#companion!reader

The school’s exchange program was still in a beta process, and you were one of the willing candidates right from the start. There was a small fee of $750 american dollars to gain access to the program, and while your parents thought it was a scam, it turned out to be blissfully true. You couldn’t quite remember the details - maybe the school wanting an easily accessible program while also gaining traction for previous structures? - though the price had always een clear to you. $750, and you had a dorm room the size of an apartment complex in a building you shared with other foreign teenagers your age.

Your parents had almost stopped you from attending. They first made the money excuse, as you were well aware that your family was a middle-class one. You quickly pointed out that after 5-6 months of saving the income you gained from your job at the small and local grocery store, to which they grew silent. Of course, that didn’t mean they consented, and you quickly realized this in the months to come.

By the time you had saved up enough money, you had lost track of how many fights you had gotten into with your parents. They made every excuse in the book, including your younger sibling and your future. You had given up on bartering in due time, but the fighting still ensued.

Ironically, the night you and your parents completely lost it was the night they agreed. It was an average night; your shift had finished and after the short walk home, you walked in to see your parents sitting in the living room. You made your way to the kitchen, because this wasn’t the first time they had left you no dinner, but a snide comment made about how many late hours you worked stopped you dead in your tracks.

You didn’t remember most of what was said, as all you could recall was the screaming. Things were said that no one meant, and at the same time, hidden things in both hearts and minds began to surface. Eventually, the three of you came to a compromise. It was surprisingly quiet, considering the circumstances. Still, with tear tracks on their faces and whispered words admitting emotional attachment weren’t enough to convince you to stay. While the program had driven a wedge between your relationship, you continued to be relentless as you fought for the chance to prove yourself. Perhaps that’s why you had yet to tell your parents that you hated life in England.

Back in America, you assumed every part of the way you lived would change. While the culture in England was incredible - almost too good for words - your personal (particularly, your social) life in the country had yet to grow desirable. You still spent every night in your room, wasting hours on the internet. On the good nights, you felt nothing. On the bad nights, you scrolled through your classmates’ social media accounts and felt a sharp pain in your heart and a shortness in your lungs. And, on the worst nights, you cried yourself to sleep, asking yourself and anyone who was listening why you couldn’t just be normal. It was easy to hide yourself in your studies, but it wasn’t enough to convince yourself you were okay.

That old coffee kiosk was still at the end of the road, like every other time you took this path back to the dorms. Mr. Jonathan, the owner, was decked out in his usual knitted red hat with a pattern of black on white stitched into the middle of the yarn made piece. His old grey coat reached the bottom of his heavy looking boots, and the familiar details brought some ease to your unsteady mind.

“It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it, sir?” You said once you reached the front of his mobile shop. You didn’t know much about Mr. Jonathan, besides his adult kids and him being a widower, but your heart no longer raced when you spoke to him. You always took that as a good sign.

“Beautiful?” he asked with a scoff. “Pretty, maybe, but colder than hell.”

You half smiled at his bitter reaction while digging in your pocket for stray change. You came back with three quid. “The only thing cold that needs changing is your attitude.”

“That’s a brave statement coming from someone ordering coffee,” he remarked, yet mirrored your amused smile.

You let out a laugh and dropped the coins onto the counter separating the two of you. He got right to work at filling a medium-sized disposable cup, which gave you a few spare seconds to look around and at your surroundings.

Kids zoomed past each other with cries of happiness, while others giggled and played on the structures. A curly-haired girl was on a set of swings, smiling widely at the boy who sat beside her. Parents filled the benches near the playground equipment, but on one stray seat near a tree that had shed its leaves sat a lonely looking man. His brown hair stood up in strands and rustled in the occasional wind in the same way his tan coat did, and he stared ahead blankly, like his eyes were fixed on something worthwhile. You tried to follow the trail of his gaze and found nothing.

“Your change, Miss,” Mr. Jonathan spoke up as he set a few coins on the counter beside your freshly poured coffee. You looked back at Mr. Jonathan, then to the stranger again. You then looked down at the coins and your drink, and after letting out a shaky breath, spoke.

“Can you make it a double?”

Mr. Jonathan raised his eyebrows, though he grabbed another cup from the piled stack. “A lot of studying tonight?” He asked, referring to your sudden additional order.

You shook your head. “No sir. It’s for someone who looks like they need it.”

“You mean it’s for that man who’s been sitting there for about-” he paused to check his watch, “-2 hours?”

“That long?” You asked as you pulled your arms closer to your body. He was right: the snow was pretty, but the wind was the monster it hid.

“I don’t think he’s moved a muscle,” Mr. Jonathan confirmed. “I have no idea when he got there, either. One second he wasn't there, and then… there he is. It’s like the man appeared out of thin air.” He picked up a disposable tray, and after setting the new drink in it, he placed yours in it as well. “Not sure he’ll want coffee, sweetheart.”

“I have a favorite teacher that I left behind in the US,” you explained, “and he told me that kindness travels greater distances than even the stars reach.”

“Is that all it takes to charm someone like you? A little poetry?” Mr. Jonathan teased, then grew more serious. “If he gives you any trouble, give me a shout, yeah?”

“Yes sir,” you nodded firmly, then smiled and picked up the tray. Your heart was thumping at the idea of offering a complete stranger - a weird stranger, at that - a coffee, so his words helped soothe you.

You walked through the open space of the gates around the park’s perimeter, and you hardly even noticed the people staring at you. You couldn't remember when you became the apple of the public eye, though over the years, it was something you had gotten used to. You stopped feeling the urge to question it, even to just yourself, a long time ago.

You were close to reaching the stranger, and now that you were closer, you could see red scrapes and a few cuts decorating the side of his face. This only increased the shaking in your already nervous hands, but you simply trudged forward through the snow.

He glanced up at you, just for a moment, and your feet stopped moving. You immediately froze, like a child being caught in the middle of disobeying. You felt a small breath brush over your parted lips, and couldn’t help but notice that the man’s expression had yet to change. His eyes, they softened quicker than snow stuck on clothing and skin melted, but his face still appeared colder than the flakes falling around both of you.

After a small burst of courage, you closed the small gap of space between you and the empty space on the bench. You pulled at your coat the moment you took a seat and let out a forced sigh that you hoped sounded content, or at least relaxed.

“I’m used to the snow,” you started and set the drink holder in the space between you and the stranger. “It’s the rain that was hard to get used to.” You picked up one of the two identical cups and offered it to him.

The man looked over to you, and then to the cup of coffee. Your extended hand was shaky and sweating, though not from the warm beverage you were holding. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of the stranger contemplating, he accepted the drink. His face split into a half smile, one corner pulling up more than the other. You felt yourself relax a little.

“Ahh, well, that’s England for you,” he took a sip of the coffee. “Makes the sunny days worth it, doesn’t it?”

“I haven’t seen too many of those,” you admitted. “I’ve only been here since September. But, to be fair, I don’t know much of anything about England. Besides the things everyone knows.”

“All it takes to know is the want to know,” he informed, and spoke with a ease that almost seemed impossible. “The city, the culture, the legends… they’re living and breathing, right around you.”

“I’m the only thing stopping me,” you said, and maybe you shouldn’t have said it like it was a fact. Funny thing was, you practically knew it as one. “That sounds about right.”

“Though I suppose that’s easy for me to say,” he began to counter his own statement, “I’m the one who’s always leaving. But I always come back, don’t I?”

“Sounds like you grew up here,” You replied, referring to his accent. “I’d find it hard to abandon my hometown, even though I’m not always there.”

“Many, many parts of me grew up here,” he agreed, and although you were confused, you somehow understood what he meant.

“You must be good at telling stories, then,” you smiled. Simply the way he spoke gave this off: that he’d always have something to say.

He smiled as well, in the same manner he did before, but something about the expression didn’t add up. Maybe it was the change in his eyes, or that it didn’t seem as genuine. Regardless, spotting the difference was easy. “It’s what I do for a living.”

“What is it that you do?” you asked, taking your first drink of coffee. The mix of cool air and time between made it the perfect temperature. “Novelist, historian, teacher..?”

“I guess you could say I’m all of the above.”

Normally, you would have dropped the conversation upon hearing this, or at the very least, frown. This time, however, you rather continued to stare at him, though you eyes did narrow slightly in confusion.

“Who are you?” You asked, then rephrased, “what’s your name?”

The stranger hesitated for a moment, then replied with, “The Doctor.”

“That’s a fairytale name, Doctor,” You remarked, though didn’t question his answer.

He grinned like he knew something no one else did. “I’m a fairytale man.”

You pondered for a moment, wondering exactly what he meant by ‘a fairytale man’. Were you right in guessing he was a writer? Or maybe he implied he lived in his head, building castles that could never exist. Regardless, you were certain of one thing: this Doctor man was only giving you enough to keep you curious.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket, which to your surprise, made both you and him jump in surprise. You fished the device from your pocket and read the preview of a text message from your roommate: Imani. Without opening the message, you knew what she was asking of you.

“That’s my queue,” you said as you stood up, “my roommate wants me back for dinner. Says I spend too much time out and about.”

“I need to pay you back,” The Doctor protested, and you weren’t surprised when he dug around in his pockets, only to come back with nothing.

“You can tell me one of your stories sometime.” You offered a method of payment without even thinking before speaking. What were the odds of you ever seeing him again? And before that, what were the odds of him even ending up in this park again?

Somehow, the answered satisfied The Doctor, because he looked satisfied as he nodded a single time. You offered him one last smile, this time a one with a closed mouth, and you walked back around the playground and out the gate.

You walked for a few more steady blocks, nothing but the wind and falling snowflakes to keep you company. You were more than okay with this; walking past strangers was far from something you enjoyed.

You turned the corner beside the unused and currently withering courthouse, and the second you did, something felt off. Of course, to you, something felt wrong. So, you quickened your pace and crossed by the front steps to the abandoned courthouse in half the time it would usually take you. This didn’t stop you from noticing the big blue box with glowing text at the top sitting in the alley.

After retracing your steps and getting a better look, your heart began to thump loudly in your ears. Your throat tightened with anxiety, and your chest jolted at your sudden gasp for air.

If there was one thing you didn’t like, it was change.

“Hello?” you asked reluctantly. You couldn’t tell if you were grateful or even more nervous when no one answered.

‘Police Public Call Box’. That was the illuminated font near the top of the box. You could remember reading about the sort of thing before, though your head began to ache trying to recall from where. Maybe the idea was vaguely mentioned in a textbook before, or you briefly read about it in a news article. Unlikely, sure, but not impossible. The only thing impossible in this situation was that was was here, right before your very eyes.

“This isn’t supposed to be here…” you said, more to yourself than to anyone potentially in the box. It was jammed between two uninhabited buildings, and of neither were a museum. So what was the beat up and ancient looking thing doing there?

One of the two doors creaked open, and you jumped backwards the second your heart leaped into your throat. You were breathing like you were coming down from one of your rare panic attacks, chest heaving and limbs shaking.

You don’t know what possessed you to lean forward, only for a split second, and push the door fully open.

You watched the door creak open the rest of the way with your back pressed to the brick wall farthest from it. You couldn’t see anything inside because of this, but you were at least thankful that no one came out.

Each step you took was hesitant and quieter than a mouse scurrying across a kitchen floor in the dead of night. Your eyes were fixed on the newly ajar door, ready to detect any change of movement. You reached the the door in less than five paces, and not even your overly analytic head could have prepared you for what was inside.

A metal ramp with matching railings lead up to a strange, somewhat circular device in the middle of what appeared to be a massive room. The walls met at the top to create an unsteady dome, and you could see that there was depth beneath the metal floor that held the texture of a fire escape.

You slammed the door shut and practically ran out of the alley, pulling at the edges of your coat as you trudged through the snow and into the school’s dorm complex.

“You expect me to believe you spoke to a stranger on your own free will?” Imani asked.

The two of you were sitting in a local diner, one that served breakfast until noon. The clock was drawing closer to 11:00 AM, and while you would normally be eating lunch around then, a finished platter sat in front of you, waiting to be taken back to the kitchen. Imani was digging into her third plate of pancakes.

“He was just… sitting there,” you said, tapping at your mug of coffee in thought. “He looked so alone.”

“What’s his name?” Imani asked through a mouthful of her brunch, “you never told me.”

“He called himself The Doctor,” you replied, “Whatever that means.”

“Sounds creepy,” Imani thought aloud. “What kind of man has a title and no name?”

“What kind of exchange student goes out for lunch rather than finishing her homework?” You countered with a false grin. You were desperate the change the conversation.

“You stood me up at dinner. Again,” Imani pointed out, “this is the only way you talk to me. So, I do it.”

“If I get a free meal out of it, it’s a win,” you smirked, and raised your coffee cup to your lips. You took in the grounding scent and felt the warm steam tickle your nose. Finally, you took a sip, and felt the hot liquid rush down your throat and into your stomach. After setting down the mug, you did something you did every time you were in public: you scanned your surroundings.

In the left corner seat sat a student typing away at a laptop. Books were sprawled on the table before them, along with a large mug and a clean plate that sat close the edge. In the seat next to the student sat a charming elderly couple. The woman was making pleasant conversation to the listening man across from her, who seemed to be multitasking by also eating a meal.The table beside the couple seated a young mother and her baby that occupied the stroller she was rocking back and forth. Satisfied, you shifted your focus to what was happening on the other side of the cafe’s massive front window.

Cars whizzed by quickly compared to the people that filled the sidewalks. Crown Street - the one you were currently on - was practically made up of shops, and thus made it one of the busiest streets in Kensington. You didn’t mind this, as you lived a considerable distance away from the crowded road.

Anyone walking was always in a particular rush. You’d lost count of how many people had shouted into their phones or shoved past people due to their quick pace. Life doesn’t bend to you either, you thought. Maybe that should have made you feel a sense of relief. It didn’t.

Your eyes followed a man dressed in a suit who had a girl in his arms and a boy by his side. The girl was reaching off of him so she could reach the boy, who was jumping up to play with her. The man, who you supposed to be their father, was speaking into his cellphone. Perhaps he was bargaining with his boss for his tardiness, or with a babysitter who failed to show. Obviously, you would never know, and your propositions ceased when they passed by the right side of the window. You had been caught up in theorizing that you almost didn’t notice that The Doctor was leaning against the side of a building from across the road.

He was staring at you, and it made you wonder for how long he had been standing there. Normally, you noticed the sort of thing, so to be completely oblivious concerned you. Him being so close to you without you realizing along with him having somehow tracked you down only made your worry increase.

“That philosophy paper’s due date was bumped to Friday, by the way,” you lied as you ran a finger along your mug’s rim. “Ms. Hayn wanted me to pass the message along.”

“Are you serious?” Imani almost choked on her pancakes. Your expression didn’t change, which made her jump out of her chair. “I’m heading back,” She declared while tossing £7 onto the table. That was more than enough money, but you weren’t about to get in her way.

“I’ll meet you back there,” Imani decided, and like a bolt of lightning, she was out the door and up the road.

You matched the amount of money she laid down to cover both your expenses as well as a tip. You picked up your backpack, the smaller one that you used as a traveling bag, and found your way to the door.

Just as you had expected, The Doctor hadn’t moved. You were outside, only aware of the winter month because of the winter wind, and he had yet to move a muscle. You were starting to wonder if this was a reoccurring theme of his.

There was a break in traffic, and against your better judgement, you crossed the street. A car coming closer laid on their horn when you passed the line and walked closer to The Doctor, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. They weren’t about to reach you in time, and you weren’t about to get hit by a car. There wasn’t much else to worry about.

“What are you doing here?” You asked the moment you stepped onto the sidewalk. “Have you been following me?” You continued, and couldn’t help but notice that the cuts and scrapes on his face had disappeared without a trace.

“You opened the door,” he said instead, which made you frown in confusion. The Doctor shimmied aside, and once again, you laid eyes on a mysterious blue box.

“Do you always park it in alleys?” You asked, looking over the box. Nothing about it had changed from the previous night. “How do you move it, anyways? I don’t see a tow truck.”

“I normally don’t have to,” he said. “Park it in alleys, I mean. Hardly anyone looks twice. Well, you being the exception. The only one, actually. I don’t think anyone’s done that before.”

“You mean no other passerby has opened it?” You raised your eyebrows. “It’s a blue box taller than a man in the middle of London! How can people not be prodding at it?”

“They aren’t curious enough,” The Doctor explained. He spoke in a tone that made everything sound obvious, yet he didn’t seem to be condescending. It was a conflicting combination. “But you are,” he continued as he stood up straight, “and i don’t even know your name.”

“Y/N,” you told him. “My name is Y/N.”

“Well, Y/N,” The Doctor started, and he was smiling like there was something to be satisfied about, “I still have to pay you back.”

“You can tell me a story,” you reminded. “You’re good at those, aren’t you?”

“Anyone can tell stories,” He shrugged off your remark. “It’d be more fun if I showed you one. Don’t you think?”

“My friend’s waiting for me,” you nodded your head to the side Imani ran off in, “back at our dorms.” You wondered how far he would push it.

“The one that ran off? I could get back sooner than she can. And we could have some fun doing it. Good ol’ fashion, running for the hills fun.”

“That’s a big promise, Doctor,” you said. You couldn’t believe you were even considering taking off with him god knows where.

“It’s a promise I can keep.” He was back to leaning against the wall. “That’s what’s important, don’t you think?”

“Maybe,” you replied, because maybe it was. Who were you to decide that? The Doctor didn’t reply, which made you glance down at your feet, and then back up to him. “Well, what are you waiting for? Show me a story.”

He grinned like a child in Christmas Day and practically jumped into the box. The door, however, stayed open from his actions, and you found yourself setting one hand on the closed one as you stepped into a place that made no sense.

If all else fails, you had a can of pepper spray in your backpack.

Even still, it doesn’t deter him –  always watching, with an intensity you’d never before been a witness to. Always watching, regardless of the horrors he’s lived, of what he’s been robbed off. One would think he’d lose all potency, but the lack of an eye didn’t meddle with Aemond being an observant man. 

Sometimes, you wonder if you’re dreaming it all. Wonder if your time spent inside Princess Helaena’s chambers have driven you to hallucinations where you’re desired by royalty. But it cannot be, as each time your own sight passes his, it is never unmatched.

It’s like a dance, performed at a distance. Two dancers, like magnets, drawn to one another from opposite sides of the ballroom. 

Surely there were some far more experienced in life than you, those that had seen miracles beyond your own little realm here, inside these walls of stone, always by the Princess’ side like the worthy help that you were made to be. But by Gods, you’re sure, that Aemond’s quiet yet fierce beauty should be deemed a wonder of the Seven Kingdoms. 

He’s even watching, as soon as his feet touch the ground after hopping from his mighty Vhagar, and lifting an eye towards the pillar that’s hiding your form, as you’d sneak away from Helaena’s attention the moment you’d heard the roar of his dragon approaching. How he’d been able to sense your presence is beyond you, though you reason he’s just that receptive of his surroundings, as a great assassin should be. 

Tonight, it goes a little differently. 

Tonight, change is in the air. 

You’re wandering the corridors, hiding within the shadows that stretch along the castle for sleep had never come, and like a phantom in the night, sleek and silent, he manifests before you – silver hair a beacon in the darkness, and one uncovered eye glistening like the sapphire that took the place of the other. 

“Evening, my lady.” His voice is grave, yet calm in its cadence. 

You timidly bow, gulping down with surprise, before whispering, “My Prince.” 

His lips twitch in a faint smirk, as they never really curved into a full smile, but you take it gladly. “What is a proper lady like yourself doing up and alone at this time of the night?” 

Emboldened by forces unknown to you, you reply, “I could ask the same thing” and nearly wince at the sudden spike of courage, hoping you hadn’t upset the Prince. 

Yet the effect is the opposite, to your relief and doom, because the way in which his eye darkens does nothing but empower the flames burning at the pit of your belly. 

“My lady, don’t you hold back. I think it’s time we take the next step in this dance we’ve got going between us. Don’t you think so?” 

He steps closer to you, until every intricate ridge of his scar is made visible to you, by the way in which he holds a candle to illuminate yourselves. 

“Your grace, I – I can’t. What you imply…I’m not worthy. It wouldn’t be right, I’m but a –” 

“ – Not worthy?” he cuts your diatribe with that reserved but deadly manner of his, “Have I given you such an impression? Haven’t you noticed the way I admire you, so? Shall I say it explicitly, my lady?”  

The sly man that he is, he mumbles something in High Valyrian that you cannot understand but it must be something truly sinful – must be a spell of some kind, working its magic– for you feel yourself dripping in between your legs, with every roll of his tongue. 

He reaches a callused hand to your cheek and your intake of breath betrays your hesitation. “Shall I…show you?” His nose is but a whisker away from touching yours, his lips are a breath away from kissing you. 

“My lord…” One more time, you meet his gaze, willing your eyes to project all that pent up desire, all that ardent want, all the feelings that you’re just not brave enough to articulate with spoken word for fear of exile, of beheading, of all the punishment that someone like you could be subjected to if an affair with a prince should unfold.

“Do as you wish,” You hoarsely plead. 

“As I wish?” he raises one eyebrow and his chuckle is but a mere puff of air against your mouth. “Careful, my sweet. I just might.” 

His eye scans your body from head to toe as he subtly licks his lips.  “Is the color of your gown a symbol of your virtue?” 

You swear you could combust at any moment, if one of Aemond’s hands hadn’t settled at your waist, if his grip weren’t tightening, bunching up your white nightgown and keeping you on your feet.