brought up what had been your preoccupation these days. “The Tyrells still haven’t declared for either side. I may fly there, persuade them,” you mused, and Jacaerys nodded along. “Perhaps a dragon in their courtyard will convince them to call their banners in mother’s name, and they might unite the Reach.” 

With that, your decision was made.

Highgarden sat alone upon a hill, nestled in a small patch of woods, and Aemond thought it was truly unremarkable from the skies, but then he had hardly expected otherwise from a house who had refused to pledge itself to either side of this war. Lord Lyonel was still a child, but his mother, a severe woman with a practical approach, had refused to call her banners and risk lives for a conflict she believed the House of the Dragon should resolve on their own—at least, that had been her words.

Aemond thought that with a dragon at the bottom of her hill, she could be persuaded. He circled the castle slowly, evening falling over its eastern side, and it was only when Vhagar had landed on the slope that a chirping sound came, a call he knew only too well—that of another dragon.

There were only so many riders it could have been. Aemond’s heart lurched in his chest and he found himself praying as he made his way past the first gate, the guards letting him in without issues after a glance at Vhagar. Overhead, gray clouds were gathering and a thin, cold rain was pattering on the ramparts.

Crossing into the first courtyard, he released the breath he had been holding when he saw that it was indeed your dragon waiting near a fountain, the beast making another one of its chirping sounds as Aemond walked past. 

Entering the hall, his heart was thundering under his breastbone and his stomach coiling in on itself, and he could not prepare himself for the sight of you—there you were, the object of his regrets, of his laments, standing in front of the lady of Highgarden, wearing riding clothes and a cloak bearing your mother’s colors. 

However, he quickly had to set his torment aside, as Lady Margot, unimpressed by his arrival, had risen from her seat. “If you have come to wage war, you will not be well-received,” she called, and the rows of guards on either side of her hall suddenly stood straighter, their hands twitching towards their belts.

Breath catching in his throat as he came to stand in front of her—and thus, closer to you than he had been in months—it took him a second longer to find his voice. “I have not come with threat of violence, my lady, but to negotiate,” Aemond replied, clipped, and handed her a roll of parchment.

To his utter disappointment, your eyes remained firmly ahead of you, refusing to even glance at him. In that moment, he bitterly regretted his loss of control, faced with the living, breathing evidence of what Vhagar’s attack had truly cost him. 

Lady Margot glanced down at the seal, but did not open it. “An offer has already been made to me, and I reserve my judgment for later,” she declared, but his eye was still on you, fearing that the moment he would look aside, he would miss a glance, a sigh, any sign that your cold indifference was only a mask. 

Ears ringing with your silence, he thought that he would rather face your fury and your grief. 

It was then that you spoke, and hearing your voice was almost enough to quench his thirst. “I shall leave you with my mother’s proposal, to discuss it with your council,” you offered in a perfectly controlled tone before turning on your heels and making your way towards the door.

In a split-second, Aemond’s heart made the decision to follow, as though pulled by an invisible thread weaved around his breastbone.

“Leave her be. Do not bring bloodshed to my hall,” Lady Margot shouted, a sense of alarm in her voice. “Prince or not, I will not tolerate it.”

Ignoring her call, he rushed after you. “Do not let him leave the courtyard!” she ordered her guards, but his longing was so, it would take dozens of them to keep him from you.

Uncaring that his negotiation would likely fall through, he knew that if he let you go now, you would be lost to him forever, and it mattered to him more than any army. 

Rushing outside under the arches, Aemond called your name, but you barely heard him over the thundering of your heart—it had nearly frozen in your chest when you had heard a guard announce him, breaking anew at the sight of him crossing the doors. It had taken all your strength not to shatter here and then, and now you needed to escape his presence, else you feared what would occur.

“Would you at least look at me?” he shouted, urgency bleeding through his tone. 

Rain had started to fall, chilling you to the bone and running down your temples as you checked the buckle of your dragon’s saddle. “Look at me!” he repeated, catching up to you and looming over your shoulder.

He almost regretted his request when finally you turned, showing not only fright but contempt. “Or what, will you fly after me as you did my brother, subject me to Vhagar’s jaws?” you accused, your voice strangled. 

“Never. I would never cause you any harm,” he replied, nearly shaking with the prospect. The cold rain and the curve of Vhagar’s spine over the rampart brought back that fateful night, and he cursed his grandsire then, who had ordered him to wed another, as well as he cursed himself for not having refused. 

“And yet you have,” you cried, four devastating words that undid him as your unshed tears did.

“I did not mean for it to happen! I did not intend to kill him. Vhagar flew out of my control,” he confessed, and for a moment you stared, searching his eye. There was a frightening glint in his eye, one you had never seen before, but you knew enough of him to know he was telling the truth. 

“Even if I were to believe you, we have nothing else to say to one another,” you replied, taking a step back towards your dragon, reaching back to grab its rein, but Aemond stopped you, curling a hand around your arm firmly—it was the tightest he had ever held you. “Unhand me! Do not make this torment even more so—”

“So you admit it is torment, as it has been for me,” he said then, his face contorted in anguish, and never before had you seen him so undone, untethered. “You have plagued my every waking hour.”

The words escaped your mouth before you could reign them in. “And yet you wed another.”

It seemed to shatter him, a flinch crossing his graceful face, and to see a man usually so composed tearing at the seams from your words soothed your anguish and filled you with arrogant pride. “I loved you,” you said, as much an accusation than a confession. “My heart was yours until you—” 

“Tell me it still is!” he cut you off, crowding you against your dragon’s flank, his breath hot on your face.

“It isn’t,” you lied, and you could swear a sob tore out from his throat before he pressed his mouth to yours, his lips carrying words he could not say. 

Never before had he kissed you so fiercely, so desperately, and you closed your eyes as more tears flooded your cheeks. You sobbed as you mourned what could have been, loathing him as much as you longed for him, and you hated yourself for the way you responded to him. 

Aemond felt the moment you surrendered, and while he had thought it would soothe the ache inside of him, instead it tore a new wound across his chest. He pulled away slightly, enough to force you to look at him, and you held his gaze through your tears. 

There was no disgust on your face, no horror, only the worst heartbreak he could have ever imagined. “Let me go,” you whispered, and as though your words carried a spell, he complied, stepping away, his chest suddenly hollow.

A/N: Dividers by @/saradika. Based on an anonymous request.

Comments are always deeply appreciated ♡

Aemond taglist: @chattylurker @multyfangirl @thenameswinter99 @darylandbethfanforever9 @still-jon-snow

@jasminecosmic99 @merovingianprincess @bunbunbl0gs @dixie-elocin @xxxkat3xxx

@fluorescentadolescent1 @milostkag @alexxavicry @zaldritzosrose @sapphirehearteyes

@aemondsbabe @targaryen-dynasty @snowtargaryen @lilithgreenbean @persephonerinyes

“Summon each Strong in this castle,” He roared to one of his men, their soot-stained faces hardened by the past yet lasting image of traitors burning and melting in dragon fire. How foolish they were to think that he would stand idly by as they desecrated his family’s name and claim. Now, they shall see the wrath of a trueborn Targaryen King. 

King Aemond scanned his eye against the smoke and stones, the keep proving to be a pathetic shell of what it was before. Of course, he had never seen Harrenhal at its summit, yet he was often reminded of the fire that had consumed it time and time again. 

Harrenhall was haunting, yet it gave him an odd sense of calm; it made him recall the late nights in his chambers, when his thoughts would consume his mind, and his eye would be intently fixed upon the tapestry that hung over his bed, depicting Harrenhall burning.

Screams of the Strong sounded out. His men dragged lords, ladies, and servants to the courtyard. Kicking, screaming, and pleading for their lives. Prince Aemond reined in the smirk that itched on his lips. His hand burned to swing his sword and see blood stain the dirt. It was only moments before the entire world was rid of the Strongs. It was only moments before King Aemond would finally claim the justice he was bereft of. 

They kneeled before him in an orderly line, trembling, bowing, and begging for their lives. Their cries only furthered when the crisp sound of a blade being unsheathed echoed in the barren castle. 

“Best say your prayers now. Pray that the seven are kind to traitors in the afterlife.” Prince Aemond steadily said, his voice strong and seething as he could no longer physically wait for justice and death. However, as he raised his sword, he paused and relished their cries. 

“I shall be kind.” He suddenly said, “Pledge your fealty to me, and I shall spare you.” 

There was a moment of silence among his prisoners, their teary eyes darting around in hesitation, but an old, stubby man with white hair was far too soft-looking to speak. “We would rather die in honour than live in–” 

Prince Aemond sighed as a deafening cry left the other’s lips, witnesses to how the prince effortlessly wielded his sword and cut the aged man’s head. He flicked away the speck of blood that landed on his chin, his eye hungry for more, but the sound of approaching footsteps caught his attention. 

Another prisoner was being brought to him. However, she did not tremble like the others, nor did she resist as she neared her death. Prince Aemond was distracted for a moment. His hand hesitated as he moved to strike the other Strongs.

With each fallen body he left, the prince’s eye would glance towards you. He was rather curious why you made no plea for your life, nor did you flinch as flesh tore open and spilled crimson blood. 

It was a grotesque scene, even some of the prince’s men recoiled at his cruelty… but not you. The prince was growing impatient to face you– he could no longer relish in the lives he took as he drove his sword carelessly and hastily. 

You breathed in a deep breath. The smell of smoke and blood was revolting, yet you held composure as the King stood before you. A menacing look on his face, but you could clearly see curiosity in his lone eye and hatred in the blue sapphire that rested in his skull. 

“Who are you?” He questioned, the cool blade of his sword resting under your chin. “The witch of Harrenhall, my prince.” A guard answered in your stead, but that was not appreciated by the prince as he threw a scathing look toward the guard who stood behind. 

“I’ve heard of you– I hear you’ve kept my uncle company during his stay.” The prince remarked, gliding the tip of his sword against your skin, wanting to earn a reaction of fear in your mysterious eyes, yet you held onto your composure. 

Prince Aemond eyed the bleak dress you wore; the dark colors blended well with the smoke. He glided his sword against your cheek, wanting to claim any reaction from you, yet you only kept your eyes steady at his. 

“Any last words?” The prince asked as his patience wore thin. As intriguing as you were, there was a castle to be claimed and a war to be won. 

“You have left Kingslanding defenseless– Daemon has taken hold.” You announced, certain it would be the last words you uttered, but the Prince Regent froze, a wave of shock overcoming his face before shielding it away. “Hold your tongue. I will not hear your lies.”

You scoffed, a teasing smile on your lips that unsettled the prince. “I tell no lies, my prince. I’ve seen it. As you marched here, Prince Daemon marched to Kingslanding– his gold cloaks opened the gates for him while you rained fire here. Your mother had even opened the gates for them.” 

“She’s a witch, my prince.” You hear one of the soldiers claim, and the clamor of his comrades that agreed soon followed. 

“You saw me march here?” The prince lowly asked. You nodded. “How? Where?” 

“The winds whispered it to me. The fire flashed it before mine eyes. The Dowager Queen had beseeched you to come, has she not?” 

Prince Aemond pursed his lips as he studied your gaze. Another flint of anger sparked within as he recalled his last moments with his mother. Her brown, pleading eyes were imploring him to fly to his death.  

Your unwavering eyes compel him to believe it true. “Stand.” You did so without fear, even if the guard who stood behind pulled at your hair. The prince made you follow his steps as he retreated inside the castle– leaving the bodies of your kin lifless on the dirt ground as an offering for his dragon that loomed over the land. 

He led you to the great hall. An undying fire roaring greatly in the hearth. The guard made you kneel once more, forcefully pushing you to the ground before the prince dismissed his company. “Tell me what you see.” 

You returned your gaze to the prince’s eye, a sense of anticipation behind the lilac orb. He looked almost pleading as he stared you down. “Will you spare my life if I do?” You asked with a tilt of your head. 

Aemond gritted his jaw as he saw a teasing smirk on your lips. Your mysterious eyes aglow with mischief and the light of the fire. If it were anyone else, he would have already struck them down. If it were anyone else, he would not have hesitated to take their lives. Yet, here he was. Already bewitched by the sorceress of Harrenhall. “Tell me what you see, and your life would be spared, but it would be mine.” 

You breathed in deep and sighed. Perhaps his proposition was enough. At least enough for the moment. 

“I see… I see your uncle underestimates you.” You spoke. Your eyes steady on the bright fire. “He thinks you shall return to Kingslanding… their dragons and men await yours.” You said, voice afar as you saw a vision of the older prince, whom you tormented in the past moons, sleeping soundly in his bed. What a shame he had left. You were insistent on knowing how mad you could have driven him. 

“Not to mention the three men your half-sister had sent days before.” 

“They are fools.” Aemond gritted. 

“No more than the one who left the Capitol defenseless.” You could not help but utter.

The king froze at your remark. His steely eye stared blankly upon your face. He had the inkling to raise his sword and take your life, but to do so meant he was to lose your gifts and your company in the dreary and recently vacated castle. 

“Hold your tongue, witch. Just because I spared your life does not mean you shall show impertinence to your king.” Aemond gritted out as he took hold of your face. His calloused hands harsh against your skin.

“But you are not king.” You stayed still as the prince raised his hand. “At least not truly.” You added, and his hand froze mid-air. “I see your brother wandering about the woods… with… with the clubfooted lord.” Your eyes returned to the fire– the same fire that made the eldest son of the deceased king deformed. 

You returned your gaze to the prince. His lips parted as he slowly sank down on the dusted floor, his mesmerized eye shifting between you and the hearth. You could smell the scent of smoke, wood, and steel emitting from him as he lingered by your side. 

“I will be king?” You almost laughed at how soft the prince’s voice was– how deep he yearned and hoped for the conqueror’s crown to rest on his brow. “Only if you play the game right, your highness.” Your eyes met the prince’s again. The harshness and cruelty in his orbs, for the moment, gave way to mischief and want. 

The king was being haunted. Each night spent in the castle had turned into a haunting hunt as even his dreams were filled with mysterious eyes, pale sun-bereft skin, raven hair, and prophecies uttered through heavy breaths and moans. 

In the mornings, when his duties and men demanded his attention, he caught himself growing distracted by the image of an enchantress that walked the halls of the castle he had claimed. He watched as your presence lingered and loomed over each and every room, his feet mindlessly carrying him to wherever you were or even summoning you to important matters as an adviser who could see things that his men could not. 

You sat silently by the king’s side, his war council awry as they sought what was to be done next. A fortnight had barely passed, but you could already feel the trust the prince had bestowed upon you. You were meant to be his prisoner, yet he gave you much freedom under his reign. He did not care what hall you walked or room you occupied– if anything, you find him joining you.

You were of great use to him. Not only did you provide him with your visions, but you as well provided your assistance in healing his men with your concoctions and potions. However, as useful as you were to the war, you often found the prince wondering how much more use you could be. 

Aemond had spared your life for a purpose, and even as you fulfilled the purpose he intended, it felt lacking, as there was much more the prince wished to know besides the visions you saw in the fire. 

He wished to know the mysteries you hid behind your eyes. He wished to know the extent of the visions you saw and if all of them were true. He wished to know so much more than what you presented behind the enigma you cloaked yourself with. But most of all, he wished to know if you were haunted by the same dreams. 

Prince Aemond tossed and turned in his bed. Lightning and thunder wreaked havoc outside, water seeping through the ceiling, but it was not enough for the prince to wake from his dream filled with mysterious eyes, milky skin, and long locks of hair that tangled with his.

The feel of your lips against his skin was burning. Your touch against his scar was soothing. The pain in his cock was tormenting. Through the haze of his dream, he watched as your lips moved as you spoke; your words were whispers that he tried hard to focus on. “Son… prince… king…” 

Aemond was awoken, startled. His body was covered with a cold sweat, his ears rang with thunder, and his mind fought against the daze of his dreams. His hand mindlessly traveled south, grasping his hardened length. It was the fifth night that he had to sedate his bodily urges himself, and each night he was left spurned as the fire of lust within him refused to be extinguished. 

He stroked his length with his teeth between his lips. His eye closed, and his mind stuck on the image of you kneeling before the fire and him. The prince breathed out a shaky breath as he felt himself tense as he recalled how he saw you earlier that morning. 

The sun had barely risen, the grass was kissed with dew, and the castle was still sound asleep. Aemond found himself being led to the riverbanks without a purpose, only a persistent voice in his head that insisted. For a moment, he was clueless about what he was doing, but as he reached the river, he saw you clad in nothing but your soaked shift that clung tightly to your body. 

He knew it was unbecoming of a king to watch as a maiden bathed, but he was bewitched; he could not tear his eye away from you. He could not forget the way the fabric clung to each mound and curve of your body. He wondered if you were as soft as you were in his dreams. He wondered if your lips tasted as sweet as they did in his sleep. 

The prince let out a stifled groan as he felt that he was nearing his peak, but the sudden rattling of his door made his heart skip a beat. He paused, his hand still around his length as his eye caught a shadow hovering behind his bolted doors. “Who goes there?” he called, but no voice came. 

He groaned in frustration, tugging harshly at his hardened length for one last time before covering himself with his trousers and nothing more. He took his sword in his hand, stance guarded as he entered the empty halls. The smell of rain was prominent, but not as prominent as the scent of herbs that pulled him to the East wing. 

Aemond’s mind was still in a daze as the blood from his head had rushed down to his cock. He breathed heavily as he heard hums swirling along the halls, as well as the light of a hearth seeping through a door on his left. 

He breathed in a deep breath before entering, expecting an intruder, but was faced with an enchantress. 

“Trouble sleeping?” You asked mindlessly as you tended to your herbs, a pestle in your hand as you ground down the fragrant buds of lavender. You glanced at the prince, dressed only in his trousers, a prominent outline upon them, and you bit back your smirk. His eye was frantic, and his hair had grown rather unruly. The once pin-straight silver locks were now tousled, resembling his mother’s. 

Aemond stayed silent. His eye studied his surroundings before being momentarily distracted by the open collar of your dress, which exposed your chest, glistening with a light sheen of sweat that glowed against the firelight. His eye stayed entranced upon the pendant that trembled with each of your movements. 

“You haunt my dreams.” You hear the prince breathe out. His voice was strained and struggling. You hummed and poured hot water into a tankard that had various herbs that you had given to the king’s uncle during his stay. “Your mind is troubled. Here, drink.” You say as you handed him the cup. 

You met his eye once more. The lilac gaze guarded and skeptical, but his hand still reached for yours and took the warm cup. “An elixir?” Aemond questioned as he took a whiff of the steaming liquid, unable to relent that the smell was tempting enough for him. “Tea.” You clarified. 

Aemond hummed as he took a sip, his eye still steadily on each action you took. He rested his sword on your table, which overflowed with bundles of herbs and other tools. 

“What is it you do in this castle?” King Aemond questioned. “I do what needs to be done.” You answered plainly, but one glance at the prince told you that your answer did not suffice. 

“Who is your father?” He asked next. “A man.” You answered in turn. 

“A witch, a Strong, and a bastard. I should have driven my sword to you first.” The king gritted out, but his breath caught in his throat as a smile overcame your lips. “Yet you say I haunt your dreams.” You said softly, a teasing tone on your tongue as your eyes glanced down to see the prominent outline protruding between the prince’s legs. 

Aemond’s vision doubled and spun, yet he still finished every drop of the tea you gave. You sighed as you heard the clatter of your bowls and cup through the stormy night when the king began to lose his balance. “The castle drives men mad, my dear king… best keep your wits about you.” 

You were no fool. A woman of your station had long known that power was not so easily given to one who could not even claim a name. Being born a bastard was your burden, but bewitching a blueblooded dragon king could be your salvation. 

The visions that came from fire were clear. You may have been born as Rivers, but the currents shall change soon enough, just as soon as the king would be driven mad into your arms. 

You had a clear plan. Slip a simple elixir into his wine, but the moment you had finished concocting your potion, the prince stumbled frantically into your workshop with a crazed look behind his tired eye. I dream of you. He had confessed. And that simple confession made you stagger. 

It would seem your plans were of no need now. You had barely begun your game yet here he was, already at a loss. You were no fool. You knew fully well that he had watched you bathe. That his eyes lingered each time you passed the halls. That your name would leave his lips each night as he sought pleasure by himself. 

He might think himself king, but you saw the truth in him. He was a mere boy who craved a warm, tender touch. A pretend king who craved reassurance that he had lacked since he was a babe. You smiled fondly to yourself at the thought. How easy it would be to have him in your palm. It was only a matter of days now.

Fan favourites: 🌟 My favourites: 💓

Enchanted (series) (12/12 parts uploaded)

The daughter of Prince Qoren Martell and the second son of King Viserys—a union forged from political ambition to bind two great houses. Fierce and unyielding, she despises him and everything his bloodline represents. Yet he is utterly captivated, enchanted by her fiery spirit that defies his every expectation—the one force he cannot control.

The Art of Persuasion 🌟

• Sexual content (smut!)

A determined woman uses her strategic charm to win the favour of the powerful Prince Regent. She navigates a delicate dance of influence and intimacy, aiming to transform their fraught relationship into a potent alliance while exploring the limits of their mutual desire.

Desperation and Yearning

• Violence (Aegon gets slapped but that's it)

Confronted by the harsh truth of her loveless marriage to Aegon, she wrestles with deep isolation. A flicker of hope arises through Aemond, who offers understanding and protection. Will she muster the courage to pursue her wants, or remain a prisoner of duty?

Hot Summer Nights 🌟

• Sexual content (smut!), strong language

The relentless summer heat in King's Landing becomes almost unbearable for Aemond's wife, yet her flushed demeanour only seems to arouse him. Seeking relief she turns to a cold bath, which then becomes the setting for a different kind of heat.

Shadow 🌟💓

• None

In the bustling streets of King's Landing, a day of market escapades and a sweet surprise reveal the depth of Aemond's devotion to his wife. Their story defies the whispers and gossip of the realm, proving that true affection flourishes even in the heart of the coldest dragon.

Made for Him 🌟

• Sexual content (smut!!), getting caught in the act (very brief)

She was made for him, a truth never far from her thoughts. Unable to restrain himself any longer and knowing their union was inevitable he simply could not hold back anymore. His need for her was overpowering, compelling him to possess her completely.

Embracing the Unexpected 🌟💓

• Childbirth (brief)

Aemond and his wife navigate the fear, love, and uncertainty of new parenthood, discovering that the joy of new life is irresistible, even when it arrives as an unexpected set of multiple babies.

Hidden Affairs 🌟

• Sexual content (hickeys)

Raised as the sheltered daughter, she yearns for freedom from her family's protective embrace. Evading her guards becomes a thrilling escape until a chance encounter with her uncle Aemond sparks illicit desires amidst the secluded alleys of King's Landing.

Hidden Heat 🌟

• Sexual content (smut!)

In the gardens, tension and desire collide as Aemond fiercely claims what's his, pushing boundaries with his wife in a dangerously public setting, all while others linger nearby, oblivious, or are they?

The Forgotten Princess 🌟💓

• Strong language

Abandoned and exploited by those who promised her safety, she finds herself thrust into a brothel where her lineage becomes a lucrative spectacle. The prince offers her a way out but his intentions blur the lines between salvation and manipulation.

Stockholm Syndrome

• Sexual content (smut!), stockholm syndrome, violence (brief), strong language

She was a spoil of war, a prize taken in a ruthless game. Yet, despite the twisted nature of their circumstances, she found herself unable to resist him. She didn't just want him, she ached for him, a deep longing that left her questioning why she was so drawn to him.

Consequences 💓

• Injury (brief), mild language

After a market scuffle, she's in trouble with her father, all thanks to Aemond. Despite the scolding, she can't resist teasing him for causing the mess. Frustrated, Aemond still enjoys the tension between them, even as she pushes him to the edge with every teasing remark.

Let the World Burn

• Violence (threat?)

In a gripping tale of love and desperation, Aemond's beloved wife is abducted, driving him to unleash his dragon's fury in a relentless search. Fueled by an unwavering resolve, he knew he would let the world burn if it meant finding her and he did just that.

Broken Promises

• Sexual content (smut!), violence

One passionate night together shatters when she must confront her impending betrothal, leading to a tragic betrayal that alters their fates forever. Left with only the haunting memory of their love, Aemond grapples with the consequences of their brief connection.

The Red Wedding

• Violence, injury

They attend a wedding where past promises and deep resentments threaten to unravel their fragile peace—a red wedding soaked in blood and betrayal.

Storms Meet Sunlight

• Sexual content (smut!)

A grumpy Aemond reluctantly follows his sunshine wife on a whimsical adventure with butterflies. Love blossoms between their contrasting personalities. Through teasing and affection, they rediscover how perfectly they fit together—grumpy meets sunshine.

Take All My Inhibitions

• None

Wine awakens a bold, sensually unrestrained side of her, and the evening unfolds into a game of playful seduction, where inhibitions melt and desire takes control. But with the wine's intoxicating effect comes the question—how far will they go when nothing is held back?

Stay With Me

• None

Aemond Targaryen meets a woman who challenges his emotional detachment. As their unexpected connection deepens, they must navigate love's risks amidst the ruthless games of court, discovering that vulnerability may be their greatest strength.

A Dance of Ambition

• None

A fierce young woman meets a brooding Targaryen prince who defies expectations. As tension crackles between them—both verbal and unspoken—she discovers they may be more alike than she thought.

A Tapestry of Us

• Sexual content (smut!)

After four years of parenthood, they steal a quiet moment of intimacy, only to be interrupted by their triplets. Between sword fights and bedtime stories, love, laughter, and exhaustion fill their lives. Though even in the chaos, they are exactly where they belong.

Atlantis

• Injury (mentioned briefly), mild language

A fierce love crumbles under the weight of ambition, pride, and betrayal. As he falls, the scars of their passionate, destructive relationship linger, unravelling the fragile ties that once bound them. In the end, only regret and the haunting silence of lost love remain.

Good to You

• None

Torn between duty and desire, she finds herself trapped. Aemond's dark, desperate longing pushes her to the edge, forcing a choice between loyalty and an intoxicating, dangerous love. In a world of power and betrayal, what will she sacrifice for freedom?

Fire and Ice

• None

Fire and ice may sound poetic, but in reality, they cannot coexist—or can they? Aemond and Lady Stark navigate the clashes of duty and personality. Their bond deepens through honest conversation and secret escapes, challenging the foundations of their destinies.

In Your Arms

• Nightmares?

Haunted by relentless nightmares, the only peace she finds is in her husband's arms. As darkness consumes her dreams, his love becomes her sanctuary—a shield against the terror.

Sins of the Crown

• None

She discovers that her husband, once her trusted partner, has betrayed her in a ruthless bid for power, shattering their marriage and revealing that their love was nothing more than a political strategy.

“Return to rest, wife.” You hear your husband mutter, voice different and deeper, and you could not help but smile. After years of hoping and praying to each god, they finally answered your prayers and wishes– they finally gave you Aemond. 

You hummed as you nestled yourself closer to him, your soft cheek resting against his toned chest, and you could not help but place a small, chaste kiss upon his skin. You hear your husband hum as he tangles his fingers in your dark brown locks. 

For a moment, there was silence. A deep, serene silence that you had sought for your entire life. You could never explain why or how, but even as a child, you felt this sense of unrest and emptiness that always seemed to loom over your happiness. 

For years, it frustrated you as you could not express why you felt such ugly emotions. It was not until the fateful and dreadful night in Driftmark that you realized why. Your family was being torn apart, and you and your brothers were the reason why. It was not until that night that you realized how truly different you and your brothers were from the rest of your family. In the dim light of your supposed grandsire’s keep, the difference between silver and bronze gleamed brightly. 

It was the night that solidified your family’s animosity against one another. It was the night when you swore to yourself that you would lay your life to find the anecdote for your family’s hate. Now, here you were, lying beside the person you thought would be the cure. 

When your husband’s eye was taken, it sealed your family’s fate. You spent restless nights in Dragonstone, wrapped in guilt and fear, even if your hands did not carve his scar. You spent your days writing to him. Sending scroll after scroll of apologies that meant nothing when it came from the wrong lips. You did not know why you did such things; all you knew was that you did not wish to leave things as they were.

And over time, your efforts bore fruit. When you and your kin returned to Kingslanding for the purpose of a trial over Driftmark, you met Aemond again. You were reunited with the boy who lost his eye at your brother’s hands. You were reunited with the prince who had left your apologies unanswered. You were reunited with the man you were to marry. 

Your fears dissipated when a connection formed between you, from stolen glances across the halls to lingering touches under the table, and even secret kisses underneath the scarlet leaves. When your husband announced his intent to court you, the royal house was in an uproar. Neither side was thrilled about the match– if anything, they had done much to ensure that a marriage between you did not commence. 

They tried to pawn both of you off on other houses. With Aemond being presented a Baratheon bride, and you were given a Northern Warden as your groom. Obviously, neither match worked out; however, it came from great personal expense. You exposed yourself to scandal and laid down your virtue just in hopes that you could be with Aemond. 

“Are you certain?” Aemond murmured against your skin, his head resting against the crook of your neck, and you could feel each breath he took and each movement his lips made. You swallowed thickly, looking down on the earth below. The two of you high in the clouds and mounted on his dragon– his strong arms around your waist, and his hands itching to inch downwards to your heated core. 

He sat behind you, your back resting against his solid chest, and you could feel his wanting and needing length. You nodded through fear and apprehension. You were not thinking clearly; all you wanted was him. “Make me yours.” 

You hear him make a sound that was close to a growl, but was soft like a whine when you said the words. His thin, punishing lips latched quickly to the side of your neck, sucking and soothing the sensitive spot. A wanton moan escaped your lips as his fingers found your womanhood and his hand reached for your neck. 

“You’ve been mine for a long time.” You tightly shut your eyes as your stomach fluttered the moment his dragon dipped past a cloud, and as his finger found your dripping core. Your hand instinctively gripped Aemond’s thigh, your heart beating erratically in your chest as Vhagar flew closer to the sun and flew you closer to your peak. 

He claimed your maidenhead in the heavens, and when you returned on land, Aemond proudly announced that you were to be his wife, leaving your kin mortified as they saw your blood-stained gown. It was only fortunate that they no longer plotted to separate the two of you. 

You stared at your husband as you two lay in bed. His eye peacefully closed while the other stared back at you with a sapphire gleam. You sighed, unable to help yourself as you cupped his cheek and traced the raised bump of his scar, your delicate touch making him hum. 

“Do you love me?” You could not help but whisper. It was a question meant to stay in the confines of your mind, yet it hung in the early morning air. You watched as Aemond slowly peeled his eye open. A soft, adoring look in his unique lilac eye that could have been an answer enough. “I married you, had I not? I went against all their orders and my duties… of course I do.” 

You gave a small smile as he placed a gentle kiss upon the tip of your nose. His lips trailing down to your lips, and you let out a delighted moan as he rested his weight atop you. He was warm and solid, his skin rough yet tender, and you wrapped your bare legs around his frame in hopes that you could feel more of him. 

You bit your lip as you felt the head of his length brushing against your sensitive heat. Aemond smirked and placed an open-mouthed kiss against your neck as you gasped when he burrowed himself deep inside your cunt. “Does this prove my love, little wife?” He hummed, and you arched your back as he brushed against the spot that had you a whimpering mess that almost fell atop a dragon before. 

You felt the inclination to nod– to moan out a yes, but a wicked, loathesome thought crossed your mind. The pleasure your husband, your Aemond, presented you with was borne out of practice. You tensed in his arms at the thought of him bedding whores, you felt your throat tighten, and tears threatened to spill as you tallied up the others he had lain with. He was your first, yet you could not claim the same. 

Aemond had his eye closed in pleasure, and you took that opportunity to flip yourself on your stomach, his thrust abruptly ceasing as he opened his eye and searched for your gaze. You burrowed your face on the plush mattress, hiding your tears as you raised your behind for his hips to meet. 

“My perfect wife.” You hear him groan against your ear, his fingers brushing away your brown locks so he could place chaste kisses upon your back. You battled with your tears and pleasure as you loathed yourself for letting melancholy find you even when tucked in your marital bed. 

You wished that it was the last instance; however, your head was filled with poison, and your heart was filled with doubt. No matter what you did, sadness crept its way into our being, and it only worsened with each day after you sealed your marriage. 

You breathed in a deep breath as you sat with your husband in your solarium. The afterglow of the sun bathed the room in an amber glow, and your eyes stared off into the rising moon. Aemond’s fingers mindlessly drew circles upon your thigh, where his appendage found its rightful place. 

Aemond relaxed in his chair, but he was quick to tense as he heard you hiss and he vividly saw blood dripping from your fingers. The embroidery hoop you held fell onto the ground the moment your blood landed against your light pink dress, the silk quickly soaking up the stain. 

Before you could even move, you watched through sudden tears as your husband took hold of your hand and raised your pricked finger to his lips, sucking away your lifeblood and momentarily masking the pain you felt as his tongue soothed your wound. 

“Ought to be careful, wife. You know how I do not like seeing you hurt.” Aemond hummed as he brushed away your tears with his thumb. You gave him a small smile as you nestled your cheek into his palm. His cold, calloused touch is more than welcome against your heated cheeks. 

You took a deep breath and watched as your husband dipped down and picked up the embroidery hoop by your feet, his hand never leaving yours as he did so. You heard him hum as he raised it closer to his eye, a small smile on his lips. Your gaze traveled to the figures you embroidered, a smaller version of the two of you that you wished to place on one of the pillows in your bedchambers. 

“My, the gods were kind as they bestowed me with such a gifted wife.” He said softly and placed a kiss on your once-wounded finger before returning his hand to rest on your thigh once more. 

A deep breath left your lips as you stared at the small image you stitched, wondering hard why you could not simply stitch shut the constant sadness and fear that seeped through your bloodstream. 

Some days, your sadness was far too much for you to contain, and even your husband took notice. He tried his best to learn the cause of your sadness, but how could he know when you yourself did not know why? 

“Have any of the courtiers upset you?” He asked softly, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back. You buried your face into your pillow and endured the twisting you felt in your stomach that never disappeared. You felt entirely retched to subject Aemond to your sudden fits of sadness.

“Was it my mother? Had she said something out of turn?” Your husband asked further, and you harshly bit your lip to prevent a sob. You wanted to push him away. To shut yourself in your chambers and let the inevitable sadness that plagues you pass. 

When you gave no answer, you hear Aemond sigh. You thought he’d leave, that he’d leave you alone, but he only settled himself by your side and lay with you until the tears ceased and night came. You hear his light snores and move to observe him peacefully resting after enduring your wretchedness. You nestled yourself into his chest again, letting him wrap his arms around your frame and letting the even beat of his heart lull you to sleep. Silently praying that the constant anguish you felt would fade. 

The gods ignored your prayers. If anything, it only worsened from that night on. The threat of impending war loomed over the land and your marriage. Tensions were running high. Sides that were formed long ago began to solidify the moment they announced your grandsire’s death. 

You saw it yourself how the seeds of hate had bloomed and flourished, and now both sides reaped the consequences. You felt foolish as you had thought that a marriage between your feuding families would at least beseech them to act rationally. You had foolishly thought that a marriage with Aemond– a Targaryen prince– a pawn for his grandsire’s ambition, would somehow heal the divide that carved through your family like a blade. Instead, it only deepened the wound.

“This is only momentary– their heads will cool, and we shall live in peace. Fret not, my wife.” You hear Aemond murmur against your skin as he holds you in his arms. How you wished for his words to be true, but the doubt that consumed you now manifested before your eyes. 

Tears spilled from your eyes. You knew Aemond loved you. He showed you that he loved you every day, even as war threatened your union. But you reeled in pain as you realized that even his love for you would never be enough. 

Your head kept spinning at the possibility that one day he’ll turn on you– that he’ll leave you because even if you were his wife, you're still a bastard. Even his devotion could not mend– could not stitch up the frayed truth of your birth. It no longer mattered how his love felt anymore. Your family’s hate and mistakes had festered so deeply that even your marriage– your love would never be the cure.

From the very day Aegon was crowned, you slept in separate chambers and could barely bring yourself to look at him. As weeks went by and it became apparent that the war would last, you became colder, but Aemond bore it with gritted teeth despite his bruised heart, for the sake of his children. 

Now months had gone by, and Aegon laid in bed, unable to make any sort of rulings, leaving his brother to step in and take his place on the throne. It was the right decision to name him as successor, however Aemond could hear the whispers in the hallways, behind the pillars, an undercurrent of resistance.

The people of the court struggled to accept him as regent, and he knew the one way to remedy it. He knew the one way to assert his power and finally gain the respect he was owed.

Were you, the pretender’s daughter, to bend the knee to him, they would get inspired to do the same in turn, and not simply for survival, but out of conviction. 

After all, how could they respect him if his own wife shunned him?

Aemond found you in the quiet of the afternoon, curtains drawn in the nursery, watching over your youngest son’s sleep. Maelor was near two years of age now, and you still preferred to nurse him and care for him on your own rather than leave him in the care of a nurse. 

If there was one quality all could see in you, it was your devotion to your children, complete and absolute—you gave them your time and attention, and thought there was no other duty you would rather perform than that of raising them.

He stepped into the nursery quietly, unwilling to wake his son, and under your watchful eye, approached the crib and bent over, pressing a kiss to his son’s hair. “There is a matter that we ought to discuss, that we have let quiet for too long,” Aemond said quietly, watching over the slow rise and fall of his child’s breath. 

“I have no wish to discuss any matter with you,” you replied curtly, voice as quiet as his. Piercing your canvas with your needle, you followed along the pattern you had drawn, hoping the conversation would not take place, but your husband was determined.

From the corner of your eye, you saw him lay a hand on your child’s back, the tender gesture reminding you of times long lost, making your heart clench painfully. How a man could be so tender with his own and so ruthless with others had once charmed you, but now you found it distasteful.

“I am regent while Aegon is incapacitated, and it reflects badly upon me that my wife is nowhere to be seen, when she should be at my side, supporting me,” Aemond said, his tone cold and punishing. 

“It is so because I do not support you, as you know. It is true, you are my husband and while there is still love in my heart for you—” you replied, a choked sob shattering your voice. 

Aemond looked at you then, and for a second you felt as though the chasm between the two of you had mended once more, but the feeling was as quick as a blink, and you could not dwell on it. “I will not show you support,” you said, decisive. 

“You will,” Aemond said, almost regretfully. 

“I recognize no monarch but my mother,” you replied. Setting your canvas aside, you rose, unwilling to hear the arguments you had already heard too many times. The chair rocked a few times under the absence of your weight, creaking quietly. 

“For this you might lose everything,” he replied, and his calm demeanor unnerved you more than any outburst of rage could have. “I will not give you a choice.”

“You cannot force me to my knees, and there are no threats you can make against me that will change my mind. You might threaten me with violence, and I shall not cave,” you whispered furiously, but still too loud, and your son stirred in his cot.

Aemond soothed him with hushed coos and a firm hand at his back, rocking him side to side until he calmed again, a deep sigh coming from his parted lips. Then, Aemond looked at you, almost sad. “I will never lay a hand on you. I do not need violence to make you obey.”

He took a few steps forward, towering over you, the smell of leather and ash overpowering. “Say farewell to your children, they depart for Oldtown on the morrow.”

Your breath froze in your chest, as well as your heart. “No,” you whispered.

“The capital is not safe for them, I am sending them with my own kin, my cousin Lord Ormund’s wife will look after them,” he said over his shoulder as he left the room, and you followed him running calling after him.

“I beseech you not to do this. Children need their mother!” you cried out, nausea rising in your chest until you could hardly breathe.

Aemond came to a stop in the middle of the hallway, turning to face you with the disinterested coldness he usually reserved for his courtiers. “I agree, and I wish it was safe for them to remain,” he said, and you wondered how he could pretend sending his own sons to the other side of the realm was not shattering him as well.

There was no arrogant smile upon his face, no cruel sneer, and you thought you could not give him the satisfaction of your sorrow. Taking a deep breath, you clung to reason, forcing your tears away.

“Perhaps you are right, and they will be safe from harm in your cousin’s home,” you choked.

Aemond tilted his head, giving you an unconvinced hum, but you carried on. “I will never betray my mother, even if you take my children from me,” you vowed.

At that, the corner of his mouth finally lifted. “We shall see.”

As he had threatened, the next morrow found you at dawn in the courtyard, watching your sons’ trunks being loaded into a carriage. Since the announcement had been made to your eldest the evening prior, that he would be sent to Oldtown with a distant cousin, he had clung to you more than he had done in recent months, and had refused to sleep unless you were watching over him.

Aerion watched as his dragon, locked in a cage like a hound, was hoisted upon the roof of the carriage and secured into place.

“Mother,” he pleaded, and you loathed to see such confusion in him, a boy who had since birth shown much sensitivity—in many ways, he reminded you of Aemond as a child, and you mourned the boy you had fallen in love with, before the throne had twisted him into this cruel stranger.

“It is for your own safety, my son,” Aemond assured him gently, pressing a kiss to his brow. “Now say your farewell to your mother.”

Swallowing your tears and forcing a smile on your face, you kissed Aerion’s cheeks, tucking his hair behind his ears. “It won’t be long until we are reunited,” you promised him. “Look after your brother, and speak of me often. Tell him the stories I used to tell you.”

“I don’t want to,” he protested, tucking his head into your chest when you embraced him tightly.

Powerless, you then allowed Aemond to take him by the shoulder and guide him to the carriage, holding onto the certainty that no matter the agony of it, it was the righteous path to follow. Honor would prevail and your mother would soon come to deliver you. 

With a sob upon your lips, you kissed Maelor, breathing in the scent of his hair before handing him to the nurse, who looked at you in utter sadness. No doubt sensing your distress, he fussed, and you tucked his blanket under his arm, against the nurse’s chest, upon which he would now rest his head.

“Please do not let them forget me,” you pleaded to her, to which she nodded before turning and making her way to the carriage. 

Maelor’s wails broke through the morning air, and Aerion looked over his shoulder, distraught. Still, you let them go, holding on your composure until the carriage had left the courtyard. Then and only then, hand clapped over your mouth, did you wail. Pressing your other palm to your belly where you had borne them, it was a miracle that you did not buckle to your knees. 

At your side, Aemond loomed over you, his mouth to your ear. “You know what to do,” he said before kissing your temple in cruel affection. “Bend the knee, and I shall bring them back.”

Never before had you wished violence upon anyone, but in that moment, your hand burned with the desire to slap him across the face and scratch his skin until he bled. “You are cruel, I was aware of that. Never had I expected you to extend this to your own sons,” you nearly spat in his face.

The grin that he gave you made you shiver. “You shall cave, I know of it.”

For days that turned into weeks, you held on with all your might, drawing strength from prayer and the knowledge that your sons would not be mistreated. Despite the loathing that had replaced your love for your husband in your heart, you knew the Hightowers would care for Aemond’s sons.

Haunting the castle like a wraith, you lingered in the gardens, breathing in the cold air from the sea, the first licks of winter, and prayed that this war would end quickly.

The aching throb inside of you was not easing, if anything it was growing with each day, desperate to hold the babies you had birthed. At first you had hoped you could find solace in their nursery, breathing in their smell on the pillows, but Aemond had the room emptied, and you were left with nothing but your memories.

Then the first letter came, written in the nurse’s careful handwriting but with Aerion’s words—it was a plea to come back to your side, telling you of the sleepless nights, the way little Maelor had retreated into himself.

For days and nights you prayed and pleaded with the Gods for strength, for resilience, but your dreams were plagued by your crying children, Maelor’s wails from the morning of their departure ringing in your ears even after you had woken.

As your husband had predicted, you caved. 

Your mother had birthed, nursed and loved six children—you hoped she would understand, one day, and forgive you for your betrayal. Now you understood what she had told you one day, that there was nothing a mother would not do for the sake of her children, even surrender her own dignity.

One cold morning you made your way to the throne room, waving through the crowd that parted to let you pass. Seated on the Iron Throne, his hand resting atop the pommel of Blackfyre, Aemond was holding court with the assurance of a man who knew he would soon be uncontested. 

The whole of the court was present, and people from the city, having come to make their petitions. All would now witness your downfall, at the hands of your own husband, the man who had loved you, held you so tenderly and given you two sons. How such an act of love could be used for such pain was beyond your understanding. 

Heart in your throat, you fell to your knees, trembling, as your husband looked upon you with severity.

“I—” you stammered through your name, knowing you were betraying it. “Hereby swear allegiance to Prince Aemond, and acknowledge him as regent of the Seven Kingdoms, and protector of the realm.”

Aemond leaned forward, looking at you pointedly, and you forced the words out of your mouth, closing your eyes against burning tears, conjuring the faces of your sons to your mind. “I do also declare my mother, Princess Rhaenyra, a pretender and usurper of the Iron Throne,” you sobbed.

A murmur of surprise rippled through the crowd, but you could hardly hear it over the thundering of your own heart. Shame spread like a poison through your veins and you were locked into place, your knees heavy into the ground, and you thought then that you would never be able to rise again.

“Rise, my lady wife,” Aemond called loud enough for all to hear, with a falsely reverent tone in his voice, but did not trust your legs to carry you. 

Slowly, Aemond made his way down the steps of the Iron Throne, and as though he was being galant, helped you to your feet with a firm hand at your arm. Holding you firmly, he lifted your face towards his with a finger hooked under your chin, and watched as you sobbed silently, trembling ever so slightly.

With a low hum, he kissed your mouth, bolder than he usually was in the public eye. “I shall write to my cousin tonight. Your children shall be back in your arms soon enough,” he promised, and to all it must have looked like a husband consoling his wife, an act of genuine affection. “In the meantime, you shall be back in mine. I expect you in my chambers tonight, and all the nights to come.”

A/N: Dividers by @/saradika. Based on an anonymous request.

Comments are always deeply appreciated ♡

Aemond taglist: @chattylurker @multyfangirl @thenameswinter99 @darylandbethfanforever9 @still-jon-snow

@jasminecosmic99 @merovingianprincess @bunbunbl0gs @dixie-elocin @xxxkat3xxx

@fluorescentadolescent1 @milostkag @alexxavicry @zaldritzosrose @sapphirehearteyes

@aemondsbabe @targaryen-dynasty @snowtargaryen @lilithgreenbean @persephonerinyes