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fullfiresiren · 6 months

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unconquered // 10

[10; by exhale alone]

house of the dragon aemond targaryen x last valyrian!reader

[read on ao3]

Despite the early hours of the morning, the Keep, you find, is always busy.

You walk along the long corridors as the golden hour streams through the windows, passing maids and servants as you go, all immersed in their duties to the crown.

You wanted to visit Prince Aemond, but your sworn sword made it known that he had left on Vhagar last night and hasn’t returned since. You think of him fondly, a warm sensation blooming in your chest, and you cling to it. It feels like home.

You are on your way to the library, with Ser Erryk by your side. There’s no real rhyme or reason for your visit -- just something to pass the time and keep you occupied throughout your days. Perhaps you can find more of the novels that Helaena brought you -- grandeur tales of romance and love that have you thinking more and more about her brother. Perhaps you could research what little is known of your homeland? Search out any books that speak of Valyria? Reading knowledge of what you have forgotten may trigger other memories to resurface.

“I shall wait outside for you, my lady,” Ser Erryk interrupts your thoughts when you arrive, taking position next to the large wooden doors.

“Ah, thank you, Ser,” you say, passing him.

“If you need help carrying any books back to your apartments, please send for me.”

“Oh, I can take books out?” you stop, blinking curiously, as if the thought never once occurred to you.

He looks at you with soft confusement, before smiling. “Yes, my lady. If you wish to.”

You must seem pleasantly surprised, and Ser Erryk laughs to himself at your innocent expression, before reaching out, and holding the door open for you to step inside.

At once, you are greeted by a recognisable head of long, white hair.

“Helaena!” you exclaim happily. “What a wonderful surprise!”

“Y/n!” She shoots up from the table she was reading at to rush to you, grasping you in a welcoming hug. “Dear sister!”

Her endearing nickname makes you feel like finally finding refuge from a torrential downpour, outlasting the storm that you thought would sweep you away.

“Have you been well?” you ask.

“Yes, I have,” she says, all bright and shining. “I missed your company yesterday, but I heard you were out doing something far more interesting with my brother."

You smirk at her with mirth. “What did you hear?”

“Only that he had a wonderful time. My brother is very smitten with you.”

Your heart squeezes at the knowledge. Helaena clasps her hands in front of her chest, and then motions to the table behind her.

“Would you like to join me?”

“Very much,” you grin, “I will just find some books.”

“If you’d like to read ones like those I gave you before, I have a pile of similar novels over here?”

“Oh, wonderful!” You pause, thinking on whether you should voice your question or not. Helaena gives you an expectant look, and you bite the inside of your gum. “Do you happen to have any novels on Valyria?”

“I am sure we do,” she says, but then becomes a little shy. “However I am not the best person to ask. My brother has always adored Valyrian culture, and has read every book in this library that contains some knowledge about it. When you next see each other, you should ask him to show you. I’m sure he would be more than happy to speak with you about it.”

You mull over your thoughts with an open book, sitting beside your soon-to-be sister-in-law as the two of you indulge yourselves by reading at a long, mahogany table. You have long since lost interest, however, in the words written on the page. The library is quiet, in a soothing sort of way, and with Helaena by your side, you feel as if you could sit here for hours; content in watching the way the dust flits about lazily as it passes through narrow streams of light.

My brother has always adored Valyrian culture.

The phrase is like fire in your veins. Has Prince Aemond truly always loved your homeland? So much so, that he’s read every single book in the Red Keep’s library if it even so much as mentions the topic? Does he... hold you in the same regard? Is your joining fate, something unspoken carried through the ages, that transcends time -- or is it a carefully woven plot? Helaena coughs absentmindedly from beside you, and inadvertently interrupts your thoughts.

My brother is very smitten with you.

You are close enough with her now, that you feel you can voice them.

“Helaena,” you begin, and she turns her head towards you, eyes finishing the last sentence she was reading before she gives you her full attention. “I want to say to you that I am entirely enamoured with your brother.”

She grins, all the way to her eyes. “Are you truly?”

“Very deeply.”

She giggles, all happiness and excitement, and closes her book to face you, elbows on the table, chin in her palms. “Tell me everything!”

“You cannot utter any of this to another soul -- especially the prince!”

“Dear sister, I promise I will not!”

“It cannot leave this room!”

“On our bond, I swear it!”

You sigh, placing your own book on the table in front of you, and she grasp your hands, holding them tightly. Deeply invested in your courtship with her brother, Helaena is perhaps its most vigorous champion -- openly supporting and advocating your growing bond.

“He’s very reserved, and painfully shy,” you begin, and she nods mutely, agreeing, “as if the effort of conversation is almost too much for him. I feel it is also something that does not come easily to him. How elated I am, then, when I watch him make every endeavour to speak with me, about anything -- about everything. With each day that passes, I grow to know him better, and with every minute spent in his presence, I understand him deeper. Now, he commands my attention. I search for him everywhere, and I long for him. For his company, for his words, for his smile. I ache for it.”

The confession leaves you red, brilliantly so, and Helaena is positively joyous.

“You love him?” she asks softly, tentatively.

You cannot utter it yet. Not until you feel it in your soul.

“I believe my heart is waiting for only him.”

She squeezes your hands, and cries, “I am sure he loves you, dear sister, do not give up!”

You burst into laughter together; both kicking your feet under the table and bouncing with delight at loves true profession. Helaena gushes about the upcoming wedding, practically designing the entire affair herself as she describes just how it ought to be -- blue flowers would compliment the both of you best, after all, she says, and how you look in your wedding dress will be the talk of the continent, for sure!

Your face flushes at the thought of hearing Prince Aemond whisper he is yours -- one flesh, one heart, one soul. That he will be with you now, and forever.

“Tell me,” you speak, “of him. Whatever comes to mind, I wish to know. What was your brother like as a child?”

“Soft,” she says, “Kind. My brother has always been my mothers favorite. When he was young, he would sit in the gardens with me, and spend his time making daisy chains. I guess it was his way of giving me a crown when we both knew I’d never have one,” she smiles, tracing the gilded details of her book. “I remember some nights at dinner, he would complain that he wasn’t hungry, despite the large amount of food that he had piled onto his plate. He would explain that he was taking food back to his chambers, so that he may eat when he felt like it, but I later realised he was sneaking out of the castle at night to give what he could to the smallfolk who were most poor and starving. My brother is like that, y/n. It pains me that none but us see it.”

Just as the poverty in the city struck a chord within you, so too, had it left a deep impact on the prince. How alike the two of you are. With each new segment of information you are privy to, the bond of familiarity and similarity strengthens, almost impossibly so.

“He was... different... after...” she trails off, face turning down in sorrow, “He isolated himself; locked himself in his room for days on end. I thought I had lost my sweet brother forever, but... I see glimpses of him every now and then. Moreso when he is with you.”

You have a feeling you understand what she is referring to, and yet, you cannot help but ask, “After what?”

“After he lost his eye.”

Your throat goes dry. Morbid curiosity has plagued your thoughts on more than one occasion about the events that lead to the prince loosing his eye. A mishap? An injury in training with a sword? A quarrel? A fight? Was it accidental, or, dare you say... purposeful?

“I knew he would have to close an eye for his dragon,” Helaena sighs sadly, “but I didn’t understand at the time... If only I knew the true circumstances, would I have done anything to change it? I hope I would have...”

You take a leap of faith.

“If you do not mind me asking, princess... how did the prince lose his eye?”

She avoids your gaze when she answers quietly, “It was cut out.”

Something seizes your throat and steals the air from your lungs. It was not accidental after all. Someone out there purposefully maimed Prince Aemond -- and when he was a child, no less.

Helaena drops the subject, and does not go into much detail. You cannot find it within you to press her for more, sitting back in your chair, mood low and pained.

“Dear sister,” she begins, and the atmosphere lifts slightly at her affectionate nickname. “If it is alright... may you... tell me about your time... in Old Valyria? If you remember?”

Keeping it quiet only makes the nightmares worse.

“Of course,” you reply, gifting her a smile you hope looks genuine. You would hate to lie to Helaena. “You may ask me anything. If I am able, I will tell you.”

“What was it like? You were a royal, were you not?”

“Ah, yes,” you hum, “I know my parents were the King and Queen -- of that I am certain. I can remember something about my ascension to the throne, but not much else. Only a period of time where I felt the weight of something... more than likely the duty of the crown. Of course, I can remember our dragons. I can remember parts of our city -- our castle. I can remember vividly the golden magma that carved a path through the streets.”

She stares at you with a floaty expression, as if imagining everything you speak of.

“Were there truly hundreds of dragons flying above the city?”

You grin. “Thousands.”

“What about the golden towers? Were they as magnificent as history says?”

“Even more so.”

“Did you have wonderous libraries? Filled with all manner of books?”

“We had an entire building dedicated to them.”

She sighs dreamily. “Were you engaged before?”

The question takes you off guard. “What do you mean?”

“Ah, I apologise,” she lowers her eyes, worried about perhaps offending you with her question. “You were a royal of Old Valyria, and, I’m certain you were as beautiful then as you are now. Surely you must have had your fair share of suitors?”

“Oh,” you understand what she means, and think of how to clear up the confusion. “When I lived in Valyria, it was at the pinnacle of power. There were no need for marriages of convenience or strategic alliances. I was the crown and the throne by myself. I did not need a King. There were many suitors to be sure, but... none ever interested me. Your brother is the only one I have ever been engaged to.”

“How romantic,” she sighs, tapping the table. “It is almost as if it were meant to be.”

You laugh. “How so?”

“You transcended time to find one another,” she explains. You must look confused, and so, Helaena elaborates. “You took no other in your days in Valyria, hundreds of years ago. And yet, you arrived in this precise time, found your way to Kings Landing, and willingly accepted my brother as a husband and equal. Does it not strike you as fated?”

In honesty, you have never really thought about it.

“My brother has always had this deep love for Valyria, too. Ever since he was young. Our father never took much interested in the three of us, but... I remember Aemond would often beg him to speak of it. To tell him what he knew, to recount old stories he’d heard -- any piece of information he could give. It is the only time he would ever spend in Aemond’s company...”

Her statement makes you think of your own parents. They grow clearer in your mind with each passing day. You remember emotions from them, evoked by their memory. You remember feeling loved, cared for. You remember feeling content, and happy. After all, you expect nothing less from the pinnacle of your empire. Perfect parents and a perfect life.

Somewhere in the corners of your subconscious, something whispers that you, too, felt ignored by your father.

After reading in comfortable, and relaxed silence for the next hour, midday approaches. Helaena expresses a longing to see her darling children, and you have never been one to refute her on anything. You have met the twins only once before, noting them to be well natured and soft -- a gift they undoubtedly inherited from their mother.

“Will we meet again for supper?” she asks, helping you stack a few books to carry back to your room.

“If you wish it, I am always happy to oblige -- you know this.”

“Then I dearly wish it.”

You have never had a friend like Helaena. Nor, you think, will you ever in all your life.

She links arms with you until you pass through the doors of the library, where Ser Erryk waits patiently. He takes the multitude of books from your arms, and you send him on ahead, so you may walk with Helaena until the two of you must part. When the time comes, you bid her a fond farewell, promising to see one another again at dinner.

You are alone once again, wandering the halls of the castle absentmindedly, your thoughts mulling over nothing in particular, when you hear it.

It’s hushed conversation that draws your attention, urges you closer; fervent whispers and overlapping voices that are too vague for you to truly make out, until you quietly press yourself into a nearby alcove, straining, listening in to something that was never meant for your ears.

“Do you remember who your family is? Where your true allegiances belong?!”

It’s Otto Hightowers voice, and he hisses harshly at someone. Condescending scorn, like he’s speaking down his nose at something inferior.

“One wrong move, and annihilation awaits!”

“Yes. I understand the severity of the assumed threat.”

That voice you’d recognise anywhere.

You’d know him without touch, without sight. You’d know his very breaths, by exhale alone. Gods, you know him better than you ever knew yourself.

“Foolish boy!” Otto snaps, sharply reprimanding Prince Aemond for his uncaring aloofness, and your mouth parts with the ferocity of his tone. “Think of your mother! Of your dear sister! What could happen to them if we do not control the path taken!!”

He slices back, “I have already given my word that I would, have I not?!”

The atmosphere is heavy and thick, the argument powerful, and despite only catching the tail end of it, you can tell the weight of it burdens those involved greatly. There is painful silence, and you keep it yourself, pressing as close to the wall as you can, too frightened to release the breath you’re holding. Whatever the argument was about, it is obvious it holds great importance to the Prince and the Hand.

Something unsettling grows in the pit of your stomach when you watch Prince Aemond stalk away from your position, coming into view only briefly before he is gone. He was holding something in his arms, shoulders tense, long hair thrashing with his anger and frustration.

The footsteps of his grandfather recede in the opposite way, and when all is said and done, you are left alone with the silence, and more questions than answers.

No matter how you look at it, the events simply refuse to explain themselves. Your puzzled thoughts cannot make sense of the heated discussion, and you’re frowning to yourself. Why was the Hand so adamant that Prince Aemond remember who his family is? Why was he so firm in reminding him to control ‘the path taken’? Are there some affairs to do with the throne that you are not privy to? Crown business you would not understand? Would Prince Aemond even tell you if you questioned him?

You press off from the wall only when you are certain no one is around, thoughts racing over different possibilities, intent on making it back to your apartments without running into another soul.

You almost succeed, arriving at your chambers only to be greeted by the prince himself.

You are a little surprised, if you’re honest. You thought he would have stalked away to his own apartments to be in solitude, or to the courtyard to express his frustrations through the sword.

Yet, here he stands, before you now, as composed as ever, but the strain in his posture tells you otherwise. Even if you had not been privy to the argument, you would know something was wrong. You feel a small sense of victory in your developing skills when it comes to understanding the prince’s innermost thoughts and feelings.

What was cradled in his arms earlier, you notice, reveals itself to be clothing.

“My betrothed,” he greets, bowing to you with a coy smile.

You give him one of your own, but the events of minutes earlier overshadow your expression, leaving it a little unconvincing. Regardless, you readily greet him back.

“My prince,” you say. “Are you well?”

He nods in response. “Are you?”

“I am. What a pleasant surprise to see you here.” You gesture to your apartments, saying, “Would you like to come in?”

He falters at the offer, and instead, to keep himself focused, holds out the bundle in his arms.

“Your riding clothes have been finished, my lady. The ones my father commissioned for you to wear when you fly with Archeon.”

How regal, you think, his name sounds from the lips of the prince. What would your own sound like? Something whispers like a sacred prayer.

“Oh, how lovely,” you murmur, stepping closer to inspect them.

Your fingers trace the black fabric with reverence, with respect, with fondness. The prince is mesmerised. He wants you to touch him like that.

“I thought today we could fly together?”

You ignite, beaming, “Really?”

“Yes,” he laughs softly at your happiness. “Really. Shall I wait here for you whilst you change?”

“Please,” you breathe, taking the clothes from his arms, and he hates that he knows he’d do anything for you; if only you spoke softly, like you did just then. “I shan't be long.”

You disappear into your apartments, and Prince Aemond is left alone with his thoughts. He paces a little, stares at the dust on the stone floors, watches the way the sun reflects off the silver embellishments of his outfit. He’s excited, he realizes, to spend more time with you; nerves and anxiety giving way to a brief feeling of soaring joy. Prince Aemond feels himself smiling only when the muscles of his cheeks begin to ache from the expression. The number of hours he gets to spend with you, he feels, is never near enough. He wishes to be with you always.

You reappear promptly from your chambers clothed in the black riding gear; an almost identical outfit as his. Soft leather and silver clasps on your fitted jacket, well-tailored trousers, and calf-high boots. You’ve pulled your hair up and away from your face, and you look breath-taking, even in something as plain as black. He realises he’s staring, and looks away sharply.

“Shall we go?” you ask, stepping towards him.

You’re pulling on leather gloves, and he wants to tell you not to -- the memory of your hands touching fresh in his mind from before, soft skin fitting together like they were always meant to. He wants to feel your fingers intertwine. He’s completely hopeless, and shakes his head at himself, lips pulling up into a smirk.

“Yes, my lady.”

The walk through the crowded city is pleasant with the prince as your company. Conversation flows, pauses in between lull softly, and yet, the noise of passers-by, and those going about their daily lives somehow fades away when you speak with one another.

It’s as if there is no one around.

The streets lay bare and empty, and your laughs bounce off vacant buildings. Market stalls are unattended, no horses brush past you, and the entire city is uninhabited – all except for yourself, and the prince. You cannot see anything but him.

When the buildings finally give way one by one to the beaches, the expanse of the Narrow Sea greets you readily. The sun glints off the unending stretch of water, and it sparkles like it was never really water at all. The soft sand of the beaches remains pure, and turns shades of its former self only when the waves break on the shore; like a lover returning home. It never looks this wonderful when you are by yourself.

Archeon is lounging as he always is, close to the cliffs, and lifts his head at your approaching presence. You hear him coo; extending the same greeting to the prince, growing fond of him in a way similar to you.

He lifts his head at you, and then pointedly turns to stare at the opposite end of the beach. Your eyes follow his, drawn to a mass of forest green, larger still than he.

Vhagar lay at the very end of the sand beach, far enough away from Archeon that it’s clearly intentional -- as if she doesn’t trust him enough to move closer, and you cannot say you blame her. She is apparently sleeping, her massive form rising and falling slowly with easy breaths.

This is the first time you’ve seen her in person.

“I landed her here the last time I was out flying,” he explains, as if sensing your curiosity. “I also... spoke with her... like you told me to.”

You look at him. “You did?”

“Yes,” he says, descending the stairs to the sand. “I told her that she would be staying here, on the beaches, now.”

You follow him eagerly, down to the shores. “I feel she may have been disgruntled at the change in scenery. Not many are fond of being so close to the tide.”

You had heard that Vhagar slept in the wide expanse of lands beyond the city, far too large to be housed in the dragon pit like the others. She sleeps with her back to Archeon, a clear sign for him to leave her well enough alone. Your own shuffles closer to greet you when you approach, and Prince Aemond does not shy from him.

“My heart,” you say, with warm affection. “You have a companion now, I see. She seems friendly.”

He snorts. Not entirely.

“Give her leave to act stubborn,” you murmur, stroking him. “She is old, and tired.”

He nudges you gently, so gently, but the feeling is there. I am old, too.

“Lies, my heart,” you laugh, giving him a look. “You may be older than her, but age does not touch you in the same ways. You know this.”

Archeon looks past you to the prince, huffing at him, as if he will take his side on this. Prince Aemond smiles, hands behind his back, and bows his head to your dragon. There is an audible coo in response, and it carries heavy weight and meaning.

“He is growing fond of you, you know,” you say, leaning your head against Archeon’s muzzle, scales pressing into your cheeks. “As I knew he would.”

“I feel flattered,” he chuckles, “I'm sure Vhagar will feel the same towards you.”

“I hope so.”

“Shall we find out?”

You smirk, and push yourself away from Archeon towards the prince, walking together across the expanse of the beach. You almost act on your urge to hold his hand, but think better of it, inner thoughts battling on what his reaction would be if you leaned into him, and intertwined your fingers with his. Would he pull away sharply? Would your day be ruined thereafter? Would the distances you’ve covered up until now, the path you’ve forged with him in your blossoming relationship be undone? Or would he squeeze your hand tightly, nudging into you wordlessly with a smile reserved only for you?

You reach Vhagar before you can decide.

The great dragon lifts her head at her riders presence, blinking at him slowly, rousing from her slumber. Unlike Archeon, and what you can remember of your others, she is almost completely without horns; skin wrinkled and old, loose with age and covered with thick scars. Her jowls hang low, and her wings, you see, are pitted and torn in places. She wears her almost 200 years in clear abundance, every last day etched into her being.

Her large amber eyes flick towards you, and she huffs.

You smile knowingly, nodding in greeting. “Muña.”

Mother.

Her eyes widen significantly at your speech, and she shifts until she can look at you more clearly. The ground rumbles with her movements, and Prince Aemond steps slightly in front of you, as if ready to pacify her should anything begin. But she only wants to unlock you, discern your character, confirm her suspicions.

The blood of the dragon runs thick, and Valyrian lineage is potent.

“She is beautiful,” you say to him, the hot breath of his dragon rushes past you when she breathes, “If only we could see all the many things that she must have. I can barely imagine the battles she’s fought in.”

“She was there at the Field of Fire,” he says, and you try to press your mind into remembering what you’ve heard of it. “Along with Balerion and Meraxes, she destroyed the largest army ever seen in Westeros. She was also responsible for bringing the Vale to heel in the conquest.”

“You must be incredibly proud to ride her,” you murmur softly, watching him approach his dragon. Her size overshadows his by an incredible amount. Archeon is monstrous, but truly, not as large as Vhagar.

“I am,” he strokes her softly, and you can see he’s smiling when he turns back to you. “Will you join me in the skies, my lady?”

You tell him you will, backing away so he may mount Vhagar with ease, settling into her saddle like he was always meant to be there, before he commands her to fly. She cannot lift herself from the beaches without a running start, and Archeon has enough sense to slink into the tides so she has the full expanse of the beach to take off. He watches her pass him, spread her wings, and soar.

You trudge back along the sand towards your own dragon, the huge imprints of Vhagar’s footsteps swallowed only when Archeon meets you halfway. You are staring at the skies, watching Vhagar’s form linger low; spray kicking up from her mass when she glides over the waves. The sun catches the prince’s hair in a way that almost blinds you. Stark white in direct contrast to the great black beast by your side.

“He claimed her,” you say, in a way that Archeon can tell is full of infatuation. “When he was no older than 10. She was the largest and oldest dragon at the time, and he was brave enough to claim her all by himself.”

He releases a breath of air, turning to watch the pair in the skies, and the sun makes his eyes look like liquid gold. He has already lowered his shoulder for you, and you clamber up his foot, his horns, finding footing on his withers, and settling into his black saddle.

The beating of wings above you pulls your gaze upwards, and Vhagar flies directly above you, the markings and scars of her underbelly clearly visible. She glides gracefully, using the wind from below to stay level and true. Archeon feels your deep desire to join, and without vocal command, launches himself into the skies to be with them. You reach them immediately, gliding together, side by side, over the sea and through the skies.

They are both incredibly large, your dragons -- a fearsome sight to behold. One that took part in the conquest, and the other, from the freehold itself.

After a few minutes of flying, you hear them. They’re speaking to one another. Not in the ways that you do, though. Moreso vocalising -- chittering and humming -- and the more they do, the more you notice their wings beating in sync, their flight style mimicking one another's, their turns and dips fitting together like a puzzle. You’ve never seen this happen before, and judging from what little you can see of his expression, and the way he’s leaning to watch it, neither has the prince.

If Vhagar chooses to bank right, Archeon dips his wing down to do the same. If he climbs higher, so too, does she.

You glance over at Prince Aemond as your dragons level out together, and he looks right back at you, lifting his hands up to signal his own acknowledgement of their actions, and his subsequent confusion. You shrug your shoulders in an exaggerated motion so that he can see from his position, laughter floating across the gap.

It’s endearing and soothing, all the way down to the depths of your soul. A sense of shared belonging washes over you when you watch them interact. It’s like a secret you’re privy to; one shared only between you four.

You’re not even sure how much time passes, too consumed with happiness in flying with the prince and your dragons to notice the sun waning in the sky. He is the first to reluctantly make some kind of signal towards you to land, and when you finally realise what he’s saying, you urge Archeon to descend on the shores, just as Vhagar does the same.

A portion of the cliff face breaks off with the force of withstanding two colossal dragons landing almost in sync, and plummets to the floor. You watch it drop, breaking into hundreds of smaller pieces under the force of its fall. To your right, you notice Vhagar shake her head. She looks tired, whilst Archeon is still lithe and energetic, chittering away happily at nothing in particular. You have a feeling he might annoy her with his youth and size.

Prince Aemond uses the rope attached to Vhagar’s saddle to dismount and lower himself to the sand, and when he is settled on the shore, she turns, stalking off towards the opposite end of the beach again, no doubt, to rest. Archeon does his best to aid you in your own dismount, hugging the earth so the distance between yourself and the sands is never too great. You wonder if you should ask for a rope too, but sensing your thoughts, he gives you a pointed look. You laugh, lowering yourself down by his horns, and plopping onto his great wing.

“I won’t ask for one,” you reassure. “You were so indignant at being fitted with a saddle, I fear how disgruntled you would be if I commissioned something else for you.”

You give him a few more fond pets, his hot breath fans over you when he exhales, and you feel Prince Aemond come to stand beside you.

“Until next time, my heart,” you whisper, and then, you retreat from the beaches, with the prince at your side.

The sun is cresting through the golden hour, casting everything in a brilliant hue of copper, the skies shifting through varying shades of vermillion, but everything seems that much more beautiful with the prince by your side.

He strikes up conversation openly, and you both enthusiastically discuss the events of the flight; talking passionately about your dragons and their synchronized movements, coming up with theories and ideas to explain their behaviour.

“How odd!” you exclaim, “I’ve never seen him do that -- not once!”

“Nor I with Vhagar!” he adds, “It was like they were existing as one!”

You recount tales of your times with both dragons, all the way back to the Keep, high spirited and vivacious, until the bronze gates part to give you entrance. Prince Aemond seems to forget himself whilst he listens to you talk animatedly, staring at you openly with a visible fondness. That is, until the Red Keep’s maester approaches you both from across the courtyard.

“My prince, High Lady,” he bows to you both, announcing his presence, voice warbling with age. “Are you ready for your lessons? We have a few to go over before your supper today.”

Prince Aemond’s face drops instantly, replaced now with cold indifference as he stares back at the old man.

“Ah, yes, I see,” he hums. “A moment, please.”

The maester bows, and takes his leave to wait for the prince inside, leaving the two of you comfortably in one another presence.

“Forgive me, my lady,” Prince Aemond speaks, features soft when he looks at you. “It seems I must take my leave sooner than I would have wished.”

You shake your head with understanding, wishing the worry lines on his face to ease.

“It is alright, my prince,” you say. “Please do not fret. We may see one another again whenever you wish it.”

“Tonight then,” he presses quickly, adding, “For dinner. If you’d like.”

“I would,” you grin, “Your sister has already asked for my company at supper, so I shall surely be there.”

“I look forward to it,” his tone is soft when he talks, expression warm, “and I had fun today with you.”

“So did I,” you murmur.

You stay like that for a few moments, staring at each other with muted fondness, until the prince must regrettably pull away take his leave for lessons, and you, to retire your apartments.

It is like an unavoidable rhythm, or a set pattern you must abide by whenever you return to your apartments looking anything other than pristine. A part of you feels awfully guilty, when you watch Elen rush around, already preoccupied in her tasks. She almost never complains though -- not about her job or her duties, and whenever she does, it seems it’s only for the sake of your safety, or you apparent dishevelled state.

She fusses, of course, huffing quietly to herself whilst she lays out various creams, towels, soaps, but it seems only brought on by the labours of the task, and never by you. She takes pride in you, you feel; picking out perfumes and scented washes, scrubbing you with care and diligence. Your wet hair is braided, kept up and away from your face and left to dry in a halo shape, whilst makeup is applied liberally to your eyes and cheeks. Nothing too extreme, Elen adds. Only something to compliment your tone, and bring out your features. Your garments are prepared in a similar fashion, more formal than daywear, but less than what you would wear for a celebration or ball. You wonder if you’ll ever experience one of those -- either before or after your wedding.

Thankfully, Ser Erryk is the one to escort you to supper that night, and both the conversation and atmosphere are a thousand times more enjoyable than they ever were with Ser Criston. This time, too, thanks to your sworn swords diligence and care, you arrive earlier than most – even before the King and Queen themselves. The guards have no need to announce your presence, and allow you swift entry upon your arrival.

When the doors open, you are greeted by Helaena, and her brother-husband, Prince Aegon. The two are standing near the long table, partaking in what looked like dull conversation, and at the noise, they turn towards you.

To your dismay, Prince Aemond is nowhere in sight.

Helaena brightens considerably, and Prince Aegon gives you an awkward look, tipping his head upwards in casual greeting.

“Oh,” he frowns, eyes landing on the man by your side, “Arryk, what are you doing here? I thought I sent you away for the night?”

“It’s Ser Erryk, my prince.”

The two must truly be indistinguishable from one another if even Prince Aegon cannot tell the difference between his own sworn sword, and yours. You must use considerable will to suppress a laugh.

“Right,” he says warily, as if he does not believe him, turning to pour himself another full glass of wine.

“Thank you, Ser Erryk,” you dip your head, voice soft. “You may retire for the night if you wish.”

“Thank you, my lady,” he bows, “Please enjoy your night.”

As he takes his leave, you wonder if his brother is as kind and gentle as he.

“Dear sister!” Helaena’s voice grabs your attention, as she rushes to greet you with a warm hug. “I am glad to see you again!”

“She’s not your sister yet, you know,” Prince Aegon drawls. “And weren’t the two of you in each others company only earlier today?”

She gives you an incredulous look, as if exasperated by her husbands company already. “Lady y/n is my dear friend, and soon to be my sister also. Why should we not spend time together? Her company is most enjoyable.”

“Any time spent with you, my dear Helaena is always a blessing,” you whisper.

“And what is it you do in each other’s company, hmm?” Prince Aegon always has this strange lilt to his voice, like he’s annoyed by everything around him. As if life itself exhausts him. “Discussing my darling little brother, no doubt. Has she told you that he used to wet the bed--?”

“Aegon,” Helaena quips, sending him a sharp look.

“Oh, sorry!” he drawls exasperatedly, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. “I just thought our dear sister should know what she’s getting into!” He smirks, adding, “Have you told her about the blue sapphire yet?”

Your interest is morbidly piqued, but Prince Aegon cannot explain further, cut off suddenly by the double doors opening, and the King and Queen arriving in grandeur. Thankfully, they are without the Hand, but disappointment sits heavy in your chest when you realize Prince Aemond is also not with them. Even with the bows and warm greetings you all exchange, you catch Helaena give her brother a dangerous look from the side of your vision.

“High Lady y/n! What a lovely surprise,” King Viserys greets, happiness seeping from his grinning expression, “You joined us tonight for supper!”

“Ah, yes, your grace,” you bow slightly, “I apologize if this causes any disruption--”

“Nonsense, nonsense,” he makes a noise at you, waving his hand to the servers and ordering an extra plate for you. “We are most glad to have you here.”

You feel, at any rate, a little out of sorts. The Queen gives you a look you cannot place, and you sit in the seat saved for you last time, between Helaena and the absent Prince Aemond.

“Will tonight end in another tantrum from our little brother?” you hear Prince Aegon mutter to his sister-wife.

“If it does, I shall scorn him profusely,” Helaena quips back under her breath.

You spare several glances to the empty seat on your left, wondering where the Prince could be, and if he’s still caught up in lessons. Will he even be able to make it to dinner? You strongly hope so.

Pleasant conversation flows, the food arrives, and the Queen opts to say a few words in prayer before you begin. Everyone bows their heads, and closes their eyes, and you are a little confused with what is happening. Never once do you remember doing such a thing before any meal in Valyria. Something urges you to wait until they are finished, before you begin eating.

“May the seven bless this meal,” she begins, in quiet tranquillity, “may the Father judge us fairly in all that we do. May the Mother smile down upon this gathering with love. May the Smith keep the bonds between us strong, and may the Warrior--”

The doors behind you open sharply and you all fall silent to look.

Prince Aemond walks in, as ethereal as ever, dressed in dark green unlike his usual black, and you cannot help but stare. The color suits him well. He is a little wide eyed at the attention, and you beam at his arrival, face glowing in the candle light. His eye finds you immediately, and he cannot help but return your smile upon seeing how delighted you are simply by his presence, eye swimming with mirth and joy.

“Forgive my lateness,” he says, walking into the room and towards his chair. “I was held up in my lessons.”

“That is no issue, Aemond,” the Queen mutters, giving him a warm look.

He returns it with a curt nod of his head, taking his seat beside you.

“We were just saying a prayer,” his mother says, and he clasps his hands together on the table, closing his eye as she resumes.

You peak at him from the corner of your eyes, and he opens his own to stare right back, lip curling upwards when your shoulders lift with happiness. He cannot stop his own blossoming across his chest.

When his mother finishes, and everyone begins eating, he leans in towards you.

“Please forgive my late arrival, my lady.”

“I was worried you would not come at all my prince,” you begin, taking the initiative to begin plating your food, turning your head to add, “but you have, and I am most pleased.”

“You are?” he teases, leaning in a little closer.

You are about to reply that you missed him, grieved his absence in what little time you spent apart, but the Queen interjects before you can.

“Aemond, how were your lessons?”

He sits upright at once, pulling sharply away from you.

“Good, mother. Informative,” he replies.

“I am glad,” she smiles, before tossing Prince Aegon a displeased look. “If only you were more like your younger brother. How you enjoy wasting your days will always be beyond me.”

The comment comes out of nowhere, and makes the atmosphere horribly awkward. Where the Hightowers and Targaryens may be used to familial squabbles, as someone who is still considered an outsider, there should be no place for them in front of you. But, then again, you remember Prince Aemond mentioning that his parents may bicker, so this in itself does not take you entirely by surprise.

Prince Aegon must have a short patience tonight, knocking back his entire cup of wine before he spits, “More like Aemond how? Dreary? Dull and boring? I’m perfectly happy being the family disappointment if it means my life has at least some semblance of fun.”

“Now now, Aegon, please,” the King tries to keep peace, smiling awkwardly at you, but it seems his son is too far gone to let the comment slide.

Prince Aemond, too, cannot let jabs to his person go without punishment, retorting hotly, “You were always a wastrel. I highly doubt I had any impact on how you turned out. No, you managed to be a disappointment all by yourself.”

The squabble is petty at best, and although you wish to jump in to defend Prince Aemond, he’s holding his own pretty well without you. More than anything, however, you wish the conversation topic would change entirely, and for the quarrel to abide. Helaena sighs heavily to your right, giving you an exasperated look, and you give her a meek smile, hoping the argument lulls by itself. Never one to leave without having the last word, Prince Aegon stands sharply, throwing his cutlery unceremoniously down onto his plate.

“At least I have both eyes,” he spits, and with that, he storms out, taking his leave.

It’s a low blow, and your mouth parts a little at the cutting remark. It’s a clear hit on the prince’s insecurities, and you feel, somehow, not entirely directed at him. It was the Queen who ultimately started the chain of events, and yet, somehow Prince Aemond is the one who suffers.

You cannot openly console him, nor could you even if it were just the two of you. You cannot hold him, nor squeeze his hand reassuringly, and you feel it is even out of place to whisper words of kind affection to him in this setting.

You can tell he’s biting his tongue, cutting himself off from going on a verbal rampage -- if the way he’s pursing his lips tells you anything. He’s also actively avoiding your gaze, and you cannot blame him. He’s been publicly ridiculed in front of his family and future wife on something that is a raw insecurity. If you were in his position, you would feel mortified. You wonder how you would wish to be consoled if the roles were reversed.

The scraping of cutlery on plates resumes, and conversation is strained and forced.

“My prince,” you begin, leaning in.

He hums tightly in response, but does not look at you, focusing instead on cutting his chicken far more forcefully than necessary. You feel a little spurned by his unwillingness, but you cannot bring yourself to blame him.

He thinks you’re going to speak on what just happened, and internally commands you not to. If you resurface the events, bring to light anything to do with his injury or lack of eye, he’ll explode. He can handle hearing of his inferiorities from his family, but not from you. He cannot bear to hear you speak of them, cannot bear to acknowledge that you understand he is incomplete, and undeserving.

You lower your voice, so only the prince can hear.

“I have a pre-eminent theory on our dragons behaviour today.”

Thank the seven you spoke nothing of his fears.

He turns his head to you; tension that palpitated from him in waves begins to soften when he looks at your excited expression. His interest piques, and you grin, raising your eyebrows.

“Will you tell me?”

“It is because they know our feelings unspoken.”

He furrows his brows a little at you, smile pulling tight. “I know that already, my lady.”

“No, I mean,” you shuffle a little in your chair so you may face him easier, using your hands to explain, “they understand our bond. Mine and yours. The bond between us.”

His face grows hot.

Us.

You continue, unaware of the way he’s repeating the word like a mantra in his head.

“They can clearly sense our growing bond. What we mean to one another. What we...” you pause, avoiding his eye, “will mean to one another. We are to be wed, of course. To be... one. I think they understand that. Whether they realize it is affecting their movements so perfectly, is beyond me, but... I do think they know what we mean to one another.”

“And what is that?”

He speaks before he can stop and correct himself.

You blink up at him, embarrassment at the open words of affection and his own question paints itself across your features in a red glow.

“A lady never tells!” you jest, turning back to your plate, laughing.

“A lady should tell her lord husband everything,” he sighs, giving you a sneaky side eye.

“I suppose a good lady wife would,” you muse.

“You do not plan on being a good lady wife to me?”

It’s obvious he’s joking; close enough with you now that teasing comments are good-natured, and only meant to poke fun.

“On the contrary, my betrothed. I shall be the most dutiful and honourable lady wife the realm has ever seen,” you say, smirking, and the words slip out before you can truly understand what it is you’re saying. “I plan on giving you Valyria.”

He cannot tell if you are joking.

Neither can you.

There is an awkward moment where neither of you say anything.

“Hmm,” he says, and you think that is all he will offer, until, “Then I suppose I should teach you the histories of Westeros, from your time until the present -- just as you wished.”

You notice he doesn’t use the word ‘Doom’, for your sake. You are grateful.

“I would like that very much, my prince.”

Supper continues with a pleasant atmosphere despite the earlier events. You exchange small talk and niceties with the King and Queen, talk about your plans to read and sew together with Helaena, and this time, there’s even a warm dessert brought out for you to all enjoy.

When dinner concludes, the prince asks if he may eat breakfast with you tomorrow morn, and voices that he wishes to walk you back to your chambers. You heartily agree, but his mother interrupts.

“Aemond, I wish to speak with High Lady y/n,” she says, giving you an empty smile. “So you may go on ahead.”

He seems apprehensive, for whatever reason, but bids you a warm goodnight nonetheless. Helaena hugs you, and promises to meet again tomorrow. The King gives you a happy smile, and with that, you are left alone in the company of Queen Alicent.

“Will you walk with me?” she asks, but you doubt you have little choice, following behind her as she stalks the corridors.

You walk in heavy silence until you reach what you assume is her apartments, and Ser Criston, much to your dismay, is standing guard outside. He greets the Queen with fondness, and you, with much less.

“Please sit,” she offers once you are inside.

She takes a seat by the lit fireplace, and beckons you over.

You are anything but naïve, clearly sensing that she’s brought you here to discuss a matter that must be sensitive. If it weren’t, she would have voiced her thoughts in the presence of others, and not taken you somewhere secluded with no witnesses to your conversation but her loyal kingsguard.

Only once you are settled, does she begin, and you brace yourself for what is to come.

“You seem to be getting on well with my son.”

It’s said without tone or emotion, and you feel she is not looking for an answer. Your suspisciouns are confirmed when the Queen continues, giving you no time to draft a response.

“It would be a terrible shame if he were hurt in this process.”

Ah.

You understand now. This is a threat disguised as motherly concern.

“Aemond has always been a shy boy,” she sighs, fixing her dress. “He’s rather grown out of that as his youth left him, but I know he still retains some form of softness. I can see it in the way he treats you. As my son, it is my duty to protect him, always. I worry for him, as his mother. He has already experienced enough struggle and torment to last him his entire life. It would truly be a great shame if he experienced any more.”

“Indeed,” you agree with a level voice, before saying, “May I ask what causes this concern, your grace?”

She blinks at you. “I am his mother, High Lady y/n. If the day comes when you are a mother, you will understand.”

Her tactics are as obvious as her fathers were, but the unspoken threat takes you slightly by surprise.

Why is she worried about her son being hurt by you? What can you do? You cannot leave the Keep -- you have nowhere to go; no living relatives, no people, no army, no alliances, not even any friends -- only dragons, and as of right now, only one. If there were any major disagreements between yourself and any member of the Targaryen family, including Prince Aemond, and a fight broke out, they have three adult dragons, and you only have one. If it boiled down to dire circumstances, and if they worked together, Dreamfyre, Sunfyre and Vhagar could easily overpower Archeon with little to no quarrel or effort. There would truly be nothing you could do.

But... if you had all five of your adult dragons together... there would be nothing anyone could do to stop you.

The Queen is holding your gaze, and you suddenly realise. This has nothing to do with her son, and everything to do with you. She already knows the odds, and, as they stand, her family has all the power. She cannot risk you gaining the upper hand. It falls into place, pieces itself together, and you realize now why Ser Erryk was reluctant to take you to see Archeon that night. Why members of the court become uneasy when you mention flying with him, and why there has been every effort made to stop you seeing him.

“Is this because of my dragons?” you ask.

She bristles but covers it well. “Of course not, my dear.”

Of course it is.

“I see,” you nod.

You understand now. She’s frightened. Who else feels this way? It is clear the Queen and the Hand are doing everything they can to stop you using Archeon to find your others, but... does Prince Aemond know? Does Helaena? Can you truly trust anyone?

You feel caught in a thick web, awaiting your own death, and what's worse, is that you entered of your own volition.

Or... are you just being paranoid?

The King himself took you to the beaches to see your dragon, and so, too did his son. Helaena speaks openly with you about her own dragon, and regards yours with fondness. Are you overthinking? Are you being overly cautious? If there were any real sense of threat from you, would they not have killed you already, or thrown you in the cells below the Keep? Why give you the life of a royal? Why betroth you to the prince?

“You may go,” the Queen says, slicing through your thoughts and gesturing to the door. “Please have a good night.”

You stand, bowing to her. “Goodnight, your grace.”

On the walk back to your apartments, the silence returns.

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #hotd #house of the dragon #house of the dragon fanfiction #ewan mitchell #aemond x y/n #prince aemond #aemond #aemond x reader #aemond fanfiction #hotd aemond #hotd fanfic

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fullfiresiren · 9 months

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will you ever continue dont get left behind🥺 its like my lil comfort piece

‘dont get left behind’ is a stand alone piece, and if I ever did a second chapter, it wouldn’t be a continuation of the story, it would be the exact same plot, only from Gojos pov. I am actually in the process, however, of writing that! 🫡💕

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fullfiresiren · 9 months

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this was so unintentionally funny, and I’m reblogging it so y’all never forget that this man, although hot, is FOR THE STREETS. Gege himself said he wouldn’t care about a women long enough to even remember her name… 🤨

// toxic!Gojo headcannons //

notes: it’s literally cannon that Gojo belongs to the streets so idk what y'all expect from him really ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ man is a menace, enough said…

warnings: nsfw/18+, degradation, triggering, relationship abuse

Keep reading

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #gojo saturo #jujutsu kaisen satoru #jujutsu kaisen gojo #gojo satoru headcanons

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fullfiresiren · 9 months

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hewwo its been a while but

I love your gojo / toji fics so much i cant find it in your blog however

Did you perhaps delete it :<

If youre talking about “dont get left behind” and “beauty of the dawn” I linked them both below for you :)

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fullfiresiren · 1 year

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unconquered // 9

[9; courage]

house of the dragon aemond targaryen x last valyrian!reader

[read on ao3]

The silence remains unbearable when it returns.

You would have thought by now, settling into life here at the Keep, forming bonds and relationships whilst finding some kind of happiness, that it would abide. It does not; claws already so deep into your flesh that you fear the wounds may never heal. It is like binding chains thick around your neck, that allow you some sense of freedom as long as you don’t wander too far. As long as you don’t stare directly at it, or question yourself too fiercely, they remain loose.

You dread the day the chains pull tight.

Some nights, like tonight, when it is particularly bad, you sneak out of the Keep to sleep beside Archeon.

Ser Erryk is easy to evade if you exercise your power to send him away, and using the passage he showed you, it is relatively simple to escape undetected. You’ve managed to learn which route to take, and as long as you wear an old cloak, blending in is not an issue. You fear for what may happen if you trek through the city. King’s Landing is seen by many of the smallfolk as lawless, and terrifying, and as a woman alone, it is ultimately far more dangerous. Although it takes considerably longer, sticking to the outskirts of the city and following it along to the beaches is best. If you do that, you reach them with little to no problem.

On nights like tonight, when the moon is high and the skies are clear, you are able to look out across the sand beaches, and see the tide break onto the shores. You are entirely alone here, and there are none who dare approach this section of King’s Landing -- with good reason. It’s like a portion of the Earth has been forgotten during its creation; left a blank space of nothingness, where all light and color fails to reach.

Archeon sprawls out in a mass of black.

He knows it is you when you approach, and lifts his head sleepily -- just enough for you to curl up with him in the same place you always have -- even when you hid from the doom. In the crook of his shoulder, against his chest, tucked away from the world. When he was younger, all those years ago, he would fall asleep with his head in your lap. Now, he sleeps with his font limbs crossed, head tucked around you tightly, protectively. He’s warm, the sand is soft, and the grumbles of his chest are loud, thick with tiredness.

Something akin to a soft warble gets stuck in his throat, and you know he’s falling back asleep. Your head moves with the rise and fall of his great body, and everything, in that moment, is quiet.

It is the most comfort you can find in this life.

Only when the sun breaks over the waves, do you wake, and return to the Keep. To aid you on your journey, Archeon helps you scale the cliffs, balancing you easily on his head, and lifting himself up, resting his chin on the grass atop the precipice. You slide off, and find footing on the edge.

He coos a few times at you, and then lowers back down.

“You will be receiving a saddle soon,” you call out when he shakes sleep from his body.

He gives you an incredulous look. Say you jest.

“You are still growing, are you not, my heart?” you say. “You are older than 200 and your size shows it. Please do not fight me on this. And do not fight those who come to fit you with it, either.”

He grumbles, but says nothing more, stalking out into the sea and sulking. You sigh. He’s like an impudent child at times.

Before dawn breaks fully, you are within the Keep once more. The warmth of your room welcomes you, and when you remove the cloak from your shoulders, Elen knocks once at your door. You panic, dishevelled state an obvious giveaway to your nighttime excursions, but there is little time to hide or change when she is already giving herself entrance.

She carries a plate of food -- your fresh breakfast, and gives you a startled look. It melts softly into a knowing expression.

“Good morning, your grace,” she greets warmly.

“Good morning, Elen,” you reply.

She sets the plates on the small table between your sofas, and immediately moves towards the standing bath.

“Although I am concerned about your nightly disappearances,” she begins, and you cringe at being caught, sitting to eat. “I am reassured that they are spent within the protective company of your dragon. You are far too precious for me to allow anything to happen to you.”

You smile between mouthfuls of oats. Mothering.

“I understand, Elen,” you hum, “I will be careful.”

“However,” she continues, swishing the water to check the temperature, “If I must beat pursuers off with a stick, your grace, rest assured I will. I am just an old lady, and no more than a servant, but... if you could ask Ser Erryk to accompany you in the future, it would help me sleep a little better. And at my age, your grace, it is something I desperately need.”

You look at her, and she's giving you a soft, pleading expression. You sigh.

“I do not wish to bother him,” you say. “He deserves his rest at night, as we all do.”

She huffs, “It is his duty, your grace.”

You shrug, the word becoming a nuisance. It sounds more like an excuse to you.

“You could always ask the prince?” she suggests.

You cough forcefully. “Is my bath ready?”

She smiles at your reaction. “Yes, your grace.”

You undress quickly, and sink into the depths of the water, restless with both your thoughts and your feelings. Elen fills a jug with water, pouring it over your head, your body, lathering soap into your skin, scrubbing your scalp.

“I will never understand the depth of the bond between dragon and rider,” she muses softly, speaking her thoughts aloud more than initiating conversation, and you are happy to listen. “Existing separate and yet, one entity. A ferocious and untameable beast -- why do they allow you to control them? To ride them? I do not think I will ever understand. I fear I would be a terrible Targaryen.” She laughs at her joke, rinsing your hair gently. “But if it is anything like the bond between a mother and a child, the ache when you are apart must be unbearable.”

You look down at your reflection. She stares back up at you, rippling in the water.

“Do you have children, Elen?”

She doesn’t pause in her work, but does not reply, either. You do not press her for an answer, feeling a bridge build itself between the topic and the answer. Her reflection looks sad.

Todays plans had come in the form of another note from the prince delivered last night. He offered for you to join him on a horseback ride through the Kingswood, expressing for the first time in written form, his pleasant hope that you would join him. You gave Ser Erryk a note to pass on this morning, conveying a happy acceptance of his offer.

“I am to meet this Prince this morning,” you voice, wishing to fill the silence with something, rather than keep it suspended in nothing at all. “At the stables.”

“To ride?” Elen asks.

You nod. “I have never ridden a horse before.”

“If you can ride a dragon, I am sure the two are not so different, your grace,” she laughs, “You will be fine.”

Elen dresses you in an outfit far less extravagant and noble than she would wish to; dark sturdy trousers tucked into calf-length boots and a loose blouse, and although she expresses her wish for you to live only in fine gowns, you remind her it must be suitable in some way for riding, at least. You would hate to ruin the beautiful garments you’ve been given all for the sake of appearance. She ties your hair up out of your face in a way that is all practicability, but allows a subtle beauty to take hold of your features. She foregoes jewellery, but makes you look all the size and notoriety of a royal regardless. You never fail to be impressed by her skills.

With a wave, and a reminder to have fun, she sends you off, Ser Erryk hot at your heels.

“I have never been to the stables of the Keep before,” you admit, looking up at your sworn sword as you walk through the long stone halls of the castle. “Have you?”

He nods. “I have, my lady. I think you will enjoy them.”

He holds various doors open for you as he walks ahead, and escorts you through the grounds, towards where noise and bustle becomes more prominent. You hear clopping hooves, braying, shovels scraping on stone, and the light smell of straw and hay that carries on the breeze.

“Thank you, Ser Erryk,” you nod, once you feel you are close enough, and he stops. “Please spend the rest of the day doing as you wish. I will continue onwards from here alone.”

He bows to you formally, offering an “As you wish, my lady,” and with that, turns on his heels, and returns to the castle.

You watch him go for a moment, staring back up at the towering form of the Keep as it looms ever present, always watching. With the multitude of windows, you wonder if you are ever as truly alone as you feel. You turn away and continue onwards. The thought is one that does not comfort you.

You take your time inspecting the detailed work of the royal stables. Dark wood and black metal make up the prominent architecture, but the overall design is open and flowing. It’s inviting, and calming on the eye. Horses of every color snort and whinny at their leisure, soft fur and calm eyes, all exuding the air of being well tended to. Workers are busy tending to them, cleaning out stalls, preparing tack or food, and each of them move in a way that speaks to their professionalism and training. No less is expected from those in service to the crown.

But, you notice, the gentle sound of sobbing carries underneath it all.

You frown, heart thumping at the noise. For a moment, you thought you had simply imagined it. Retracing your steps towards the more secluded stalls in the outer buildings, however, tells you it is not from your mind as you had originally suspected. You are quiet when you creep forward, towards an empty stable from which the noise emanates. The bottom half of the stable door is shut, but the top half remains open, and you rise on your toes to glance inside.

At once, your hand flies over your mouth, and you stumble back quickly, quietly, taking care not to make a sound as you leave with haste, your presence remaining unseen.

Prince Aegon lay curled up on the straw floor of the stable, half asleep, crying quietly to himself. He was dressed in dirty rags, torn and unwashed, face flushed red with hot tears. If not for the unmistakable snowy head of white Targaryen hair, you would think he were just a poor stable boy, or one of the smallfolk.

Something twists in your gut at his lonely state, seeing him so desperately sad, and your ardent dislike of him wobbles on its track. Although you are gripped with curiosity about his situation, there is no one you can openly ask about it -- and even if there was, who is to say they would know? What has caused the sorrow? Is he simply drunk, or is there something deeply upsetting that troubles the oldest Targaryen son? What reason is there, for a prince of the realm to sleep in the cold stables, cry quietly to himself, and muffle his sobs so no one hears?

But, then again, what reason is there for you to escape the castle and choose to sleep beside your dragon on wet sand, rather than seek comfort in a warm bed?

Everyone has their wars to fight.

You are less determined in your steps, mind elsewhere as you continue onwards, towards where the stables open into a wide yard. Despite the multitude of workers going about their tasks, here, there is a sense of calm. Like the eye of a storm.

Two horses stand, already fully tacked up, and who else beside them, but your silver-haired prince. He is standing with his back to you, clad in black riding trousers, knee high boots, and a billowing white shirt tucked neatly into his pants. Stable attendants hold the reins to the two horses, as Prince Aemond coos softly to a beautiful dappled stallion, stroking its neck as he waits for you. Beside him, a chestnut colt, black mane and shiny coat. The horses are clearly well cared for, poised and alert, and their beauty almost leaves you breathless.

He seems to sense your approach, turning when you draw close. Is that mirth in his eye? You cannot be sure -- it leaves as soon as it appears. His arms clasp behind his back, and he nods to you. The change in his usual attire is startling, and suits him fervently; strong chest narrowing into a lithe waist, shirt tucked into his pants only accentuating the length of his legs. How he is without admirers is surely beyond you.

“Good morning, my lady,” Prince Aemond greets, silver hair slipping behind his shoulders. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes,” you look up at him when you speak, holding his gaze, “I did. I trust you slept well, too, my prince?”

He nods -- the dream he had of you last night invades his mind before he can conjure enough willpower to stop it. Desires kept at bay during his waking moments are let loose when he sleeps. His signature hum escapes him.

“I took the liberty of having the horses prepared before you arrived,” he begins, gesturing to the chestnut colt. “This one will be yours for the day.”

The horse shakes its head, snorting playfully when you approach.

“My goodness,” you hush, and it steps forward slightly into your touch. You stroke its soft muzzle, cooing, “You are handsome, are you not?”

Your voice is gentle and encouraging, Aemond thinks -- like a warm embrace. Is this how you would talk to a child, he wonders? His child?

He coughs, and your house jerks a little at the noise.

“Oh,” you voice, and he looks at your face. “My saddle is different from yours.”

You glance between them and he does the same.

“Yours is a side saddle,” he explains, nodding to the two pommels sicking out from the leather of your seat. “It is what ladies use to ride.”

Before you can conceal your disbelief, you scrunch your nose up in bewilderment, and laugh at the puzzling logic. He watches you with curiosity.

“Is that necessary?” you ask. “It looks uncomfortable...”

He takes a moment to answer, smiling with uncertainty. “I am not sure, my lady. Most noblewomen ride this way.”

“Will the saddle on my dragon also be made similarly?”

He shakes his head no, understanding your reluctance. “If you would prefer it, I am happy to order the attendants to change it to a regular one?”

“If you use a regular saddle, my prince, then I would like to use the same,” you nod, stroking your horses neck. “I’d like to be equal with you, if I can."

He gestures towards the attendants and explains his wishes, taking the reins of his dappled stallion so the workers may focus on leading your horse away. The air settles around you, but the hustle and bustle continues.

You glance up at Prince Aemond, watching him mutter soft words to his horse, the animal blinks slowly, as if comforted by the tone of his voice. His lips quirk upwards when he notices you staring, and, with a gentle voice, he speaks.

“This horse has been mine since I was a child,” he explains, stroking its neck softly, fixing stray wisps of the stallions mane. “A gift from my father.”

“He’s beautiful,” you whisper, stepping closer.

It makes a short, high-pitched noise at your approach, snorting a little, and Prince Aemond hushes him softly, pulling gently at the reins to redirect his attention.

“Calm, calm,” he hushes in Valyrian, rubbing the horses muzzle with a finger. It abides, settling quickly. “He is a little nervous with those he has never met before.”

The Prince returns to the common tongue, and opens his palm towards you; a silent invitation. You step closer slowly, until your shoulder brushes against his, but neither of you move to create space.

Your hand lifts, and your fingers thread through the stallions coat; dappled fur sliding against your palm. It’s soft, calming, and you relax in the movement, the horse nickering at your affectionate gesture. It nudges Prince Aemond gently, as if asking him to join you. He abides, hand coming up to stroke his horses neck, and you are content standing in the quiet beside him.

Your cannot help but allow your eyes to trace the details of his pale hand as it moves alongside your own.

Compared to yours, there is a sizeable difference. He has prominent veins, and long, elegant fingers that comb through the fur of his regal stallion. His nails are soft pink, clean, and well kept. From the size of his hands, there is a sense of power that lies dormant; an unspoken strength that palpitates in waves. Despite years and years of swordsmanship, however, they remain elegant. You think they would treat you with reverence.

Your pinkies brush accidentally, and you both pull away.

Notwithstanding the familiarity that grows, each of you continue to exist in awkwardness every now and them. Nowadays, though, its endearing, more than uncomfortable.

“Have you ever ridden before, my lady?” he asks, hands brushing either side of his horses face.

You shake your head. “I don’t think so, my prince. Perhaps I may have in Valyria, but I cannot be certain.”

“That is no problem,” he reassures. “Riding a dragon is far more difficult, so you will be fine. There is no need to be afraid or nervous.”

He goes on to point out the various important aspects of tack -- stirrups, bridle, reins, and how to use them efficiently. He teaches you how to ask your horse to move through the different gaits, how to slow, how to manoeuvre. There is a lot of information to take in, and Prince Aemond must notice your apprehensive expression.

“Don’t worry,” he hums, gentle. “If you are unsure at any point, just remember I will be by your side throughout.”

At the approaching sound of slow hooves, you turn, your chestnut colt arriving; re-tacked with a regular saddle upon the Princes request. Lead by an older stable worker with grey hair, when the horse stops before you, the man gives you an expectant look, holding up the reins for you to grasp.

“Here, High Lady,” he starts, voice rough with age but not without politeness. “Your horse.”

You look between the man and the reins in his outstretched hands a few times, before awkwardly reaching up to take them. You’re not sure what to do now, and so, you look back over your shoulder at your Prince.

“You may mount him, my lady,” he says with encouragement.

“How...” you look back to the worker, uncertainty threaded through your voice, “How do I get... on...?”

You feel a presence shift closer to your back, and turn to see the Prince move to take the reins from your hand, eye looking over your head towards the older stable attendant.

“Bring my lady a mounting block,” he orders, lips pursed as if annoyed.

The man nods, and hurries off quickly in search for the item. You watch him go, and then, peer up behind you.

Prince Aemond observes the worker closely, following him in his task, and then, feeling your gaze, he shifts his own. His eye softens considerably when he looks down at you, and he smiles shyly under your acute focus. Realising the space between you has grown almost non existent, however, he steps back a little, turning towards your horse instead. Moments later, the worker reappears with a short set of wooden steps -- what you can only assume is the mounting block.

He places it on the floor, and steps back, bowing to you both, before continuing on with his duties, leaving you in peace.

It is clear that you are supposed to climb up, and with a mix of nervous confidence that settles in the pit of your stomach, you ascend.

The block judders sharply, and you panic.

Hands fly out to steady yourself, and you’re not really sure what it is you’re reaching for. Is it the saddle? The horse? All you know is instinct takes over; the airs and graces of your position that keep you stoic disappear, replaced instead by the plummeting feeling of falling.

Prince Aemond’s hand grasps yours with a steady strength, offering a balance and stability nothing else could. He is without riding gloves, skin touching yours without interference or restriction, and it is a startling sensation.

You settle immediately, looking to him with a grateful expression.

“Are you alright, my lady?” he asks quickly, expressing concern.

His hand holds yours a little tighter when your legs wobble, the mounting block juddering with every movement you take. Your horse is the least fazed out of all of you, and blinks slowly as if bored.

“Yes, yes,” you voice, heart hammering at the shock. “I’m fine. I just-- I wasn’t expecting that. Thank you, my prince.”

Nerves bubble up and spill forth from your lips in the form of awkward laughter, and you see his shoulders drop, relaxing with the knowledge that all is well.

“You frightened me,” he says quietly, bowing his head a little.

It is said with such tenderness, that a part of you wonders if you are hearing things. You want to say something in return, but before you can, he steals the moment, as if worried about what your response will be. Denying you the chance to speak, regardless of what your words would be. Is he truly so afraid of your opinion?

You wonder if you are thinking too much into it.

“Place your left foot here, my lady,” he instructs, avoiding your eyes, pointing to the stirrup closest to you, “and then hoist yourself up, and swing your other leg over.”

You follow his direction, mounting your horse swiftly, making sure your feet are placed well into the stirrups, sitting deep in the saddle. He holds your hand throughout to make sure you are steady and comfortable, and only when you are secure, and your horse stays calm, does he remove himself to mount his own.

His touch lingers long after it leaves, and Prince Aemond flexes the hand that was holding yours in a way that you cannot be sure even he is aware of. It speaks volumes of his inner thoughts, and you tear your gaze away before he notices, focusing instead on the space between your horses ears. This is the first time, you realize, that the two of you have touched one another, skin-on-skin, without the obstruction of clothing. He must realize it, too. He must.

His lips purse, his eyes are wide, and he mounts his own stallion, focusing instead on the path in front of him.

“Ask your horse to walk, my lady,” he says, squeezing his thighs to urge his own onwards.

You glance down at the animal, and with a soft voice, you ask, “Will you walk on?”

The horse lifts its neck a few times, but does as you ask, and sets a steady gait, moving side by side with the princes own stallion.

You leave the stables together, on a path out of the city, towards the Kingswood. The weather today is bright -- clear skies and shining sun, with a soft breeze that keeps the temperature bearable. You take the Kingsroad through the city; cobbled streets and tightly packed buildings on either side of you, until you reach a bridge that crosses the Blackwater Rush. The path ahead turns to a wide dirt path, small farm houses are few and far between, and then, ahead of you, there is nothing but an expanse; acres and acres of land covered by thick forest.

The horses themselves seem to know where to go, and your own needs little encouragement to stay true. Prince Aemond walks his ahead of you, taking the lead as he rides over the large wooden bridge, but has not said anything to you since you left the stables. The atmosphere is a little awkward. He is too far ahead of you to comfortably hold a conversation without raising your voice, and so, once the both of you have crossed the bridge, you squeeze your thighs, urging your horse to catch up to his left.

You manoeuvre your colt into his stallion purposefully, the horses bumping sideways into one another gently -- not enough to spook them, but enough to steal his attention. He looks at you with a quizzical expression, and you smirk wordlessly at him. He breathes a laugh through his nose, and just like that, the atmosphere becomes light.

The dull thud of the horses soft hooves on the dirt sets a rhythm for the both of you to relax into, and with that, conversation begins easily.

“My sister speaks fondly of you,” he begins. “I think she is very taken with your friendship.”

“I did not expect to grow as close with her as I have,” you admit, “but your sister is someone I now deeply treasure. She is unlike anyone I know.”

“She is the best of the Targaryen's,” he hums.

“You each have your qualities,” you express, adding, “I feel you are too hard on your family.”

He looks at you now. “In what ways?”

“Your father is kind -- and I think you are, too. You are a good man.”

You look up across the expanse of land when you speak. Various farm workers toil in the fields, those nearer to you stop to bow, or dip their heads in greeting. Prince Aemond continues looking at you, however. Far more interested in what you have to say than anything else.

You make a noise, something between a laugh and a derisive snort. “Your brother is yet to be judged by me, however.”

It is supposed to be light-hearted, but Prince Aemond sharply changes the subject. You feel there is perhaps a bridge burned between them that can never be rebuilt.

“The Kingswood is usually reserved for hunting,” he explains, nodding towards the looming forest. “My brother has spent a few namedays here, though my sister and myself have not.”

The path you are riding on is quickly reaching the mouth of the woods, beyond which, a trail through the thick trees and undergrowth is laid out. The scent of earth and foliage is strong, but not unpleasant.

“Do you often visit the Kingswood?” you ask, entering the forest with the prince by your side.

Birds of all varieties sing and vocalise above you, high up into the canopies of the trees. Some stretch so far up into the heavens that you must crane your neck to see the top of them. Although you cannot see it, you are certain that the forest around you is teeming with life.

“Not as often as I would wish,” he admits.

“Duty permits you little time to yourself, I suppose.”

It’s a rhetorical statement, and Prince Aemond says nothing further. Duty does permit him little time to relish in what he enjoys doing -- if there were anything at all that he enjoyed in the first place.

The two of you move deeper into the woods on horseback, through twists and turns that the path lays out. Some parts of the woodland floors are covered in delicate flowers, pale yellow and white, whilst others are filled with the remnants of branches that lived once high above. You are able to peer through the spaces of trees deeper into the forest, but all that exists is more of the same. For some reason, when you realise the gaps have been created from those that have fallen naturally or been chopped down, you are filled with a sense of sorrow.

If a tree falls where no one is to hear it, does it truly make a sound?

Prince Aemond watches you discreetly whilst you take in your surroundings. To him, there is something wholly captivating about you. Even though traversing conversations with you or being in your presence feels like a great obstacle to overcome. He is shy by nature, and learned painfully in his youth that meekness is an open invitation for pain. Those who are gentle and kind are easily exploited. When his eye was forcefully taken, he made a deep promise to his soul that no one will ever hurt him again. He would never allow anyone to see him small or fearful. Not once. Never.

Being with you is asking him to be open, when he has been nothing but shut tight since 10. It takes courage to be kind. It takes strength to be soft, and he doesn’t know if he’s strong enough yet. He will not voice it, nor look it directly in the eye, but at night, when he is most alone, he realises he is afraid.

Courage is not the absence of fear, however. It is the ability to push onwards to overcome it. Sometimes, he thinks that is your voice telling him to be brave. That only if he is brave enough to overcome his fears will he gain your hand... your respect... your love. It is only the brave who conquer.

He pushes onwards in pursuit of you.

You smile at him then, and he smiles back. The sun shines brightly against his skin, he thinks. Warm -- like a home he doesn't understand yet. If he is brave though, he will.

“I do not smile near half as much as I do when I am with you,” he speaks softly.

“Nor I,” you reply, voice like a song. “I am happiest with you, too.”

He feels like he is a child of ten again, giddy at innocent things.

The both of you reach a wide clearing atop a hill, and you can see the great expanse of forest from up here, stretching far beyond the Kings land. Your horses stand in tandem, overlooking the huge plain, and you have a great urge for freedom, a sudden desire to gallop.

You glance only once at Prince Aemond, grin growing wide, before you spur your horse with fervour, commanding it to launch into a sprinting gait, and you are away. The prince yells out after you, but his words are lost in the whipping winds that rush past your ears, and then, thundering hooves from behind signal his chase. He catches up easily, dappled stallion keeping pace beside yours with little effort, his white hair whipping out behind him. There is an elated emotion coursing through his veins that bubbles up and leaves his lips in a cry of happiness.

He’s grinning at you, and you are yelling out with joy.

From the skies above, a thunderous roar, deafening, and it shakes the very earth beneath you.

Archeon appears in great glory, soaring above the two of you, low enough that you can see the markings of his underbelly. With each beat of his gargantuan wings, the air wooshes past you from the force, and your body jostles with it. Prince Aemond doesn’t look afraid, but pure surprise and shock are etched deep into his handsome features. Your horses whinny at the colossal presence, and you both bring them to a juddering halt, least they bolt.

Your dragon circles the clearing as you watch, his flight over trees startles nesting birds who scatter when he passes, and he settles on landing where there is enough space. He descends legs first, as always, and his weight on the ground makes a deafening noise. His front limbs join, and when he is steady, he coos, loudly rumbling at you. There is something different about his appearance, you think, and when he lowers himself to the grass, you notice he has been fitted with a saddle; black, with silver details. He looks incredibly royal.

This is the first time Prince Aemond has seen Archeon.

His grip on the reins tightens considerably, and his stallion snorts at the tension.

His first thought recognises the strength and power from your dragon is sharply unlike his own. Where Vhagar is larger only slightly, she is sluggish, and old, wearing all 200 years of her life openly. Yours remains older than his -- if his knowledge of historical timelines is accurate -- and yet, is lithe with youth. He frowns, confused. Is there a reason? Your dragon shows no signs of old age. No lethargy, no muscle loss, no foul temper. Only raw power like he is in the prime of his life, and ready to throw his weight around.

“Would you like to meet him?”

Your voice pulls Prince Aemond from his thoughts, and when he turns to meet your gaze, you have already dismounted your horse, keen to approach your dragon.

Prince Aemond would be lying if he said he was not intimidated.

He approaches with you, but lingers slightly behind, your horses left to graze. The closer he gets, the more unsettled he feels. Your dragon is watching him intently; not focused at all on you, but fervent in his unblinking stare, holding his gaze. He even turns his head slightly to follow Prince Aemond’s movements.

It is an obvious warning -- as if one were even needed in the first place.

Your dragon is highly intelligent, that much is clear. He’s sitting stagnant right now because you are calm and relaxed, but Prince Aemond is sure if he made one wrong move, his death would be imminent.

He expects you to stop a few meters shy of your dragons snout, but to his amazement, you continue onwards, until you are physically leaning against it, arms stretching out to stroke him with tender affection. He hears Archeon click soft and high -- not unlike Vhagar when he talks to her, and when you laugh at his soft nudges, he warbles low.

“My heart,” you begin, and Aemond recognises the tone you use immediately. It’s the same one you spoke to his horse with -- the same one he hopes you use for his child. “This is Prince Aemond.”

There is a derisive snort from your monstrous beast, and he’s pulling away from you only slightly, attempting to show his obvious distain.

“Come, come,” you coo, lowering your voice so only your dragon can hear, “He is to be my husband, as you know. Son of the king, and rider of the great Vhagar.”

Archeon blows air out from his mouth, hot smoke wisping up. It does not impress me.

“Oh dear, my poor heart,” you sigh in mock dejection, and turn to walk away.

Prince Aemond watches your dragon turn sharply back, and release a sad noise at your apparent dismissal.

You flash the prince a smirk, before saying loudly over your shoulder, “And here I was thinking the two things most precious to me would be able to get along. Ah, I am so sad. This hurts me terribly. What am I to do...?”

Archeon wails loud and long, as if begging you to turn and come back, painfully wounded by your own apparent rejection of him. You turn swiftly and flit towards him once again.

Your wording, however, is not lost to the prince, and he repeats it like a mantra in his mind.

Most precious to me.

“Shall I try again, my heart?” you ask, and his chest grumbles softly. “This is Prince Aemond.”

You turn to open your palm towards him -- much like he did with his own horse earlier -- in a silent invitation to approach. Prince Aemond moves closer, legs unsteady under the weight of your dragons stare, and his shoulder brushes yours when he stops. Neither of you move to create space.

“He is as you described,” the prince says, taking in the detail of your dragon.

Thick black scales, black horns, black wings, and startling golden eyes. He is undeniably beautiful. Youthful, but with a stoic composure gained only from age -- wise beyond his years.

“You speak to him as if he were human,” Prince Aemond begins. “Why?”

You rest against Archeon’s muzzle when the dragon lowers his head to the grass.

“Because he can understand me as if he were. He converses with me but not with words -- in his own way. The bond is strong and unmarred. Sometimes it is as if I understand his thoughts better than my own.”

Prince Aemond understands to a certain extent. Vhagar knows his wishes unspoken, but she has enough free will to sometimes disobey. Perhaps it is because she had already bonded with three others before him, so the link isn't as strong as Archeons is with you. Maybe it is something more. Maybe a pure blood Valyrian royal knows the bond like no Targaryen ever will.

“Do you ever speak with Vhagar?”

He shakes his head. “Not like you do.”

“Maybe you should try,” you suggest. “You’ll be surprised at how much she’ll understand.”

He ponders on it for a moment, looking at the details of your face. Would it really be so different than talking to a person? Instead of the usual flat commands, perhaps he should speak to Vhagar like he would with any other?

“Would you like to feel him?” you ask.

Your dragon huffs, annoyed.

“Perhaps another time, my lady,” Prince Aemond answers, stepping back with a shy expression. “I have a feeling your dragon does not think too highly of me.”

The two of you relinquish the situation in favour of moving to sit higher up on the hill together, sharing food you brought with you. The breeze rushes up to greet you softly, in a tender way, parting the long grass like it does the waves of the sea, brushing the princes long white hair behind his shoulders gently, like the touch of a lover. Archeon lounges at the base of the hill, content to relax anywhere so long as he is near you, and your horses continue grazing at their leisure.

You speak openly about things, comfortable in one another's presence that your posture dissolves into laying down in the soft grass to stare up at the passing clouds, while the prince leans back on his palms, legs stretched out in front of him.

“What is your dream, my lady?” he asks, staring up at the sky. From this angle, he looks like an innocent boy, untouched by the heavy weight of his position. “If you were not who you were, what would you want from life?”

He glances down at you from over his shoulder, and you blink up at him slowly.

“I’m not sure,” you answer honestly. “Would I still have Archeon?”

He hums, lips quirking up. “Yes, you would.”

“Then I’d want to travel all over the seven kingdoms. See the Riverlands, the Eyrie, the Reach. Even up to the far North. I’d want to visit everywhere. Essos and beyond. I’d want to be free.”

He looks up at the clouds, imagining your happiness at soaring through them, onwards in your never-ending journey.

“What about you, my prince?”

He doesn’t really have an answer. He was only interested in your own.

“I’d want the same, I think.”

“We could travel together,” you say, sitting up, and creating a wonderous fantasy. “To anywhere and everywhere. Seeing all the world holds side by side. At breakfast each day, we could toss a coin and the winner would decide where to fly to next. Or we could spar, and the victor of our battles would choose,” you laugh at that, then, and he does, too. “I have a feeling, though, that you would always be in charge of our next destination.”

“You would win sometimes,” he teases, “only because I’d let you.”

“Very gentlemanly of you, kind prince.”

You plop back down onto the grass, and this time, he joins you. You stare at the passing clouds together, imaging a future of only freedom.

“In our journeys, lunch could be determined by the shapes we see in the clouds,” he suggests, pointing upwards. “An animal means you win. A plant means I win.”

“What if it’s just a shapeless form?”

“Then you win, too.”

“That doesn’t seem fair,” you laugh.

“I don’t mind.”

“What if there are no clouds? Or what if the day is overcast?”

“Then I win.”

“Ah, I see,” you narrow your eyes good-naturedly at him. “So our chances are equal again?”

“Exactly,” he hums, smirking. “It’s balanced.”

You laugh, closing your eyes in quiet content, happy to be in nature with your dragon and your future husband. The day has turned out far better than you could ever have hoped, and not once have you feared the silence.

“My lady,” Prince Aemond begins, and his voice wavers slightly when he speaks. You open your eyes to look at him beside you. “I enjoy spending time with you. I am not used to being in the company of women, and when I spoke to you in the past about my difficulties conversing with those I am unfamiliar with, it was the truth. I was... and sometimes even still... feel unsure of how to speak with you.” He feels terribly vulnerable, out in the open, unguarded, and buckles under the weight of your stare. Perhaps it was not the best time to admit his shortcomings. “I just— I hope I do not bore you. I feel perhaps that my company is not so greatly sought after, and I can understand why.”

“Nothing could be further from the truth,” you murmur, eyes soft. He wants you to look at only him like that. “Your company is most preferred by me. Perhaps if you could see yourself as I do, you would understand the weight of my affections. If I could spend every second beside you, I would.”

The last bit slips out accidentally, and you burn a furious red at the admission. You turn away. Prince Aemond does the same. Only the sky sees his elated reaction.

The sun creeps gently into the afternoon, skimming the canopies of the trees on its descent towards the horizon. Prince Aemond chances a glance at you. You are still staring up at the skies, taking in the shifting colors painted freely across the heavens; soft peach giving way to brilliant rouge, and in the golden light, you capture his breath. You are perfect. You look like the rest of his life.

“My lady, should we return to the Keep?” he asks, forcing himself to look away.

“Yes,” you sigh, and then, with a brighter tone, you add, “Would you like to fly back? Archeon will seat you with no issue, my prince.”

He gives you a look, uncertainty in his eyes. Your dragon is with saddle, of course, and could easily carry two, but there is something in the pit of his stomach that warns against it. Perhaps it is because he knows of the apparent dislike held by your beast towards him. He wonders mildly if Archeon would try to shrug him off mid-flight. With you there, however, the odds of that happening are slim to none.

It is only the brave who conquer.

“I would,” he says, but something in his voice betrays his lack of confidence.

“Archeon is gentle and kind,” you reassure. “He won’t harm you.”

Prince Aemond is by your side when you descend the slope of the hill towards your lounging dragon, who lifts his head only slightly at your approach. He locks eyes with the prince, and then immediately looks away, as if understanding what will soon be asked of him. His expression is neither here nor there; feelings on your betrothed are as of yet undecided.

Archeon senses your wish to mount, and lowers his shoulder to the ground without quarrel. He is vocal, Prince Aemond notices -- very much so. Your dragon often clicks and coos at you in a warm way that speaks volumes of his affection. His size makes it a jarring noise to hear -- something so tender rising up from the pit of a colossal beast.

You climb up onto his front foot, hoisting yourself up his shoulder, and scaling the sheer size of his body with practised ease. Where Prince Aemond uses ropes to mount Vhagar, you use Archeon’s horns. The dragons helps you out when he feels you lose momentum, nudging you upwards softly with his head, and when you make it to the saddle, you seat yourself with ease. Then, you glance down at him expectantly. You’re so high up, he can barely make out the details of your face.

He’s having second thoughts, and chances a sideways look to Archeon. The dragon blinks at him expressionless, as if he wishes to tell him to hurry up and get on with it. With caution and nerves suppressed, he makes towards your dragons foot.

To his surprise, there is no derisive snort, nor warning growl when Prince Aemond climbs up onto your beast. There is no move made to shake him off, nor fiery breath tunnelled towards him. In fact, Archeon seems pacified, content in the happenings around him, and soon, the prince is cresting his back, and making towards the saddle.

He feels awkward, hesitating slightly, but when you shuffle forwards to give him more space, he settles quickly behind you, chest tight against your back.

“Forgive me, my lady,” he says, voice unsteady and full of embarrassment.

You grasp the silver handles of the saddle, glancing back at Prince Aemond as Archeon begins to rise.

“You may hold onto me if you wish, my prince,” you offer, “The situation is one that demands it for your own safety, so I do not mind.”

Archeon roars loud, spreading his wings, and Prince Aemond grasps onto you swiftly with understandable fright when your dragon launches himself upwards. The force pushes you deep into the saddle, and you slide backwards into the princes chest. The clearing beneath you grows smaller the further and higher Archeon climbs, until your horses are no longer visible, the hill disappears behind clouds, and even the forest itself seems like a forgotten memory.

Wind whips at your cheeks, rushes through your hair, and the feeling of being held tightly by the prince sets your soul ablaze. Archeon climbs higher, and higher still, vocalising loudly, beating his wings with a force that sounds like thunder, and then, as if in a fit of ill temper, snaps his jaws. He dips his head, body following suit, and plummets to the earth below.

Your dragon dives sharply, free falling, tucking his wings in close to his body to speed up his descent, and Prince Aemond releases a worrying cry, arms hugging you tighter out of sheer reflex. Archeon is falling at a terrifying speed, the forest reappears as he exits the clouds, and rushes up to greet you quickly.

“Don’t be afraid!” You place a hand over the princes iron-clad grip on your waist. “Don’t be afraid!”

And then, you let go.

Here, you have no chains, no expectations, no duty. Here you are not the last daughter, nor sole hope of your people. Here, in this moment, you are free. All that matters is your dragon, your prince, and you.

Archeon levels immediately, and spreads his wings like you do your arms. As if you, yourself are flying. He roars, and you cry out with joy, soaring over the Kingswood. The feeling is like nothing on earth. Archeon flies steady, gliding through the skies, taking you higher, keeping his balance, and you yell out, unable to contain the bubbling exhilaration within you. You look over your shoulder at Prince Aemond, and the man seems as delighted to be here as you are; wide grin that reaches all the way to his eye spreads across his face, and he looks full of youth and happiness.

He finds the courage to let go of your waist, and spreads his arms out to his side, following your lead, and everything is impossibly more staggering, more breath-taking, more incredible. Archeon himself responds to the princes bravery; chittering at the trust shown in himself, in you, in the bond.

In that moment, Prince Aemond forgets everything. Here, there is no crown, no succession, no trauma, no injury, no pain. There is only you, and the way you’re looking at him. It's like he’s the most important person in the world to you. The most precious.

You reach down to pet the scales beside your saddle, praising your dragon for his wonder, and then, you actively lean back against Prince Aemond. You’re laughing, settling into his chest like it’s your homeland. You are truly unlike any woman he’s ever met. He could travel the world, live a thousand lifetimes, and never know anyone quite like you.

Despite his efforts, he cannot deny the truth.

He is falling in love with you with no way to stop.

The thought both terrifies him, and sets him free.

——————

Night has fallen by the time Prince Aemond decides to visit Vhagar.

She is already fast asleep by the time he arrives, but rouses slowly upon his approach. He climbs the ropes by her neck, hoisting himself upwards to his saddle, and commands her to fly. She is irritable in her old age, but follows his order with little to no quarrel, and soon, he is flying her over the Kingsland to clear his mind.

Since he parted with you earlier, he has thought about nothing else.

You make him feel a way no one ever has.

He is like a dog, he thinks, in the way he yearns for your approval. Where he avoided your eyes before, now, he cannot look away. He is always searching for your gaze, and when you meet it, he ignites.

He had no weaknesses before you. None. He did not care at all for the feelings of others, and did not concern himself with their opinions. He took pride in speaking and acting however he pleased. The vicious one-eyed, the bringer of fire and fury, the monster of house Targaryen.

Now, his biggest weakness walks outside his body, and takes your form. You look at him like he is worth something, like he is only yours. Like you care about him.

If you forsake him, there would be no coming back from that place. He would be utterly destroyed. There is still time, he thinks, to drag himself back from the point of no return.

Vhagar voices the pain he cannot bring himself to utter in a hollow wail.

He settles on it then.

He will devote himself to his grandfathers plan. He will side with his mother. He will be the one to inflict the first wound, striking fast before you get a chance to do the same to him. You will, of course. There is no if. People like him will never obtain true happiness.

He'll find your dragons -- every last one.

And he’ll kill them.

[part 10]

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond #prince aemond #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen #aemond x you #aemond x y/n #aemond x fem!reader #aemond x reader #hotd aemond #hotd #hotd fanfic #house of the dragon aemond #house of the dragon fanfiction #house of the dragon

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fullfiresiren · 1 year

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Just binge read your Unconquered fic on Ao3. I love it! But I feel like I have to ask, what will end up happening to other four dragons? Are they found? And if so, by either Aemond or the reader?

I also love that the reader is of Valyrian heritage! I think that's the first fic I've read like that!

Hello my love! Thank you so much — I’m glad you’re enjoying it so far!🌷 Of course I can’t just outright tell you what happens — where would be the fun in that?! 👀 But I can tell you that all of her dragons do make an appearance at some point in the story and aren’t just used as a plot point… you’ll only have to wait another… hmm… 7 chapters to see one 👀 I know that’s a long time, but it is a slow burn haha 😂🌷👀

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fullfiresiren · 1 year

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unconquered // 8

[8; varying degrees of warmth]

[read on ao3]

A week has passed since the incident at dinner.

Princess Helaena visits you often; in your apartments to sew, in the gardens to sketch, or just to pass time walking through the Keep. She brings you gifts she finds endearing, or ones she thinks you would enjoy -- an assortment of colored ribbons for your hair, romance and fantasy novels from the library, even some pastries she asked the cooks to make especially for the two of you to share. Where you have lost closeness with Prince Aemond, you have gained it tenfold with the princess. You grieve the loss of it, and yet, warmth blooms at your new friendship.

She mentioned briefly in first early days after what had transpired at supper, that her bull-headed brothers behaviour was undeniably uncouth, and there were no excuses for it. She had relented, however, that she would be happy to speak with him on your behalf, should you wish it. You did not; stubborn temperament refusing to bow and submit. Prince Aemond was at fault, so Prince Aemond should speak first. As the days progressed however, she spoke of it less and less. Until, one morning in her apartments, as the both of you sat sewing on her blue chaise longue, she felt the need to speak.

“My brother has a terrible habit of being unable to admit his mistakes,” she voices with a sigh, as if it will change your opinion of the situation. “Although I have no doubt that he knows he was wrong.”

You do not look up, gaze transfixed on your work before you, continuing to sew a small blue dragon in flight amongst four others. Your skills have grown since you first began, and although you are far behind Princess Helaena's ability, there is a visible improvement that has you proud.

“Indeed,” you murmur, wishing the topic would lay itself to rest once and for all. Instead, others drag it from the dirt to inspect continuously. “I could more easily forgive his pride had he not wounded mine, princess.”

She looks saddened by your words, but, ultimately does agree. Her obtuse brother will not soon hear the end of this from her, and likely, until the matter is resolved, neither will you.

“The weather today is lovely,” you change the subject quickly, hoping she follows suit. “It would be a shame to waste it indoors.”

“You sound like your lady’s maid,” she giggles, and you scoff good-naturedly.

“She is right, though. Why are we not taking advantage of the grounds? You know how much I adore them, princess.”

“Sewing outside in hot weather is distracting,” she speaks, adding, “and you know you need not call me ‘princess’ any longer.”

Close enough to finally forgo titles, you smile down at your work, friendship truly solidified. “Of course... Helaena...”

She nudges you affectionately with her shoulder -- an action you have come to realise means encouragement and closeness. Unbeknownst to yourself, you are Helaena’s first, and only friend.

Suddenly, she sits more upright, posture a little forced, and turns her head towards you. Her eyes linger on her embroidered beetle, but every so often, they flick upwards to your face.

“Perhaps... we should finish our sewing now, and meet in the gardens in an hour?” she suggests, but it is as if she is reading from a book, or piece of parchment.

You give her a curious look. “Yes, I... that would be nice...” A raise of your eyebrow, and then, “Why in an hour? Why not now?”

Her eyes glint with something you are unable to place when she says, “To give us time to ready ourselves, of course.” It seems like a flimsy excuse, and so she adds, “I also wish to check on my beloved children.”

At the mention of her issues, you readily believe her. You assume they are with the wetnurse, or maids currently. Children are to be loved, cherished. They require constant attention from an ever watchful attendant, and, you suppose, when a mother is without them for a while, a part of her heart aches to be reunited. You nod in understanding, placing your work down near her elusive sewing box.

“Ah, of course,” you smile, standing to leave her be, “Let us meet in an hour, then.”

She sees you out with fondness, and, once you are walking down the hall, calls out to you.

“In an hour, (y/n),” she reminds, waving to you, all formal titles discarded to make way for a blossoming familiarity.

You turn to glance over your shoulder.

“An hour,” you confirm.

You do not return to your apartments; no need to change, nor eat, nor rest. Instead, with nothing else to do, you choose to make your way down the length of the Keep, straight to the gardens. The princess told you to meet in an hour. It matters not that you are early, only late.

Your shoes click with each step you take to descend the stone staircase towards the open grounds, and crunch when you reach the pebbled paths. You set a leisurely pace when you walk, hands clasped behind your back, taking in your soft surroundings.

The garden is as you always remember it to be; vibrant green with delicate specks of color here and there. As if an artist has taken liberties to separate their monochromatic canvas with signs of life in every hue. It is refreshing for the eye; kindred to the soul. The air today carries the thick scent of wet earth, and when you scan the grounds for the reason, you become aware that the workers tending to the nursery seem to be planting a new row of fruit trees. Intrigued, you wander over.

A young man on his knees pats down loose soil around a sturdy sapling. Upon the crunching pebbles that sound out your approach, he glances over his shoulder.

“H-High Lady,” he starts, smiling up at you, dirt smeared across his features. He seems surprised at your appearance, and stops what he was doing, asking shyly, “Is... there something I can help you with?”

“What are you planting?” you ask, taking a step forward to inspect it closer, curiosity growing.

“Blood oranges, my lady,” he replies. “From Dorne. They were imported upon request of the King. I have heard when they are ripe, they release a fragrant scent.” You must look overly interested, and he satiates your need for knowledge, by adding, “We don’t know if they’ll take in the climate here, so we’re being careful with the planting, and taking extra care to grow them.”

“How lovely,” you murmur. “Can these be eaten like regular oranges?”

“Y-yes, my lady. When they grow larger and sprout fruit, you can pick them from the trees,” he explains, adding hastily, “should you wish.”

He seems entranced by you; your features, your way of speaking, your manner, and glances up at you like you are some kind of deity.

All the workers at the Keep have heard tell of you – the mysterious high born who arrived on dragon back, but bears no lineage to the crown. With little to no interaction with you, and your staggering notoriety and favor from the King, the small minds of the castles’ household began to wander far and wide. He has heard the rumors about you. That your beauty, they say, is striking -- almost unearthly. Some of them even go so far as to call you a witch. Some older and more cynical laundresses say you never bleed, not even once. The cooks whisper that you only eat raw meat, and one scullery maid swears to the seven that she saw you worshipping the full moon one night.

But as you stand before him now, he believes only one. Your beauty is not of this earth.

You smile at him. “I wish you luck, then, in your work.”

“T-thank you, my lady,” he nods, and you continue onwards, leaving him to stare after you in a trance.

When they grow fully, you expect orange trees would compliment the grounds very much, and perhaps one day, you can take the joy of sharing one with Helaena under the shade of the Wierwood tree. The thought warms you, but you grow cold when a breeze reminds you that as of this moment, Prince Aemond will not be a part of that future.

The grounds, however, never fail to ease your crowded mind and hush your thoughts. Something about being in amongst nature calms your fire. You wonder if it would be too much of you to ask the King for a room that overlooked the gardens? Perhaps. The view from your room now is undoubtedly splendid; one that stretches across the city and the Narrow Sea. Too low, however, to see the beaches, nor your beloved dragon.

Any room with a view makes you feel less like a prisoner.

Sometimes, when you step out onto the balcony of your apartments to gaze across the ocean, you wonder if you are staring in the direction of your homelands. Separated by distance and time. A thought that is sobering, and leaves you hollow.

From your path, you notice a head of long, soft white, and a light blue gown appear from the edges of the gardens; unmistakably the princess. The hour passed quicker than you thought it would, and you make your way over to her quickly. She moves to stand at the base of the stone steps that gives those coming from the castle entrance to the gardens, looking up as if waiting for someone -- waiting for you, of course. What a surprise, then, when you call out to her from across the grounds.

“Ah, Helaena!” you greet, quickening your pace to reach her. She turns, a little shocked, but holds out her hands for you to grasp. You readily accept them. “I have a wonderful idea! Let us introduce Dreamfyre and Archeon! We could ride them together over the city or the Narrow Sea? Wouldn’t that be excellent?” you gush. “Today's weather is perfect for... a... flight...”

You trail off when you notice Prince Aemond descend the stone steps behind her.

Like a ghostly apparition, or a phantom spectre, dressed in his usual melancholic black, he is graceful when he moves, but abrupt when he stops. He has spotted you, face hiding poorly concealed shock, eye growing wider before it narrows at the back of his sister’s head. You glance at Helaena, and she gives you a meek look.

You have half a mind to turn and stomp all the way back to your apartments, impudent at being tricked. Not willing to risk looking like the defeated party, however, you hold your ground until the Prince himself makes the first move. If he stays, you stay. If he goes, so will you.

You hear him sigh out sharply through his nose, and, after a moment of painful contemplation, continues down the stairs until he is before you both.

“I thought the three of us could use a calming walk in the gardens,” the princess explains, moving to stand between you both, linking arms with her brother, and then with you.

You realise you cannot escape, nor back away, and so, when she sets a pace, you can do nothing but keep up.

The atmosphere is horribly tense and high strung, and judging from the look on Prince Aemond’s face from the brief glances you shoot his way, he would rather be anywhere but here. You take offense, despite feeling the same. You turn away, refusing to look in their direction. A traitorous friend and a silent fiancé.

“My future sister and I were sewing earlier,” she speaks, filling the silence. “Isn't that right?”

Her affectionate word usage does not go unnoticed by you, and she nudges your side when you keep quiet.

You answer indignant. “Yes.”

“I found it most enjoyable,” she continues, guiding you through the grounds, and towards, you notice, the Wierwood tree. You have realized by now, that she has already planned something without your knowledge, and now, all you can do is brace yourself for the results. “Do you remember when I tried to teach you to sew, brother?”

Prince Aemond refuses to answer, allowing his sister to drag him about in the hopes that she’ll let go and he can retreat. But she has him tightly, and will not give up.

“We were young, and you would cry whenever you pricked yourself--”

“Yes,” he grits, willing her to cease talking. “I remember.”

“I so loved to sew,” she continues, “and you detested that I had to learn alone. You used to sit with me for hours, then, no matter how many times you hurt yourself. Do you remember the maester had to make a special salve to help with your cuts from the needle? I believe only you know the correct ointment to ask for--”

“Indeed,” he forces, giving her a particularly hostile look.

Your suspicions, however, are confirmed. The healing ointment was intended for you, and it was a gift from the prince.

Helaena stops abruptly, under the delicate shade of the ancient Wierwood tree, the canopy stretching out far beyond its trunk. She sighs. Her trick was craftily done, and well executed, but now, she fears she has not planned far enough ahead. This is the perfect place for you two to talk; secluded and quiet, but now, she fears, with her here, nothing will be said.

“Ah!” she exclaims softly, and far too pronounced for it to be natural. “My centipede! Oh dear, I believe I left the roof of it’s tank open... this will not do... I must return to my apartments to check, please excuse me!”

You give her a pleading look, silently begging her to not leave you alone, but she slips from your grasp like smoke, smiling excitedly at you from behind her brothers stiff back. And with that, she takes her leave; the only thing that fills the silence, is the soft chorus of songbirds.

You stare adamantly ahead, stomach twisting uncomfortably with nerves and apprehension. The prince does the same.

When a minute passes and nothing transpires, you decide to sit at the base of the tree. Leaving is defeat, but staying is victory, no matter the silence that hangs over both decisions.

Prince Aemond stands for a few moments longer, and you feel his eye on you. You dare not look at him, burning humiliation from supper still raw, and stare out across the secluded area before you. When he finally accepts that you will not meet his gaze, he sits slowly, placing himself further from you than necessary.

A breeze flits about the two of you, rustling the auburn leaves above.

“Did you receive the ointment?” he says aloud suddenly, looking away. You notice he has taken to playing with the strands of grass by his thigh.

You glance down at your hand, no sign of cuts or injury thanks to the salve you had been using. “Yes.”

“Good.”

You hear the branches above you creak softly, a few birds perched overhead take flight, as if they sense the oncoming storm. Prince Aemond is more forceful, you notice, as moments pass by, with the grass by his side, ripping out clumps and throwing it away, lips pursed in annoyance. Chaos is coming, you think.

“If you did not wish to marry me, you should have voiced your opinion sooner,” he says firmly, turning his head only slightly towards you, but keeping his eyes transfixed on where he is massacring the ground. There is something shifting under the waters of his voice that foretells of a lurking danger. He make his signature hum, but it sounds derisive. “Finding out at dinner in front of my family was detestable.”

You are genuinely confused by his words, taken aback by the distain in them. Frowning at him with a bewildered expression, you say, “I don’t understand--”

He meets your gaze hotly, and bites with more force, “I said if you did not wish to have me as a husband, you should have confided these feelings with me in private.”

“I feel no way of the sort,” you retort, scowling at the accusation. “What exactly are you accusing me of--?”

“I saw your reaction to my fathers words, my lady,” he lowers his voice, words laced with venom, “To the date of the wedding being set. You sat in fearful silence, and only relaxed when my sister reassured you that marriage is not that bad. Anyone who is happy to be wed would react in the opposite way--”

“You have great experience, then, in being wed to another?” you ask sharply, the question an obviously rhetorical one. “Of the innermost feelings of women? Of myself?”

He falls silent, but his eye grows wide and wild. Stories forewarn that you should not taunt a great beast, but they fail to recognize you are far more fearsome.

You stand your ground, and hold his gaze.

“Or are you making assumptions, my prince?”

You are sure that only your status and gargantuan dragon are keeping you exempt from the customary manners of court. Should you be anyone else, you believe speaking to a prince in such a way would mean your imminent death. How lucky for you, then, that no amount of power frightens you, when your own easily encompasses it.

He remains silent, and you have more to say.

“You humiliated me in front of your entire family, and your actions have left a searing wound on my--” you wonder whether or not to voice it aloud, but your adrenaline commands you to, “...on my feelings for you. You, too, were silent at the news. Does this mean then, that you loathe the idea of marrying me? Of being my husband?”

You leave the question hanging heavy in the stagnant air, chest heaving.

His face, however, abruptly changes, as if a sudden realization has dawned on him. The strength to look you in the eyes fades quickly, and he turns, scoffing. There are no words that form on his tongue as he stares out over the grassy path in front of him. A long moment passes where you fear he will not say anything at all. And then, ever so quiet, he speaks.

“It does not.”

Your emotions are raw with the confrontation, but a sense of calm washes over you. Like you have faced the raging storm and withstood its wrath.

“I told you I would not be insulted nor hurt if you rejected me,” he says, calmer this time, but you notice his fingers have returned to picking at strands of grass and dirt. He is not fully convinced, nor is his statement true. He was very obviously hurt at your rejection. “So tell me with honesty, my lady.”

You wait for the question but it does not come. A glance towards him, and he is already looking at you with an expectant expression, waiting for you to give him permission.

“Ask me, my prince.”

“I...” he trails off, murmuring, “...do not wish to ask.”

“Find the courage,” you say, unwilling to allow him to flit around his meaning. He should be forthright with this.

He sighs, heavy, and full bodied, like he has been mentally drained by the events. His hands come to rest in his lap, and he looks to the heavens, keeping his eyes there when he finally does ask.

“Do you wish to marry me?”

The question is heavy, but it was what you were expecting. You lean your head against the tree, staring up at the canopy above you. The sun glints through the leaves, and with honesty, you answer.

“I do not wish to marry you out of duty. I wish to marry you for love,” you say. “But never once have I not wanted you to be my husband.”

The silence returns, but this time, it is soft, calm. The maelstrom has passed, and now, the tide only ebbs against the shore.

He tilts his head forward, looking down into his lap; pristine appearance tarnished by his own doing. Pale fingers now smeared with grass debris, under his nails, earth.

“Please forgive me,” he whispers, “for my actions... and for my assumption. I... was wrong.”

My brother has a terrible habit of being unable to admit his mistakes.

You say nothing, heart thundering in your chest at the acknowledgement of his words. Despite what his sister claims, he has owned his wrongdoings -- for you. For the assumed loss of you, he was gripped tightly by anger and shame, wounded deeply by your perceived rejection. From you, only you, he asks forgiveness.

Prince Aemond of house Targeyen is rumoured to be many things. One-Eyed savage, full of bitter resentment and vengeance. Disfigured vortex of fury and wrath. Ladies cannot bear to be around him, men fear to look him in the eye. A dangerous mix of talent and perseverance that warns others not to toil. He readily commands the largest dragon, and yet, sits beside you soft, and quiet.

Her brother cannot admit mistakes. Your fiancé begs absolution.

He looks at you now, face filled with gentle sadness at your silent state.

“Have I ruined everything?” he whispers.

“On the contrary,” you murmur, smiling, “I am perhaps more fond of you now.”

He grows red in the face, looking down, and asks, “Do you forgive me?”

“Yes,” you answer, “I do.”

His eyes flash up at you, and he gives you a tentative smile. You return it readily.

“Speak to me,” you start, and he holds your gaze, “if you feel a bridge developing between us. The worst distance between two people is misunderstanding.”

He nods mutely, holding tightly to the phrase. He once heard his sister say that love is a strange and inexplicable mix of comprehension and misunderstanding. He does not want love to be anything other than warm. Varying degrees of it.

Prince Aemond does not care about a great many things. To be hated? It does not phase him. To be misunderstood? He is indifferent to it.

But to be either, by you, frightens him. Truly.

“I am sorry,” he whispers.

“I am sorry, too,” you murmur back. “I feel terribly for the ground, though. It seems like most of your anger was fixated there.”

He laughs, glancing down to patches of earth ripped up from his own fingers. “I was frustrated,” he hums.

“I know,” you acknowledge, sighing out peacefully and closing your eyes. “I was frustrated too.”

“By me?”

There is a soft insecurity that lingers about him. The more you have gotten to know him, the more you understand his cold and stoic exterior is to make up for that. Only his sister has been allowed to see through it. Now, you have been gifted the same.

“By the situation,” you reassure, peaking an eye open to glance at him. He is already looking at you. You close it again, and relax. “Never by you.”

You do not need to look to know that he is smiling.

[part 9]

#aemond targaryen x reader #prince aemond #aemond #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen #aemond x you #aemond x fem!reader #aemond fanfiction #hotd aemond #aemond fanart #aemond x reader #hotd #house of the dragon aemond #house of the dragon fanfiction #house of the dragon

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fullfiresiren · 1 year

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*sigh*

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fullfiresiren · 1 year

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Ewan Mitchell for FACE magazine. I am losing my mind.

#ewan mitchell #aemond targaryen #ewan nation #ewan #mitchell #face #magazine #face magazine #Aemond #house of the dragon #hotd

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fullfiresiren · 1 year

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unconquered // 7

[7; feast for dragons]

[read on ao3]

“Did my hair really need to be washed, Elen? I doubt I smell that terrible...”

Your lady in waiting grumbles at your words, scrubbing your hair meticulously with a variety of fragrances, making sure you’re covered in soap.

“Your grace,” she sighs, scooping up fresh water to rinse your down with. “The king and his son may not notice the thick scent of dragon, since they are accustomed to it--” she pauses to bend down, inhaling your hair and nodding resolutely, the scent one she now accepts, “--but I am afraid the rest of us are fully aware. I will not allow you to walk around as anything less than beautiful and pristine, your grace. Please accept my apologies in advance.”

She’s mothering you again, you note, but you welcome it readily.

“I promise I shall be done soon,” she mumbles, and you relax deeper into the bath.

Since leaving Prince Aemond earlier, you had made a beeline to your apartments, intent on changing clothes, and perhaps freshening up, but one whiff of your scent, and Elen was intent on drawing a bath faster than an arrow flies.

“What were you even doing to incur such a scent, your grace?” she asks incredulously, but, quickly fearing she has spoken out of turn, adds, “ah, forgive me, I mean no disrespect.”

“It is alright,” you reassure. “After introducing the King to my dragon, I... took some time to spar with his son.”

“With Prince Aemond?” she asks, shocked. “Sparring? It is not... perhaps a lady of the court...” she trails off, glancing down as you peer up at her. You know exactly what it is Elen wishes to comment on, but she is teetering the edge of voicing her thoughts and keeping them hidden. In the end, she settles on a question. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

“Very much,” you murmur, feeling her squeeze the excess water from your hair. “Prince Aemond is kind and patient. Much like the rest of his family.”

She does not comment on that, nor even make a noise of acknowledgement as she usually would. Instead, she reaches for a dry towel, spreading it open wide so she may wrap it around your body when you step out of the bath. The warmth dissipates fast, and your skin peppers with goosebumps.

“Any preference of gown, your grace?” Elen asks from over her shoulder, rummaging about in various closets and drawers.

“I will leave it to your discretion, Elen,” you reply, walking to sit on your bed. “But I have been invited to eat supper with the King and his family tonight. Does that change anything?”

“Only that I will have to dress you in finer garments and jewels nearer the time, your grace,” she replies. “For now, something comfortable?”

“Yes, please,” you hum, “That sounds wonderful.”

As she has done many times before for you, Elen takes great care and diligence when she dresses you, no matter the occasion. A dark teal gown sits soft against your skin, and she is busy combing out your wet hair when there is a knock at the door. You hear her sigh above you at the interruption, and giggle at her frown.

“Come!” you call.

No sooner have you looked behind you to see your visitor, than the Princess Helaena steps through the threshold of your apartments, soft yellow gown and neatly braided hair. You stand abruptly, overjoyed. She is accompanied by no one, and in her arms, holds a sizeable box. She must have carried it all the way here.

“Princess!” you greet fondly, walking over to her. “What a lovely surprise!”

She smiles back at you, placing the box down on the table between your twin sofas, greeting brightly, “High Lady (y/n).”

“Please, sit,” you offer, “Pray, what reason for your visit?”

“I heard you are to dine with us tonight?” she says, sitting on the plush sofa, and playing with her hands. “I wanted to spend time with you before then, if it is agreeable?”

“Of course!” you beam, “How wonderful!”

Princess Helaena seems to brighten considerably at your reaction. You hear Elen make her way towards the door, but not before she bows to the both of you, bidding you a lovely day with a smile, and takes her leave.

“Your hair is wet,” the princess notices. “Did I interrupt?”

“Not at all,” you wave the question off. “My hair will dry in time; it is of no consequence.”

She nods. There is a pause, and then she remembers, gesturing to the box. “Oh, I brought this with me, today. I remember you expressing a wish to learn to sew?” she reaches forward to open the chest. Inside sits various sewing tools and equipment, threads of every color, beads, needles, fabric. It is like its own collective treasure.

“Yes,” you say. “I remember. Will you teach me now?”

“If you would like?”

“Very much,” you beam, sitting across from her.

Princess Helaena smiles, reaching inside the box to rummage through the various items, before pulling out two circular frames, and two pieces of plain fabric. She gives you a set, humming a tune to herself, and passing you a needle of your own.

“Do you have something you wish to sew?” she asks. “Sometimes it is helpful to focus on something simply if you are unsure.”

The flower you had sketched the previous day with her comes to mind; a small and dainty daisy. It seems easy enough, and simple to recreate.

“I have an idea of what I would like to sew,” you voice, picking out the corresponding-coloured threads, asking, “Do I weave the thread through the eye of the needle?”

She nods, “Yes.”

Princess Helaena shows you step-by-step with gentle guidance on how to properly sew. She teaches you different stitching techniques, the correct way to handle a needle, how tightly to pull when you sew. Although you prick yourself numerous times, she is always concerned, and does her best to help you avoid a repeat of the painful mistake. She is like her brother, you think, in the way she is patient and thorough.

You engage in pleasant conversation, time whittling away whilst you discuss all manner of things. From her love of the peculiar, to her favorite books and stories, and, even now and then, her brother. Topics change like the weather, but each and every one you speak of with the princess is one you enjoy. She sews happily whilst she talks, relaxing into herself the more time you spend together.

“You have children of your own,” you begin. “Do you not?”

“Yes,” she smiles, “I have two. Twins.”

“How lovely,” you gush, and then, she steals a thought from the quiet recesses of your mind, speaking it into existence.

“Are you excited to have children with my brother?”

You stab yourself sharply with the needle, the question taking you off guard. Yelping in pain, you recoil, a bead of blood swelling on your finger.

“Ah, forgive me!” the princess cries, “I did not mean to alarm you!”

She rushes over to the door, intent on calling your sworn sword to fetch some bandages. When you look over your shoulder at Ser Erryk, he catches your eye, and the poor man looks terribly frightened, frantic in his haste to see if you are injured. You hold up a single bloody finger to him, shrugging pitifully with a guilty smile, and he sighs heavily, fears dispersed. He appears to visibly calm, nodding to the princess, and leaves to collect what it is she wishes.

“I am terribly sorry,” she sighs, coming to sit beside you, fingers wrapping gently around your hand to inspect the small injury. When she sees the tips of your fingers littered with pin marks, she gives you an apologetic look. “Perhaps I should have brought a thimble with me...”

“It’s alright, princess,” you reassure, “It is only small, and barely hurts. My own clumsiness is at fault.”

“And perhaps my intrusive line of questioning,” she mumbles sadly.

You look at her with a fond smile, but the lingering butterflies at the thoughts she planted stir up once again. Are you excited for that part of your life? To become a mother? Is that what you want?

“Oh,” she notices your sewn image, and lifts it to inspect closer. “How sweet! It is the daisy from before, yes? The one you chose to sketch yesterday?”

You are grateful for her change in topic, not wanting to fully face your feelings on the subject quite yet.

“Yes,” you begin, gazing at the flower. It's simple, and crudely done, but nonetheless yours. For your first attempt, you are entirely proud. “But not very well presented, I admit.”

You glance over at her own piece, laying in the spot on the table where she left it. It is a beautifully intricate millipede, eerie and twisting. Something haunting in its beauty. You wonder how long she has been sewing for to reach this level. You stare at your own design and wonder if you will ever create something as wonderful.

“One day,” she speaks, as if peering into your innermost thoughts. “It is only practise. Not talent.”

A knock at the door signals Ser Erryks return.

“Come,” you say, and the door opens.

He enters with a small wooden box. “Your grace,” he bows to Princess Helaena, and then turns to you. “My lady, the maester was not in his room when I knocked. I took what I thought would aid you best. Forgive me if it does not help.”

“Thank you, Ser Erryk,” you smile, and make room on the table for him to place the box. “That was kind of you.”

He nods, and takes his leave. The princess turns to grab the box, pulling it onto her lap, and shuffling through the various vials and topical solutions.

“I remember when my father appointed Ser Erryk as your sworn sword,” she begins. “He is a good man. His twin is my brother's appointed protector. I remember when Aemond offered his sword for you.”

She drops the last truth like it is the most natural thing in the word, and not the most startingly fateful.

“What?” you stumble over your words, giving her your injured hand when she asks for it gently.

“My brother,” she begins, taking care to wrap soft bandages around your fingers, “When my father made it known you would be appointed a protector, Aemond offered up his sword before all else. My father must have thought he was joking and laughed him off. I remember my brother took great offense, saying our father must think him unworthy of you. When your betrothal was arranged, Aemond already felt terribly undeserving, and tried all he could to avoid you. I suppose now he is doing his best to relax around you, but emotions are difficult for my brother.”

You do not say a word; fearful that if you do, she’ll realise she is divulging valuable personal information to you, and cease entirely. Princess Helaena looks over her work, making sure your fingers are properly wrapped, and when they are to her standard, she smiles.

“He was ostracized always as a child,” she says, “and never had any friends. Even my brother and our nephews were cruel to him. He prefers his own company, and does his best to always appear calm, despite how thoroughly he feels emotions. He speaks of duty, and tradition, but I worry for him. Who is to care for him? I love my brother, High Lady (y/n). He is a good man. If he is to marry anyone, I want it to be someone he loves, too. Someone like you.”

She looks up at you with a genuine emotion, nodding like she is entirely sure of herself.

“I hear the word duty thrown around often at the Keep,” you begin. “And although I am yet to fully understand the weight of it, I believe when it comes to relationships, love should be the ruling order. Unlike marriages of political alliance, I do not need to join houses with anyone for consolidation of power. Neither, thankfully, does your brother. If the two of us are truly to marry, I want it to be because he loves me. Nothing else.”

She is grinning now, from ear to ear. “It pleases me greatly to hear that. To hear that you will not simply marry my brother because you are told to, or because the realm demands. You care not for the politics of the crown -- I remember you telling me this. Then please do not ever change yourself. Allow your heart to be your guide.”

“I will,” you reply, and she holds your hands firmly in her own.

“One day I hope I shall call you sister.”

“As do I.”

The tender moment is cut short when a sharp knock calls out at your door. You laugh with the princess, calling out for the waiting party to enter. Elen lets herself in, and bows to you both, carrying a large swaddle of material in her arms.

“Forgive me for the interruption, your graces,” she says, “I am to prepare the lady (y/n) for supper tonight.”

“Ah!” the princess blinks, looking at the pink and orange skies of dusk outside your window, “I should take my leave also.”

You stand with her, moving to see her out, and promise to sit near to one another at supper. With her by your side, you have no reason to feel anxious or worried about tonight's affair, no matter how much it feels like entering a dragon's lair. You close the door in time to hear Elen ask what she deems an important question.

“Gold or green, your grace?” she offers, holding up two equally stunning gowns. “Do not ask me to choose. This supper is important -- the first of many, I’m sure! Let the choice be your own.”

Green reminds you of the queen, of the hand -- the color of the Hightowers. Gold, of your city, and the magma that carved a path through your streets.”

“The first, Elen,” you say, “Gold.”

“Wonderful,” she smiles.

“But no jewellery, if possible,” you request. “Gold is radiant enough on its own.”

She nods, “Of course, your grace.”

Elen works fast with the knowledge that an appointed guard will be coming to collect you under the orders of Prince Aemond, and that the time to depart will be soon upon you. You are clothed in glimmering gold; straight neckline, long sleeves, tight bodice and billowing skirt. She is finishing the last touches to your hair, the sun almost entirely set, when the fated moment arrives.

“My lady!” Ser Erryk calls from outside your door, and you turn your head to the sound.

A little unusual for him to not knock and ask for entrance. “Yes?”

“Ser Criston is here to escort you to supper, my lady.”

Ah, you think. That is why.

You stand, thanking Elen, and make for the wooden door. Her voice stops you just shy.

“It is not my place to say, your grace,” she says, lowering her voice, “but be careful around Ser Criston. There is something off about that man.”

“I am glad I am not the only one who thinks so,” you smile. “I shall be fine, Elen.”

She nods, but does not seem convinced. When you open the door to your apartments, Ser Erryk greets you with a nod, and Ser Criston does not even grace you with a glance.

“Are you ready, my lady?” he asks, tone dull.

“Yes, Ser, I am.”

He smiles at you, but it’s forced, and in a very obvious way. “Let us walk, then.”

He sets off, leaving you to catch up, and you are beginning to dislike the Queen’s sworn sword more vehemently each time you meet. Conversation is dry and sparce, but you cannot let the silence settle in his presence. It feels like a threatening pressure against the pulse of your throat.

“Did you practise your fighting today, Ser Criston?” you ask.

“Yes, my lady,” he replies, adding, “As I do every day. It is the job of a Kingsguard.”

“Of course,” you mutter, following him through candle-lit corridors and long hallways. “Is the Queen well?”

He gives you a look, features softening only slightly. “Yes, my lady. She is.”

“That is good.”

It takes more than a few awkward minutes before you reach what you can only assume is your destination; the room used for formal suppers. Ser Criston knocks twice on the large ornate wooden doors, and then, they groan open from the inside, giving way to a sizeable hall, filled with candles, and tapestries. A few attendants mill about, and much to your horror and dismay, everyone is seated already.

You give Ser Criston a poignant look that he strategically ignores. The first supper with your future family, and you are late. What’s worse, is that it appears to all else to be entirely your fault. Had you arrived earlier, or been picked up whilst the sun was setting and not after as planned, this situation would have been avoided. All eyes turn to focus as you step into the room, your presence announced by a waiting guard. You try to hush the indignant part of yourself that speaks to Ser Criston purposefully arriving late to your room so that you would be embarrassed upon entering. You know from his distasteful attitude towards you, however, that your impression of the situation is more than likely true.

Your thoughts are silenced forever when the harsh scraping of a chair cuts through the heavy silence. Prince Aemond stands abruptly upon notice of your presence, while all else stay seated. You are taken aback by the obvious show of courtesy and respect, and the prince himself seems nervous at his movements, but does not falter.

In the middle of the long table sits King Viserys, to his right, the Queen, and to his left, the Hand. Sat directly across on the opposite side, peering over his shoulder to look at you, is Prince Aegon, who seems terribly bored, and horribly annoyed with everything. Princess Helaena on his left turns to smile and offer you a small wave. There is a seat free beside her, which you assume has been left empty for you, and next to that, Prince Aemond.

“Welcome! It is lovely to have you join us, High Lady (y/n)!” King Viserys offers warmly, gesturing to the only free seat. “We made room for you, so please sit and be comfortable.”

“Thank you, your grace,” you nod, stepping forward into the room and towards the table. “I apologise for my lateness.” Although it was no fault of my own, you seethe internally.

“Not at all,” the King waves you off, and you notice the Queen purse her lips at his flagrant disregard.

Everyone's plates and cutlery have already been laid out, you notice, wine poured, and candles lit. The table is decorated with various flowers and fruits, elegantly done and pleasing to the eye, and by the looks of the space left, the food to be brought out will be plentiful. Your eyes scan the length of it in front of you, as you move to sit, aware of Prince Aemond’s presence beside you.

Only when the stewards have pushed your chair in and you are comfortably seated to his right, does he allow himself to sit.

“My son is quite the gentleman, is he not?” the King laughs.

You are not sure if the question is rhetorical, but you answer it regardless. “Yes, your grace. He is.”

Turning your head slightly to Prince Aemond, you smile up at him, murmuring quietly for only him to hear, “Good evening, my prince.”

“Good evening, my betrothed,” he whispers back, and you smirk at his coy usage of the word, memories of earlier today springing forth.

The Princess Helaena nudges you softly with her shoulder in an unspoken greeting and you smile brightly at her in response.

“Such a happy occasion,” the Queen begins, “to be able to sit down together for a meal, and have you join us, Lady (y/n). We rarely get the chance.”

“High Lady,” the King corrects softly.

“Yes, of course,” she mutters, uncaring, and you realise this is the first time you have been in her presence when she has spoken at length.

“I am grateful to be a part of it, then, your grace,” you express, flattening out your skirt as you smile at her.

She returns it, and you seem to be jolted with déjà vu. Her smile reminds you entirely of Ser Cristons.

You reach for your goblet of wine to steady your nerves, somehow feeling like you have found yourself in a lions den, and when you bring it to your lips, you notice Prince Aemond’s eyes lingering on your face. Only when you lower the cup to it’s original place, does he speak.

“Forgive me, my lady,” he begins quietly, “but your hand— did you hurt yourself? Are you alright?”

He is, of course, referring to the noticeable bandages on your fingers.

“Ah,” you say, “Yes, my prince, I am alright. I was learning to sew with your sister earlier. I am afraid I require much more practice with needles before I can confidently sew without injuring myself. I am as clumsy with a needle as I am with a blade it seems,” you laugh, adding, “I apologise for causing you concern.”

He laughs a little with you. “As long as you are alright,” he says.

You nod, stretching your legs out along the floor underneath the table. Unfortunately, Prince Aemond had the same idea, his long limbs extending to relax, and you accidentally kick one another. As if the two of you have been burned, you pull your legs back sharply, jolting up in your seats, and fumble over quiet apologies for your equal clumsiness. When you both fall silent, and look at one another's expression, you giggle under your breath.

Prince Aegon rolls his eyes at the both of you and your obvious infatuation, sighing loudly, “May the Gods have mercy on me--”

“How are you finding the Red Keep, High Lady (y/n)?” Alicent interrupts, giving Aegon a look from across the table.

“Ah, yes, your grace,” you smile, feeling Prince Aemond chance a glance at you. “I am enjoying the Keep very much. It is decorated lovely, but I am most fond of the gardens. They are very well tended and beautiful to spend time in.”

“A fine castle,” King Viserys nods, “but nothing compared to the palaces of the freehold?”

You are not at liberty to say, for you cannot accurately remember. You settle on an even middle ground, hoping the King will not ask more about Valyria from you. “Both equally as wonderful.”

He beams, believing you. “You are most kind.”

Stewards and attendants begin bringing out food; dishes upon dishes of delicacies you assume have been imported from around the continent. Seafood platters, roasted fowl, fruits and vegetable bowls. All spiced with care, and cooked with great skill. It smells delicious, and your stomach rumbles pitifully.

“How was your early morning?” the princess asks, as the food is placed upon the table, leaning in, “I heard my father met with you to greet your dragon?”

“And what a fine beast he is!” the King interjects happily, already plating the food. “A wonderous creature!”

You smile at him, high praise and compliments about Archeon are well deserved, you think.

“It was highly enjoyable,” you reply, lowering your voice quietly to add, “Although your unfortunate brother had to teach me to spar for most of the morning.”

She opens her mouth in false shock, eyes large with mischief and delight, staring past you to glance at her brother when she says, “But he says you spar so well!”

You turn back to Prince Aemond with a laugh. “Then he has perjured himself most profoundly!”

“No, I said you spar quite well,” he corrects, smirking.

“Oh,” you nod, eyes narrowed with a smile, “Quite well is not very well -- I am satisfied.”

Helaena gives him a knowing look when his eye twinkles at you. He coughs, and looks away.

“Another drink?” he offers aloud to the table, hand reaching for the pitcher.

Prince Aegon crudely pushes his cup across his sister-wife, leaning as far as he can to nudge it past your plate, towards his younger brother. He gives a few final defiant shoves with the tips of his fingers, scratching his chin absentmindedly.

“For me, please, darling brother,” he sings mockingly. “If I am to suffer this lovers dance, I will need to be far less sober--”

“Aegon,” Queen Alicent hisses, eyes blazing. She shakes her head curtly, and he sighs obnoxiously, retrieving his empty cup.

You notice Prince Aemond shoot him a venemous glare.

“So, High Lady (y/n),” the Hand starts, plating some vegetables. “You are happy here? At the Keep? Would you not prefer your own castle?”

It’s a loaded question, and the Hand must think you an idiot to ask outright. You see it clear as day. You remind yourself of the company you are in, and to keep a level head when you answer. Prince Aemond ignores his grandfather, and instead offers to make you a plate of food similar to his own. You nod, thanking him. Otto looks on with a dismissive glare.

“I feel very happy here, Ser Otto,” you reply softly, watching Prince Aemond pile more food than necessary onto your plate. “The Red Keep is as much of a home now to me as Valyria was.”

It’s a lie, and he knows it, but he does not press further. You do not trust yourself to stare into the eyes of the Hand; frightened by what he could see lurking in your gaze, as if all your darkest secrets would be there for him to pick apart.

The truth is one you cannot face, and yet, you know you must. You keep it hidden, from everyone, including yourself, thinking that if you wilfully choose to overlook it, you may never have to face at it at all.

You are a betrayer. To yourself, to your people, to your home. Why are you so pliant? Easily bent and influenced; yielding all to your usurpers. They gave you shelter, and safety. They treat you kindly, with fondness. They took what was yours by birthright when all of you had died, striking when there were none left to oppose them. So, what will you do about it? Will you continue to overlook everything because they welcomed you home? They did it not out of love, but fear. One is often overly submissive to an obvious threat.

Take your dragon, then, and leave. Fly about the realm in search of the four others -- stay true to your original plan, and after... then what? Die from lack of food, and shelter. From exposure to the elements. You have no allies outside of court, only dragons. Of course, if you truly wanted, you could burn through everything and take what is yours by force, but as history has proven time and time again, any monarch who rules through fear is hated by their people, or overthrown. Most times, both.

What else can be done? Will you wait? Wait for what? Until you marry Prince Aemond; a man who, despite his obvious status, and fondness of you, is so far removed from the line of succession, it would be an impossibility for him to become King. After you are married, what comes next? You bear children who carry his name, and become another Targaryen princess, forsaking all Valyrian heritage. As it stands now, if you do nothing, marrying Prince Aemond would, in fact, lower your status. From a previous monarch, to a low princess.

So, that it is. You want to rule, don’t you? You want to rule King’s Landing, and the seven kingdoms.

No.

You want to rule Valyria.

But Valyria is gone. Ash. All that remains is a carcass; an empty shell of bones and dust. All memories of the place are dead, your own included. So, truly, what can you do? What can you do? Think hard, and well, last daughter.

You belong, but not here.

“Thank you, my Prince,” you mumble, when he passes you the plate, heavy with an abundant amount of food. There is no way you can finish it all, but you begin eating quietly, regardless, mood stooping lowly.

“So,” King Viserys begins, sheer amount of food not stopping him from barrelling through it. “I have decided on a date for the wedding.”

You choke on your mouthful, and Prince Aemond does the same. Queen Alicent seems as surprised as the both of you, pausing in between forkfuls, and Princess Helaena shoots you a look. You distinctly hear Prince Aegon laugh.

“Your grace,” the Hand begins, looking quickly to his daughter, “Should we not wait until these things progress naturally?”

“I agree,” the Queen adds hastily, dropping her fork. “We should allow them to choose their own date--”

“Nonsense,” the King waves his hand, “the two of them are growing closer by the day and are already getting on well. Why force them to wait?”

Despite the growing tension, Prince Aemond does not interject, instead reaching for his goblet and forcefully gulping down wine. You remain silent, too. The princess must sense the ebbing feelings from the both of you, and speaks up.

“Marriage is a blessing from the seven,” she says, cutting into her chicken, and giving you a side eye. “It is not so bad.”

Prince Aegon drags his hand over his face, simply wanting to eat and get drunk without the unnecessary drama.

“Yes, thank you, sweet girl,” Queen Alicent remarks softly, but her words sound full of bitter apathy.

The King nods, eyes glinting. “Then it is settled! Three months from now, we will hold a royal wedding. We should begin preparations soon, Otto, don’t you think?”

The Queen turns to look at her son, offering him an escape. “Aemond, do you have any objections?”

The rooms goes silent, and you glance at him quickly.

“I was not given a choice in this to begin with, so why should I be given a choice now?” he snaps, standing sharply, and with that, he takes his leave.

The King calls out for his son to come back, but all orders fall on deaf ears.

The double doors slam shut, and the room goes horribly quiet. Everyone turns to slowly look at you. You wish the Doom had taken you back then, so strong is your wish to leave this present moment. Your throat goes tight, and your chest constricts painfully. Had you a weaker constitution, you fear you may cry. Instead, you reach for your own cup of wine, and sip the contents bitterly.

“Please forgive my son,” King Viserys asks, face sorrowful. “I shall give him a stern talking to later tonight.”

“That is unnecessary, your grace,” you force a smile, hoping it comes off more convincing than it feels. “There is no harm done.”

A lie, of course. You feel bitterly hurt and embarrassed. Had you known Prince Aemond was this adverse to marrying you, you would not have became so wrapped up in the idea of betrothal. What of Elen��s words? I do not think I have ever seen him even talk to another women, she had told you. What of his sisters opinion on the situation? Her voice in your mind reminds you that he cares very much what you think of him.

Princess Helaena finds your hand under the table and squeezes it reassuringly. It doesn’t make you feel any better. If anything, it makes you feel worse, humiliation wrapping tightly around your throat.

Even Prince Aegon feels the need to speak on the events, leaning behind his sister to whisper, “My brother is an idiot. I told you already.”

You give him an incredulous look, and he nods in understanding, leaning back into his seat.

The rest of the dinner is conducted in silence; the atmosphere thick and heavy. You hardly touch the plate of food before you, and when the night wanes, and you grow tired, you excuse yourself politely, and return to your apartments. What was supposed to be an opportunity to grow closer to the family you thought you would be marrying into, turned bitterly to an event that left you humiliated.

Why was Prince Aemond so cold to you, when all his previous actions spoke of nothing but warm fondness? If he loathed the idea of marrying you so much, why was he calling you his betrothed? Why not rebuke the idea from the very first moment?

You spend the rest of your evening staring into the burning fire crackling in your furnace, even after it dies down to small embers.

That night, a gift of medical ointment is delivered to your room.

There is no note, and the sender remains nameless.

[part 8]

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen imagine #prince aemond #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen #hotd #house of the dragon aemond #aemond x fem!reader #aemond x y/n #house of the dragon #house of the dragon fanfiction

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fullfiresiren · 1 year

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otto: i bet you're wondering why we called you here today. alicent: it's because we need to have a conversation about how some people in this room aren't getting along with other people in this room. aegon: why are you guys being so vague, aemond and i are the only ones here

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fullfiresiren · 1 year

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side eye. SIDE. EYE

Y/N: i can’t believe we’re stuck in this room together

Aemond: *swallowing the key* Truly unfortunate

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fullfiresiren · 1 year

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unconquered // 6

[6; shadows]

[read on ao3]

This is the second time you have been outside the Keep.

The first was under the guise of a local, hidden under a hooded cloak with Ser Erryk by your side, on your way to visit your dragon.

This time, you travel in the King’s carriage.

The soft plush of the ruby fabric seats bows beneath the weight of you, and you sway with the motion of the box. The cobbled streets of Kings Landing make for an uneven ride, and you bounce up violently at a particularly pitted portion of the road. The king offers a reassuring smile at your uneasy expression.

This morning, whilst allowing yourself a portion of time to read up on the histories of Westeros before your joined lesson with the prince, there came a sharp knock at the wooden door of your apartments that stole your attention.

Upon opening it, King Viserys himself stood before you.

“Good morning, High Lady (y/n),” he had greeted, golden crown glinting at you.

You are not sure who you were expecting to see, but it certainly was not him. You stumbled over a polite response, and he asked if you were busy this day. Upon hearing you had no prior engagements, he suggested that the two of you take a ride down to the beaches, so that he may meet your dragon.

“I am quite excited to see your mount,” he begins, swaying along with the carriage. “I claimed only one dragon in my life – Balerion – the conquerors.” Largest of all dragons, you think, forever reminded of that fact. “Although, by the time I did, he had grown so monstrous in size, that he was sluggish and obscenely heavy – forever obstinate at being roused. He struggled to take flight and was far too old to cover even the distance between King’s Landing and Dragonstone.” He looks out forlornly at his city. “After his death, I... never bonded with another.”

You think of yourself if faced with a similar situation. “I feel I would be the same, your grace,” you hum. “If Archeon died, I would take no other dragon as my mount, despite having four others who could easily fill his space.”

“How lucky you are,” he smiles, “to have five wondrous dragons to call your own. I suppose this comes from the five thousand years Valyria reigned all-powerful?”

“Indeed, your grace,” you nod, “You are correct.”

“Fascinating,” he beams. “Do you recall anything more? I understand your memories escape you, but has anything come to light recently?”

“I am afraid not,” you shake your head, and then, add quickly, “your grace.”

He waves his hand, dismissive. “Please do not worry about such formalities. You are a monarch also.”

You suppose he is right.

“How are things with my son?” he asks hopefully, eyes shining.

“Ah,” you grip the sides of the soft seat to keep yourself stable. “It is going well. We speak often about many things, and I hope to grow closer to him in the days and weeks to come.”

He beams. “Excellent! I knew the two of you would be a good match! Ah, this is splendid news, simply splendid!”

You cannot contain your smile at the King’s happiness. He must truly wish for his son to be deeply loved in his marriage. You supposed there is nothing better for a parent than to see their child happy. You think on what you would wish for your own children. Those you may one day have with Prince Aemond.

Your face flares red like the upholstery beneath you, and you turn quickly to stare out the carriage windows.

It is not long before the outskirts of the city appear, cobbled road trailing off into soft grass. You are almost beside yourself with excitement when the door swings open, the knowledge that you will once again reunite with your dragon too much to bear. The King exits first, inhaling the sea breeze, and you follow after, skirt bunched in your knuckles to avoid it catching on the steps.

The carriage has stopped atop a cliff that overlooks the Narrow Sea and the sprawling sand beaches. A gargantuan mass of black lifts its head when your presence is felt, stretching out and sitting up to its full height. Archeon begins chittering, a low rumble in his chest that bubbles up and spills forth, golden eyes crinkling with mirth and happiness. You beam, forgetting your company entirely in favor of dashing down the stairs to the beach, almost sprinting towards him. He shakes the remaining sand from his scales in a heavy and slow movement, tail swooshing out behind him, and takes a large step forward – intent on meeting you halfway.

When you are upon one another, he bows his head to the floor, chin in the sand, welcoming your body pressed against his snout, as if he is welcoming you home. His large nostrils either side of you snort out hot embers and his noises fade to a weak purr. He closes his eyes at the sensation of you stroking his large scales, comforting and soothing. Archeon is fond of the water, fond further of the sea and tides, but you fear loneliness may take too much of a toll on his existence.

“I told you I would return, did I not?” you hum. “My heart. Have you been well?”

He makes a noise, nudging you gently in response. He is so large however, that any slight movement pushes you with force, and you stumble, laughing.

“Despite being aware of your size, you are still much larger than I give you credit for,” you say, moving to the side of his face, palm still tracing his scales, and he turns his eye to follow. “Gone are the days where you could hardly carry me, my heart. If I didn’t know any better, I would say you grow ever larger by the day.”

Archeon’s shifted gaze alerts you to an approaching presence far earlier than your own senses do, and when you follow it, you see King Viserys making his way towards you across the sand, a few members of the Kingsguard trailing behind, but keeping their distance.

A slight change in breathing beneath your palm is like an unspoken question. You answer it aloud.

“The King.”

A distasteful snort in the face of the word, and you press you palm against him firmly.

“He is gentle and kind – not unlike you. We are allowed to stay here because of him. You are allowed to roam free because of him.”

Archeon eyes you incredulously. We are free because of who we are.

“Yes,” you smile. “I know.”

“Gods be good!” King Viserys cries, taking in the hulking form of a dragon so large, he now rivals Vhagar. “He bears a striking resemblance to my former dragon! What a handsome beast! May I?”

Archeon lifts his head from the sands beside you to stretch up to his full height in a display of brilliant power, black as thunderous night, deep golden eyes taking in the situation from high above. Sand that was stuck to his underbelly falls like rain from the skies, and from where the king stands, it appears he is protectively looming over you. For all the king knows, he is.

Archeon snorts once from above – usually a sign that he is asking you for clarification; for you to speak on the matter.

“He wishes to see you closer,” you explain. “You look like his own.”

A few deep throated clicks are your answer, non-threatening, and you smirk up at him.

“Of course,” you speak to the king, “He will not hurt you. Archeon is kind and gentle, despite his size and appearance. Think of him as you think of me.”

You raise your arm slightly in signal, and your mount lowers to the sands once more, huffing out and relaxing into the beach. His tail swishes into the tides, and his face rests beside you.

“He can understand you when you speak?”

“When I speak Valyrian, he can understand me, yes,” you nod, switching to your mother tongue. “It is easy for me to communicate with him. We understand one another well, and we can even speak to the other... in our own ways.”

King Viserys approaches slowly, and, once near, tentatively raises a palm to your dragon's head.

“What a magnificent creature you are,” he hums, stroking softly. Archeon coos in happy response. “I believe you and your mount are a gift to the other. How lucky then, that you have found one another.”

You smile, leaning against the side of your dragon’s head.

“Are your other dragons as large as he?” the king asks.

“I am not sure,” you reply truthfully. “I was searching for them when I was spotted by the crown. However, I have a feeling – should they still be alive – they will be.”

“I am sure they are doing well,” he offers, patting Archeon once finally, before removing his hand from him. “You would know in your soul if they are not. They are simply waiting for you to come home.”

You think on his words, their weight pressing into your chest, squeezing your heart painfully. How lonely they must be, having to exist separate for all this time without a piece of themselves. The toll cuts deep for you, too; your own soul living without four integral parts.

King Viserys walks around your dragon, joining your side to gaze up at him. He points, “I notice he is without saddle?”

“Ah, yes,” you nod, “During my time in Valyria, Archeon was not the size he is now. He was so small, he could barely carry me. He grew fast, but, back then, the weight of a saddle along with myself would be too much for him to bear. I remember my parents asking me to wait and be patient.” Their faces come to mind, fuzzy detail that grows clearer by the day, it seems, and you hum. “But of course, I was impatient. He was my mount, my heart, my own. Even when he was still small, I climbed atop him, without saddle, and urged him to fly. Sōves, ñuha prūmia, I said. Sōves.”

“Fly, my heart,” the king translates, softly.

You smile, and Archeon groans, remembering how little and unsure he was. “The first flight is important for a dragonrider. It is the thing that ultimately solidifies the bond. I feel that is one reason why we are so closely forged -- there was no saddle to impede movement or feeling. When we flew together, we touched. One heart, one soul.” You rub your shoulder against his face, looking up at him. “Correct?”

Archeon groans soft and low. Correct.

“Incredible,” King Viserys whispers. “Surely now it is difficult to ride him? Even to mount? I find it hard to believe such an effort comes with ease.”

“It is not difficult at all,” you smile. “We are closely bonded, so our thoughts and emotions are one. Whatever I feel or experience whilst on his back are those he understands. It is as easy to move him as it is my own limbs. We exist separate and yet, together.”

The king is in awe. He understands the bonds between dragon and rider, and yet this is something wholly other.

“Will you allow me to commission a saddle for him? He is about the size of my son’s, so a saddle made from the measurements of Vhagar should fit,” he begins. “And perhaps some flying clothes? Surely it must be uncomfortable to always ride in dresses and gowns?”

You cannot deny that it is. “I do not want to ask something so large of you, your grace.”

He waves you off. “Not at all! It would be my absolute pleasure – an honor, even! To create a saddle for a dragon that has seen the freehold in all it’s might – and matching garments for a monarch of the Valyrian empire!”

You thank him earnestly, but feel the sudden need to add, “Might I ask that you refrain from creating reins? Just a saddle will be enough. I have seen the steel implants bolted into the necks of the dragons kept at the pit, and I fear for the lives of any who would attempt to do such a thing to my own.”

“Of course, High Lady (y/n),” he nods. “I would not dream of it.”

“You have done so much for me, King Viserys,” you begin, looking out at the Narrow Sea. “I do not know how to thank you... nor how to repay you. If not for you, I fear... I would always be lost... until my dying day.”

He looks at you for a while, and for a brief moment, in you, he sees his Rhaenyra.

“Many in our line have been dragonriders. So few among us have been dreamers,” he starts, coming to stand before you. “When my daughter was a child, I saw something in a dream. It came to me often, but only in parts. As vivid as you are before me, I saw it. Valyria. In its most powerful, during the time it conquered all. A brilliant golden city, above which, thousands of dragons took flight. I saw volcanoes, fourteen of them, the magma spilled forth through the streets and colored it otherworldly. Overlooking it all, a young woman, barely of age. She wore no crown, and yet, I knew her to be the monarch.

I sought that vision again, night after night, and I prayed to the Gods to show me the meaning. Show me the reason. When you were found, I finally understood. I knew exactly who you were. You were the young woman from my dreams. I knew not how, but you were. I felt a duty to you – to help you, however I could. There is a greatness in you, perhaps you do not see it yet, but I do. It was born in you. It cannot live in shame. I fear the journey you will have to take is one you must walk alone, but know this; no matter what may happen, you are never lost.”

He offers you a genuine smile, and you stand there lost for words.

Since you awoke months ago in the ruins of your city, you have felt nothing but loss. Loss of your family, your people, your home. Loss of your dragons, your memories, your sense of who you are. You have lost the world you knew forever to the one that now surrounds you. King Viserys has given you an opportunity to gather yourself; to reclaim what you thought was gone forever, and he has done so not with underhanded tactics or ulterior motives, but because he felt it was his duty to help. He asks for nothing in return.

You cannot waste the opportunity given to you.

“I... thank you,” you blurt. “Truly.”

He smiles, giving Archeon a nod, “Take this time to be with your dragon. After everything is said and done, you both still have one another. It is to be cherished. I shall send my son to come and collect you--”

“Oh, there is no need,” you begin quickly, not wanting to drag Prince Aemond from his duties simply to fetch you from the beaches. “Ser Erryk should be more than willing.”

King Viserys says nothing else, smiling slightly as he turns, taking his leave, members of the Kingsguard accompanying him away.

The sound of the breaking tide gives way only to the subtle noise of the King’s carriage leaving, and then, you are alone with your dragon. Archeon chitters at you, urging you from your thoughts, and you hum, turning to him. He has already bowed his shoulder to the sand, welcoming you to climb up for flight, and you do, pulling yourself up by his protruding horns. He aides you as best he can, and you think, perhaps, now it is time to accept you must use a saddle.

When you are settled at his pinnacle, he groans, turning towards the ocean, lifting his head to peer up at you, blinking slowly. You laugh immediately, sensing his thoughts.

“Feeling nostalgic?” you tease. He snorts, indignant. “Alright, alright,” you acquiesce, gripping his horns to prepare yourself for flight.

"Sōves, ñuha prūmia,” you start, yelling, “Sōves!”

Archeon roars loud, shaking the foundations of the cliffs, and rears on his haunches, wings so large they span out across almost the entirety of the beach. He beats them with force, lifting his mass, and takes flight over the sea. His wings take him high, and you are right along with him, climbing higher and flying further, the city of King’s Landing grows ever smaller behind you, until it is nothing more than an indistinguishable mass of land. Your dragon vocally expresses his happiness, and you shout along with him, freedom a birthright you enjoy exercising.

Your eyes watch the ocean spray kick up from below, frothy and forlorn, almost tasting the salt on your tongue. No matter how warm and bright the day is on the shores of King’s Landing, across the Narrow Sea it turns dull and ghostly, thick fog unfurling around you, only parting for the gargantuan mass of your dragon.

Archeon beats his wings and soars gently, taking you with him. He does not wobble like he did when he was young. He does not lose his balance nor dip with the weight of you. He is stoic now; study like the rocks beneath Dragonstone, unmovable. Like the ore at the heart of the fourteen flames in your homeland, he remains as he always was, and always will be. Indominable. A fall from this height would surely kill you, and yet, you feel safer here than anywhere else in the world. For no one else will protect you as Archeon will. His shadow runs black against the tides, and you watch the silhouette of the two of you with a smile.

The hairs on the back of your neck stand.

You cast your gaze upwards sharply, and a great mass encompasses yours, swallowing it whole, blocking out the sun, the sky, the world around you. It’s incredible, size unfathomable -- terrifying and monstrous. Every inch of it is black as night, scales, horns, wings; the underbelly so close and low, you can make out the details and folds of its skin.

It is a memory.

You are eighteen, on the back of a wobbly dragon that can barely hold you, and your father soars above you with his own royal mount, the size swallowing yours a thousand times over. You are grinning at the show of force and power, the roar from his beast vibrates your chest and you yell out your own battle cry. Below you, Archeon roars, too, high pitched and young.

It is overshadowed by his sudden roar from beneath you, memory interrupted, fading quickly. You grasp at the details desperately. This was the first memory of your father that had resurfaced. Despite not seeing him or his face, the connection between the dragon that appeared above you and your own father runs too deep for you to simply pass off as an assumption. Your mind is broken, but your heart is strong. Your heart knows. You remember him there.

You glance down at Archeon, wondering why the sudden outburst, but his gaze is transfixed off to the left, somewhere far out in the ocean. He makes a noise you have never heard from him before. It is not aggressive, nor affectionate. It sounds longing, sad.

“My heart,” you begin, patting his large withers to gain his attention. “What is it you see?”

He whistles high, and you follow his gaze.

There it is again.

The shadowy mass darting through the fog above the seas. This is the second time you have seen it; one too many times to be a mere coincidence. It skitters about in a way that unnerves you, something familiar about it, and yet something else tells you to leave well enough alone. You by yourself out here with Archeon. You cannot risk him or his safety by chasing after specters. You also cannot risk those in Kings Landing or the Red Keep if it follows you back. You are sure it must be a dragon, but one that is unclaimed can lay waste to a city if it wishes.

“Come,” you urge Archeon back, “Let us return.”

He makes the unfamiliar noise once again, but obeys, leaning to his left to bank hard, wing skimming the waters.

It takes only minutes until the shores of King’s Landing make their appearance, and Archeon lands heavy, wings steadying his balance, thumping his front arms into the sand. You stretch, looking out across the beach, eyes finding your sworn sword descending the wooden steps just in time to escort you back to the Keep. You dismount your dragon with little effort, legs wobbly when you hit the sand, and no sooner have you taken steps away from him, than he extends his wings to fly off once more. A little unusual, you think, as he soars off into the bleak.

“Perhaps to hunt,” you wonder aloud.

Ser Erryk approaches, the noise catching your attention, and you turn to him.

“My Lady,” he greets. “I trust you had a good time?”

“Indeed, Ser Erryk,” you smile.

“Shall we return to the Keep?”

You nod, following him as you have often done before, through the overcrowded streets of King’s Landing. Poverty is rampant in these parts; men, women and children on the streets as you pass, begging for food, coin -- anything you can give. Their clothes are torn and dirty, their faces sunken with hunger and misery, and your heart clenches painfully when you walk past.

There was nothing like this in the freehold.

You grasp Ser Erryk’s cloak to gather his attention.

“Can we spare them anything?” you ask, “Have we anything to give?”

“I have no coin on my person,” he replies, and you know that neither do you.

“Why is nothing being done about this?” you lower your voice, hissing, “These people are hardly alive – this is the King’s city!”

“I know, my lady,” he mutters back, “But it has been this way for a hundred years now. I do not believe we alone can change it.”

“A city should be safe and prosperous for all its people.”

He turns back to continue walking but utters, “I agree.”

You are hurt and disappointed, angry that you cannot do anything. Ser Erryk is right – alone, this is something you cannot change.

You partake in small-talk until the towering form of the Red Keep looms into view, and from your place in the streets below, the walls seem to stretch high into the heavens themselves. The great bronze Barbican gates groan and part to give you entrance, opening to reveal the dirt courtyard. A few gold cloaks are stationed, some lesser lords talk in groups, and the lithe movements of a white-haired prince make everything around you fade into a dull blur.

“Ser Erryk, you may go about your duties,” you announce, smiling up at him. “I am alright by myself for now.”

He glances quickly around the courtyard, and, after seeing the one-eyed prince, nods. “As you wish, my lady. Please call for me if you need anything.”

Ser Erryk takes his leave, and the passing noise of his armor alerts the prince to the possibility of your presence. He turns his head to look for you, gaze darting back and forth, until he finds you. You greet him with a smile, and he returns it, lowering his sword to walk over to you. He must have been sparring by himself today, Ser Criston nowhere in sight.

“My lady,” he begins, only a little out of breath. “Are you well?”

“Very,” you reply, gesturing to the gates behind you. “I just came from the beaches. Your father wanted to meet my dragon.”

“I see,” he replies, eyes taking in the details of your face, committing it to memory. “Did all go well?”

“Yes, my prince. The two seem to like one another,” you explain. “When your father saw I ride without saddle, however, I fear he worried for my safety. The king insisted he commission one for me, using your own dragon’s size as a guide.”

“You ride without saddle?” Prince Aemond asks, face betraying his stoic composure when shock paints itself over his features.

You are not sure if you want to truthfully explain why, but after catching his gaze, you realize he is perhaps the person who should know first, before any else. You told the king, his father, in part, but why should Prince Aemond not know in full? He is, afterall, the one who will become closest to you.

“Ah... yes,” you sigh, “When I was in Valyria, Archeon was terribly small. He was born when I was, and although he grew faster than my others, he was still smaller than I had hoped. I was impatient to fly with him, you see. As soon as he was the size of a small pony, I took the opportunity, and mounted him. It was difficult for him to carry me alone, but with the added weight of a saddle, it would have been impossible. Then, not long after, the Doom. He never grew to a size in Valyria where a saddle could be properly fitted, and, when I awoke, it seemed time had not stopped for him quite like it did for me. He was no longer the baby I had fallen asleep beside. Now, he was a monstrous figure that could carry 30 with ease.”

Prince Aemond does not overlook the critically important wording.

Fallen asleep.

He almost wants to ask you outright about it, but fears you will scatter if cornered. Another time, perhaps.

“Did you fly with Archeon today?” is all he can muster. He feels terribly incompetant in his inability to comfort you.

“I did,” you laugh, adding jokingly, “Ah, do I look terribly windswept?”

“Only a little,” he grins, and then the color drains from his face. “But you do not look terrible! I did not mean it in that way, of course--!”

“It is alright,” you reassure quickly, laughing, “I understand what you mean.”

“Yes... of course...” he trails off awkwardly, gripping the handle of his sword tightly.

You think suddenly of the figure you saw darting about the mist during your flights. “My prince,” you begin, and he holds your gaze. “Do you perchance know if one of your siblings is out riding their dragon as of now?”

He thinks for a moment, before answering, “Not that I am aware of, my lady.”

You frown, murmuring. “How odd...”

“What’s wrong?”

“When I was flying out over the Narrow Sea with Archeon, I saw what looked like the shadow of a dragon in the distance. This will be the second time the apparition has appeared to me.”

“Did you draw closer to it?”

“No,” you shake your head. “I kept my distance.”

“I believe that is for the best, my lady,” he nods, brows furrowed like he is concerned. “There are many unclaimed dragons around Westeros -- and especially Dragonstone. A few are even large enough to cause your own dragon damage, despite his size. For your safety, please do not chase after it.”

You seem worried, but heed his advice, nonetheless. It is as you thought. “I see. Thank you, my prince.”

After a few brief moments of gentle silence for you, and suffocating quiet for him, he realises he does not want the interaction to end so soon, and blurts, “Would you like to learn?”

“Learn--?”

“To spar,” he hastily explains, lifting his sword a little, and recalling, “Last time we were together you voiced an interest in learning?”

You are surprised he remembers such a detail. “Right now?” you glance around. “Would it not be improper amongst others--?”

“No one will challenge you whilst I am here.”

It fills you with an odd sense of comfort, knowing he is there to stand firm in your corner, and so readily -- without quarrel or request.

“Alright then,” you nod with determination. “I will do my best.”

He brightens at your decision, walking to a more open area of the courtyard while you follow.

“We can start with the basics today,” he explains, “proper grip, stance, footwork...”

He returns his steel weapon to its place on the wooden table, and retrieves two training swords instead, turning to hand one to you. You take it from him, surprised at the light weight. It feels foreign in your palm, awkward. You make a noise.

“Don’t worry, my lady,” he reassures, perhaps sensing your apprehension. “And do not be afraid of failing. Without failure, we cannot learn.”

A comforting thought. One that sticks with you.

Prince Aemond is awkward initially, assuming the role of teacher, but settles into the position as best he can, and, after a while, is at ease. He explains the proper way to place your feet when guarding, versus actively attacking. He tells you where to place your weight, how to parry, and where to focus your attention. He is gentle when he speaks, but assertive; his tone knowledgeable, but not forceful or demanding. He gives you a demonstration when you do not understand and is quick to point out your mistakes with a reassuring note. When it comes time to learn to attack and strike, he offers himself as your opponent.

“I do not feel this is quite appropriate,” you huff, a little out of breath as he stands pristine before you, posture perfect and wooden sword in hand. “My prince, what if I strike you?”

“If you manage to land a hit on me, my lady, I will be incredibly impressed,” he smirks, tone lightly scattered with amusement and provocation, “and promise to hold no grudges.”

You narrow your eyes at him, and return his smirk, sighing out a little at the clearly bad idea. Heavens forbid the prince return to his chambers with a visible welt, or you, a darkening bruise. What are the maids to think? Your spar will ultimately be the birthplace of salacious rumors -- of that you have no doubt.

“Assume your stance, my betrothed,” he reminds, and you have half a mind to think the change in his title for you is an underhanded tactic. A method to make you flustered.

It is.

You ready yourself, and, with nothing to lose nor gain, raise your sword, and very, very terribly, strike.

He dodges with little to no effort, smiling over his shoulder at you.

You try again, with the same results.

Huffing out, you brush your hair from your face, edges of your dress stained with dirt.

“Calling me ‘your betrothed’ was a low tactic, my prince,” you shake your head, in clear mock annoyance. “That was cheating.”

“I dodged,” he corrects, lining his sword up once more. “Care to try again?”

“Dear husband,” you sigh, and his smile drops. “Will you not take pity on your poor wife?”

Seizing the opportunity, you yell out, arcing your sword in a swift movement, and bring it down with aim and coordination. He steps to the side only slightly and allows you to strike the top of his right shoulder.

It is clearly obvious that he allowed the hit to land, and yet, you rejoice as if you have truly conquered him in battle, crying out with happiness.

“A perfect strike, my lady,” he praises softly, the air relaxed and carefree.

You beam up at him, and then, your face paints with worry.

“I did not hurt you, did I?” you remove the wooden sword and stand on your tiptoes to inspect the area with grave concern. “My prince?”

He steps back, fearing the distance between you has grown too close, and opts for shaking his head. “Not at all, my lady,” he lies. The area does sting a little. “Let us end on a high note for today, shall we?”

You frown, but nevertheless, agree, walking with him back to the wooden table to deposit your training swords.

“That was very enjoyable, my prince!” you begin, lifting your sword to place it beside his. “I would very much like to do that again!”

He smiles, making sure all the weapons have returned to their rightful places, eyes meticulous. “I am glad you found it to your liking, my lady.”

“Perhaps next time,” he hears you say, “you may teach me how to wield one like this?”

When he looks, you have found an iron dagger, your eyes taking in the weapon you hold. The steel of the blade catches the sun, and it glints at him.

Where you were clumsy with a sword, to him, it is obvious you have held a dagger before. Your thumb sits vertical along to the blade, positioned in the middle of the handle, your fingers curled in sequence around the rest. You move it with purpose and intent, holding it lithe, like the action is one you have done many times before.

In your eyes, it is like any other weapon on the table -- one you cannot understand yet.

When you twist it in your grip, the blade catches the sun and blinds you. When you next focus, before your eyes, it has turned into something wholly other. Long Valyrian steel blade curves at the edge, the handle pure black with a brilliant golden center line running from end to end; like the way the volcanic lava would weave through the streets of the freehold. In the center of the hilt, just before the blade, a beautiful round ruby, like the blood that runs deep in your being. You stare at it transfixed, but it turns to dirt, slipping past your fingers like it was never really there.

“My lady?”

Prince Aemond’s voice gathers your attention, his face concerned. When you look back down at the dagger in your grip, it is as it always was. Dull.

“Ah, yes,” you reply, placing the weapon back. “For another time.”

“Is everything alright?” he asks, unwilling to let you brush your aloofness off.

“Everything is fine, my prince,” you try to smile convincingly, but he can see your hands shaking, no matter how hard you clasp them in front of you.

A moment passes, and then, “Was it a memory?”

The shaking grows tenfold when he speaks it into reality. Where quiet, and kept hidden within the recesses of your mind, you are free to dissect it later, but when spoken from the mouths of others, you are left with no other choice than to face it.

“Yes,” you are quiet when you reply. “Of a dagger.”

“Was it frightening?” he asks.

“Not at all,” you shake your head, “Just... just vivid... and with a heavy amount of emotion. I am not sure why I felt it so strongly. I am not even sure which emotion it was...”

“Hmm,” he voices, thinking. “Perhaps it was a gift? From your parents? Or maybe, an heirloom?”

“Perhaps,” you smile. You are grateful that he is attempting to help you deduce your memories, but ultimately you can do nothing with such a brief echo. You can only wait for more.

He stares down at you for a moment.

“Would you care to join me tonight— my family</i> tonight for supper?” he blurts, swiftly correcting himself.

You blink up at him, having not expected that.

Prince Aemond casts his memory back to earlier today, when his mother asked him to request your presence at dinner, to show you they mean no threat. To lull you into growing more comfortable around their family. An invitation under false pretense.

He frowns, but not at you, continuing, “It will be a dull affair, I am sure. My brother will drink more than a Braavosi sealord, and my parents may squabble about trivial things, but... if you wished... you could join?”

He realizes he is not selling this very well. You light up at the offer, regardless. You are too brilliant for him. He knows this.

“Of course, my prince!” you chirp happily, “I would be delighted!”

Prince Aemond does not yet understand how to act when people are so happy towards him, least of all you -- a woman and his future wife. He nods sharply, folding his arms behind his back and says nothing more.

“Shall I be ready sometime in the evening?” you question, a little confused on what is customary.

“Ah, yes,” he hums, “I will send someone to accompany you to the dining hall as the sun is setting.”

“I see,” you nod, happy, “I will wait with eager hope that the hour will come soon.”

He nods, swallowing, but does not reply.

“My prince,” you nod, “I fear I must leave your company now to change. The smell of dragon and sweat is perhaps not a popular one.”

He smirks, nodding in understanding. “I shall see you again at supper, my lady.”

You bid him a polite farewell, and take your leave.

The midday sun arches high across the pale blue sky, and the tall castle walls give you at least some semblance of shade whilst you cross the courtyard to the heavy entrance doors of the Keep. You hear Prince Aemond continue training alone behind you, feet moving over the dirt and pebbles, and you realize, walking away from him, what the emotion from earlier was.

It was duty.

[part 7]

#aemond x y/n #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #prince aemond #house of the dragon fanfiction #house of the dragon #house of the dragon aemond #hotd #aemond fic #aemond targaryen drabble #aemond targaryen fic #aemond targaryen imagine

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fullfiresiren · 1 year

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PLEASE HAHAHAHAAHAH

My brother sent me this now im wheezing at work lmao

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fullfiresiren · 1 year

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oh man oh man this aemond x reader fic I'm writing got me by the THROAT at some points holy moly--

Is it better to speak his truth, and face rejection, or never utter the words at all, and loose the chance forever? If he speaks, he risks abandonment, desertion. He risks being forsaken from the only one who can offer salvation. But if he does not -- if he keeps the words hidden forever, he kills them. Kills himself. What reason, then, to stay silent? If he is to suffer no matter the choice, let it be in pursuit of you. Is it better to speak, or to die?

“I love her, dear sister,” he whispers. “I love her most ardently.”

--circa chapter 15-- aemond pic edited by the incredible @kyloremus

#aemond x y/n #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #prince aemond #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #aemond drabble #house of the dragon aemond #hotd #house of the dragon fanfiction

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fullfiresiren · 1 year

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Pleading Aemond holy moly—

i'll never stop editing these ok? thank you for listening

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fullfiresiren · 1 year

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unconquered // 5

[5; iron and blood] [read on ao3]

The morning comes bright and early, breakfast has been plated, and Elen busies herself with tasks to prepare you for the day.

Although your slumber was not free from hauntings of the past, when you awoke from a twisted vision, sheets wrapped around you and forehead damp, you squeeze your eyes shut, and utter the first three things that come to mind – heeding prince Aemond’s advice.

“My dragons,” you whisper. “My parents, my home.”

My dragons.

My parents.

My home.

Dreamless slumber comes quickly after.

“Ah, your grace,” Elen greets, once she notices you’re awake and blinking slowly. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” you mumble, sitting when she brings your food to you.

“Today’s outfit has been laid out for you, your grace,” she explains, fixing your sheets slightly from where your restless slumber has left them twisted. “I thought you would look fine in a soft mauve gown – but if you wish to wear another, I am happy to find one of your--”

“Mauve sounds lovely,” you hum, todays breakfast of finely chopped fruit staring plainly back at you.

Elen takes great care in preparing you in the mornings. Once breakfast is over, she stands by the chair by your vanity – a silent invitation for you to sit – and begins her dutiful work. Combing your hair, braiding your strands, applying creams, makeup, jewellery, lifting you from tired slumber to a royal of the court. She holds your dress for you to step into, ties your corset, fixes minor details, and will not cease her work until she is satisfied that the job has been carried out to the best of her ability.

“There,” she nods, patting out the folds of your gown, “you look wondrous, your grace.”

She is always so kind, you think, smiling, but do not check yourself in the mirror. Something about having to look yourself in the eye feels too much like a betrayal.

“Thank you, Elen.”

The day is young, and you have no prior commitments. Should you visit Archeon? A rebellion if there ever was one – leaving the Red Keep looking an ethereal spirit, returning a ruined spectre. You smirk, thinking of Elen’s thunderous reaction to your messy hair from the skies above, cheeks wind chafed, dress tattered and carrying the strong scent of dragon that won't wash out for weeks. Perhaps you should commission the creation of an outfit solely for dragon riding? Black leather to match your dragon, silver embellishments to guild. Not unlike another in your life.

You smile to yourself as you sit upon the large fabric sofa in your living quarters, thoughts drifting to the one-eyed prince. You wonder what he is doing right this moment, what his thoughts are, if he... thinks of you as you do him.

“The weather today is far too nice for you to spend your time indoors, your grace,” Elen notes, stripping your bed of its sheets to be washed, no doubt. You wonder if she can sense when you have a nightmare by the look in your eyes. You wonder further if she’s trying to get your mind off its thoughts by sending you outside of the confined castle walls. “The sun would do you some good.”

“I suppose you’re right,” you huff, mocking lethargy, and giggling when she gives you a look. “I will away, I will away,” you say promptly, making for the door of your apartments, turning to joke, “least I forget what the outside world looks like!”

Elen’s laughter follows you out, and you greet Ser Erryk politely as you pass.

“You needn't stay here always, ser,” you remind. “I am on my way to the gardens. Please use this time for your own.”

“I am your sworn sword, my lady,” he bows, reminding, “It is my duty to protect and watch over you. May I accompany you there?”

You sigh, his words are not wrong. “You may. I fear Elen will grow worried over our lack of hours spent outdoors.”

“Of course, my lady,” he smiles, and it borders on a smirk.

His presence by your side is a constant companion as you meander through the halls of the Keep towards the gardens, his steps in time with yours. When you reach the boundaries, you stop him.

“Here is fine, ser Erryk,” you utter, glancing up at him. “I’d like to have time alone with my thoughts in the gardens. Perhaps I can even persuade one of the attendants to gift me a flower? It might brighten up my room...”

You’re voicing your thoughts moreso than asking for an answer, and Ser Erryk seems to understand. He gives you a soft look, biding you good day, and returns to the Keep, leaving you standing in the shades of the tall willows.

Despite the early hour, when most of the castle’s residents have only just begun to stir, the workers are already busy tending to their duties, passing you with polite greetings and bows. The morning sun is bright and already arching high, your dress skims the pebbled pathways as you meander at a leisurely pace, hands clasped behind your back, breeze soft, and relaxing.

You realise Elen was right. Being outdoors is very agreeable.

Hidden at the far end of the gardens, secluded from the open, and sheltered behind tall shrubs and flower bushes, is a particularly old tree. The red canopy of its leaves that peak out behind other greenery has caught your eye before – on walks with the prince – and curiosity has gripped you ever since. Now that you are alone, and free to wander where you choose, you cut a path directly towards it.

It sits ancient when you approach, far larger than you initially thought, blood red leaves and pale bark. You halt suddenly in your tracks when you notice a face carved into the trunk, black sap weeping from its eyes like tears. It’s a Weirwood tree, and it makes you uneasy. You don’t understand why.

Shuffling feet and a sweet scent lulls on the breeze, and you realise you are no longer alone, turning your head to see the Princess Helaena making her way towards you. She stops when she sees you, offering up a meek smile, and a small wave.

“Good morning, princess,” you greet, only slightly wary. Your last interaction with her was not the most pleasant for you.

“Good morning, High Lady (y/n),” she returns, and then, the atmosphere grows uncomfortable.

You notice what looks like a book tucked under her arm, and nod to it. “Are you here to read?”

“Ah,” she pulls it out, displaying it for you, “no, it’s a sketchpad. I like to come here to draw... sometimes... when I have the time to...”

There is a beat of silence, and then, you suggest, “would you like to sit with me?”

She seems taken aback, awkward and wobbily, smiling shyly at your offer. You feel a sense of kinship with her – the aloof princess without friends, whom everyone seems to avoid, and yet, there is an air of innocence and purity to her. Like this world is far too cruel and unjust for someone as kind as her.

“I don’t have much company, you see,” you continue, “but I would like to spend time in yours... if it is not too much to ask--”

“Not at all!” she beams, eyes crinkling with happiness. “I have been wanting to talk with you, and grow closer – you are to be my sister soon... and I would love it if we were friends, too.”

Your heart leaps at the statement, and you cannot help but smile. “I would like that very much.”

The two of you sit at the base of the ancient Weirwood tree, shaded by the huge canopy, and the sunlight scatters through the leaves. Princess Helaena is every opposite of her family. Where the Targaryen's stand undefeated with monstrous dragons, she is quiet and shy. Fire and blood giving way to soft waters and rosy cheeks.

“Are you settling into your place at court well?” she asks, picking strands of grass.

“I believe I am. But I must admit, court politics do not agree with me,” you muse, and then, “it makes me feel frightfully out of place.”

She makes a noise, like laughter under her breath. “I agree. I try my best to avoid it whenever possible.”

“I’d much rather spend my time free,” you continue, “on my dragon, in the gardens. Despite wanting to read in my chambers or the library, I have a fear my handmaid would scold me for wasting the day indoors. She enjoys mothering me. I enjoy it, too.”

You laugh, and the princess joins you.

“I feel the same. It is much more liberating to be with the things one loves.”

“And yet, duty is born to be the death of love.”

You say it merely as an offhand comment, and yet, it is strikingly accurate – for both you, and her. She is silent then, her expression turning downcast. You feel it does not suit her.

“Do you spend your time here often?” you ask quickly, “In the gardens? Outside the walls of the Keep?”

She perks up, clasping her sketchpad close. “When I am able, I do. I like being able to see the sky.”

You’ve heard rumours in the passing – it's difficult in a castle this large to avoid them – of the princess Helaena’s quirky personality and odd eccentricities. Her love of the unusual, her great admiration for insects, her odd way of speaking. Snippets and broken pieces of conversations that quickly became hushed upon the notice of your presence foretold the princess being ever strange, and yet, all you are noticing is her gentle openness. She is simply sheltered, as are you.

“I also enjoy small insects,” she continues, holding up her gently clasped hand to reveal a black spider, delicate and thin. “I find them endearing.”

You watch the spider crawl about her palm, as she holds it with care, a small smile about her features.

“I agree,” you nod. Small insects do not phase you when your closest companion is a colossal dragon.

As if sensing your thoughts, she looks up. “Did you claim your dragon?”

“No,” you shake your head, “He was born when I was.”

She looks taken aback suddenly. “But he is so large! ...does he grow fast?”

“Ah, no... I would say he grows as they all do.”

She looks confused, and you take a leap of faith.

“He is as old as I,” you explain, “older than 200. He should be larger, but... the confinement slowed his growth.”

A spell of lilac to seal your fate.

“A spell of lilac to seal your fate,” she whispers, echoing your thoughts. “Hmm. I thought the talk of your age and circumstance were only rumours. I see now they are the truth.”

You look away. “Yes, they are the truth.”

It is her turn to fill the silence now. “I claimed my dragon. Dreamfyre, her name is. She is pale blue and silver – my beloved.”

“Were you as young as your brother when you claimed her...?” you whisper absentmindedly, and only to yourself. Images of a young prince calming the largest female dragon of war fills your vision.

“Not so young,” she murmurs. “Aemond claiming Vhagar was perhaps the proudest moment for my mother and grandfather. Although it came with a heavy price.”

You want to ask about it, press her further for information on the prince, but you feel you are overstepping the boundaries of your fresh friendship, and reserve the question for another day.

A comfortable silence settles, and princess Helaena opens her book to begin sketching, humming a tune to herself as you rest against the trunk of the Weirwood tree. You think about the prince then, and the price he had to pay for claiming Vhagar. Did it have anything to do with his scar, kept hidden beneath the dark leather eyepatch? You wonder if the day will ever come when he shows it to you. Or if it is a source of bitter regret and shame for him – one he hopes to hide away forever. You sigh without thought, and Helaena giggles.

“You sound like my brother.”

“I do?”

“He often makes that noise when he sighs,” she hums, “The two of you are more alike than you think.”

“Hmm.”

She gives you a look, and it’s your turn to laugh now. “I see what you mean.”

Your time spent with Helaena is carefree and light, while she sketches, she speaks about her family, her children, her day-to-day life, and whilst you notice she avoids speaking of her brother, she is not averse to answering questions about him.

“Is he kind?” you ask, fiddling with the details of your gown.

“Not to a great many,” she answers, “but to my mother and I he is,” and then, as an added thought with a poorly hidden smile, “and to you.”

“Does he speak of me?”

“Not often.”

“I see,” you mutter, unable to hide the rejection in your voice.

“It is only because you do not know each other well,” she says. “My brother has never been one to openly talk about his feelings or wishes, but I know he is not opposed to spending time with you. I think that is a good sign.”

You sigh. “Sometimes I feel the prince does not wish to know me... nor cares what I think. I do not resent him for it, though. I understand his situation. It must be terrible to be told who you are to marry, instead of marrying for love. For me, it is no consequence. I am without anyone, so any form of relationship is one I welcome.”

Your words seem to strike deep within her, enough so that she stops sketching for a moment to look up. “He writes you notes, though,” she hums, “Does he not?”

“Notes?” you question.

“Yes,” she continues, the charcoal she is using to draw turning the tips of her fingers a dusty black. “Asking you to meet?”

“Only once.”

“I was with him when he was summoned to walk in the gardens with you. He was belligerent. Refused adamantly until harshly pressed, under the orders of our father.”

The news comes like a harsh slap, and you feel terribly pained, your suspicions given truth.

“But when he returned, he was like a young boy who had tripped over himself. His face was flushed and his hair a mess, like he had been running his hand through it – or running away from something. I can only imagine he did something to embarrass himself. In which case, it seems to me that he cares very much what you think of him.”

You are silent, repeating her words in your mind. It is true that your walk in the gardens ended terribly, with the prince fleeing from your company without ever looking back, but you were not privy to the aftermath. Hearing his reaction now from his sister gives you an entirely different outlook on the situation.

Princess Helaena interrupts your thoughts when she presents her finished work to you with a small smile.

“You look very regal, sitting under the tree, and I couldn’t help myself,” she admits, showing her sketch. “Do you like it?”

You study her art with an air of amazement, looking down at yourself. It is very obviously you, and she has managed to capture your likeness incredibly well. You are gazing off into the distance, a profile shot, leaning back against the Weirwood tree. The light scatters about your dress, and you look heavenly – almost otherworldly.

“Princess, this...” you smile up at her, “is wonderful. You have a gift, it seems. Although, I am not sure I look quite this beautiful.”

“My brother seems to think so,” she mutters, and you almost fail to catch it.

“Your--”

“I think so,” she corrects, beaming at you. “But I’d like to keep this, if that is alright?”

You nod, “Of course! It is your work of art. I wouldn’t dream of parting you from it. I only wish I could sketch like that...”

“Would you like to try?” she offers, turning to a fresh page in her book and handing it to you, along with the stick of charcoal.

You blink down at the objects, and then back at her. “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

“Oh,” she hums, “It is easy. Look, how about this flower?” She picks a small daisy in between you both and holds it up for you to study. “Just try sketching this.”

Not wanting to deny her, you do your best, studying the dainty flower and copying its likeness down onto the rough paper. Your concentration is broken only by another question.

“Do you enjoy sewing?” the princess asks.

You huff a laugh as you try to shade a petal. “Admittedly, I have never tried, princess.”

“Would you like to learn?”

“I would.”

“Then we should sew together, too,” she nods, decidedly.

“There,” you state, triumphant, “I am finished.”

She takes the pad from you and inspects the sketch. It’s nothing compared to hers, and yet, she lights up as if it were. “It is lovely!”

The morning sun has risen high, and despite being under the shade, the summer heat makes you sweat. Without a thought, you wipe your forehead gently, patting your face dry, and dust off your gown. When you look back at the princess, she laughs.

“Oh dear,” she giggles, “you’ve gotten charcoal everywhere!”

What little embarrassment you feel quickly gives way to laughter, when you realise how the simple mistake must make you look awfully dishevelled and silly. Both yourself and the princess are comfortable enough with one another to giggle like young girls at innocent things. You hope a part of you will always stay like this.

“Dear me,” you sigh, standing. “I should fix this mess with haste, less the nobles of court think I am some wayward rebel.”

Strangely, the thought of it does not frighten you.

“Indeed,” the princess giggles, with a bright air of happiness, joking, “you look positively medieval! Whatever can be done about it?!”

“If only I had a lovely handmaid to help me wash and dress,” you smirk, all the way to your eyes, and then, “I hope we will see one another again soon.”

“I’m sure we will,” she confirms, “please find me if you ever wish to spend time together.”

“I shall.”

And with that, you bid her a good morning, and begin your walk back through the gardens, along the corridors of the keep, up flights of stone stairs, until the familiarity of what is now your home becomes stronger, your apartment door revealing itself to you, Ser Erryk standing guard as dutifully as ever.

You notice Elen walking briskly along the hallway towards you, with fresh linens in her arms, and she catches sight of you. At first, she seems pleased to see you, greeting you warmly, but upon closer inspection, her eyes grow wide.

“It almost seems as if I cannot leave you alone for one minute, your grace,” she shakes her head in mock annoyance, smiling up at you. “Is that dirt that covers you, or some other unholy substance?”

“It is charcoal, Elen,” you explain, following her into your rooms, nodding to Ser Erryk as you pass. “From sketching with the princess Helaena.”

“The princess?” Elen queries, “It is nice to hear you spending time with one another. She is very kind and sweet.”

“I agree,” you smile fondly, taking a seat on your large sofa, whilst Elen sets the fresh linens on your bed, and remarks that she will return with a basin of water for your face, before taking her leave.

Once again alone, you sigh, eyes casting over your well-furnished room. Hints of black, hints of red, Targaryen colors through and through, the ever-watchful eye of the false monarchy. You scold yourself for being ungrateful. You have a place to stay because of them. You have comfort, a high position, rank, notoriety, because of them.

You lost everything because of them.

You scowl at yourself, unwilling to lose your mind to a battle of internal succession.

Do not deal with your anger like a Valyrian.

Instead, your fingers reach for the nearest novel about the small table in front of you; A Comprehensive History of the Targaryen Dynasty, the book black with gold embellishments. Light reading about the house you will soon be joining, bonded in friendship and love.

You refuse to give energy to the unspoken part of your soul that calls it research on your usurpers.

Hushed voices meander in from the outside of your apartment's wooden door, a few meters away, stealing your attention from the first paragraphs of the novel. They’re quiet – too quiet for you to truly make out the words, and you frown. It is not the conversation of passers-by, nor Ser Erryk mumbling to himself. There is a distinct set of two, a hushed back and forth, and you are nothing if not curious, standing from the sofa to investigate. You make your way over to the door, urging the murmurs to take form, urging the voices to lift in volume, but they stay quiet.

Your fingers clasp the handle, and you pull it open swiftly, the air from the movement billowing past, threading through your hair and breezing around your gown.

Prince Aemond stands before Ser Erryk, the two whipping towards the door the moment you pull it open. Both go horribly quiet, like they have been caught in the middle of something too embarrassing to name, blinking down at you like you’ve spontaneously combusted.

You are acutely aware of something in the prince’s outstretched hand that is quickly hidden behind his back. The courage to speak dies on his tongue, along with the will to look you in the eyes.

“Prince Aemond,” you greet, a little shocked to see him stood before you. “Good day.”

“Good day,” he replies, and then, as an added afterthought like he only suddenly remembered, “my lady.”

Ser Erryk makes a poignant move to step to the side, as if to urge Prince Aemond to enter, least he turn, and flee. You open your door wider, stepping off centre.

“Please come in,” you offer.

Prince Aemond gives Ser Erryk a look, one you catch only slightly, but you cannot place the emotion.

He sighs, defeated. “Hmm.”

After a hesitant look towards you, and then one down the hallway, he sets his face with resolve, and steps through the threshold. The door closes soundly after him, but not before you give your sworn sword a quizzical look – he returns it with a smile.

You watch Prince Aemond cast his gaze over the inside of your apartments – his first time being here. He looks over your fireplace, the opposing sofas, the large windows, the book you were reading before he entered. He casts his gaze towards the bedroom, and then turns sharply away.

“How are you, my prince?” you ask.

He nods his head, back toward you. “...Well.”

You wait for something more, and when nothing arrives, you smile down at the floor in a knowing sort of way. He is in one of those sweeping moods again, it seems. Shyness gripping him tightly. When he turns towards you, his expression changes swiftly, and he frowns a little.

“Is that...? O-on your face, my lady... is that... dirt?”

“Oh,” you laugh a little, “It is dust from a charcoal stick -- I was sketching with your sister, the princess, in the gardens.”

You say it like it is the most natural thing in the world; to be a high lady of court, a royal of the old dynasty, in the presence of another from the crown, whilst dishevelled – grime and dust smeared about your pretty face, with not a care in the world. Prince Aemond feels himself smiling subtly at your lack of concern for the pomp and circumstance of court; an indifference towards the rules and regulations those of your position must abide. You simply do not care at all.

“Did you enjoy yourself?”

“I did,” you smile happily. “Your sister is wonderful.”

He nods. “I agree.”

“She draws splendidly.”

“Yes,” he hums, avoiding eye contact. “Quite well.”

You look around, mouth parted, and then close it, in favour of gesturing to your sofa. “Would you care to sit?”

“No,” he answers quickly, playing with whatever it is clutched in his hands, before abruptly stating, “This is a charming room.” A pause. “I believe my father did a great deal to it upon the knowledge of your arrival.”

You smile, a little confused by his unusual conversation. “I believe so. I am very grateful for everything that has been done for me.”

Prince Aemond casts his eye over you, pulling it sharply away, staring at the mounted wall-art instead, and swallowing hard. He looks extremely unsettled, uncomfortable in the way he is almost wringing his hands, posture rigid and unmoving, and yet, visibly restless.

“Shall I call for some tea?” you offer.

“No,” he shakes his head, “Thank you.”

The sudden arrival of Elen behind you with a washbowl seems to corner him, and he scatters. Bowing to you, sharply, he bids, “Good day, my lady. It has been a pleasure.” before bowling past you, the door slamming shut behind him.

“Good gracious!” Elen exclaims at the sharp noise. “I was not even able to greet the prince properly! What on earth have you done to him, your grace?”

You turn to stare at the wooden frame, perplexed. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

Only moments later, there is a knock on the door.

“Come,” you call, hoping it is the prince.

It opens at once to reveal Ser Erryk. Disappointment must be written clear across your face, enough so that it prompts your sworn sword to present something. In his hand, a note, golden ribbon keeping it rolled tight. You have come to learn what that combination means.

“From the prince,” Ser Erryk explains.

“Just now?” you press, walking forward to take the note from his outstretched hand.

“Well... I— yes,” he nods. You give him a look, a silent order to express what he is keeping hidden, and his expression softens. “Earlier the prince stopped by to deliver it... I told him you were currently in your apartments and suggested he might perhaps enjoy speaking to you in person. The prince, however, made it clear that he did not want to disturb you. Forgive me, my lady, but I made the assumption that his presence would not trouble you--”

“--a correct assumption, Ser Erryk,” you smile.

“But he... remained firm in his decision to voice his requests through a note... upon which time, you yourself intervened and opened the door.”

His startled expression makes perfect sense now. His shyness all encompassing.

“When the prince left moments ago, he gave me the note upon his exit.”

Your fingers deftly unwrap the scroll. Elen has paused in her duties, and Ser Erryk waits to take his leave, too.

My betrothed,

I am to spar at midday in the training yard.

If it is agreeable with you, would you care to join me, and watch?

I would enjoy your company very much.

Let us meet at the entrance of the Great Hall so we may walk together.

Prince Aemond.

You look up, catching Elen’s eye. “What time is it currently?”

“A few minutes after the eleventh hour, your grace,” she replies. “Why do you ask?”

“The prince wishes to meet at midday, and I look a dreadful state.”

“Gods be good, we must make haste!” she exclaims, rushing at Ser Erryk, shooing him with her hands, “Ser, please leave us be, I must make her grace presentable to the best of my abilities! We have so little time!”

He bows formally, and takes his leave, bidding you well.

Elen rushes, cleaning your face diligently, fixing your hair, rosing your cheeks. You think she sometimes takes too much care in your appearance, but ladies of the court often wish to look as ethereal as possible – a desire that seemingly escapes you. Your mauve dress is swept away for cleaning, and in its stead, a midnight blue gown laid out, laced up at your back, fitting perfectly.

The hour fast approaches, and you must calm a frazzled Elen, reassuring her that you look fine as you slip away to the door, out of reach of her fiddling hands.

“Have a wonderful time, your grace!” she wishes, smiling wide and waving you off.

Your walk to the Great Hall is accompanied by Ser Erryk, his metal armour tinkling by your side, your conversation light and airy. When the double doors to the Hall make their appearance, you are more than a little disheartened to see a tall prince with white hair absent. Waiting on you instead, is who you recognise as the Queen’s sworn sword; Ser Criston Cole.

You have only seen the man on several occasions, remarking him to be handsome and well poised, and yet, there is a lurking coldness there, foretelling a maelstrom of anger, resentment and bitterness. You have not the faintest clue why, but your uneasiness whispers for you to beware.

“High Lady (y/n),” he greets, bowing, hands clasped behind his back. “I am afraid the Prince is currently held up within his lessons. I assume he should be finished soon. In the meantime, I am happy to escort you to the courtyard.”

You nod, wary. Ser Erryk stays by your side.

“I will walk with High Lady (y/n) from here,” Ser Criston informs, voice cold. “You may relinquish her into my stead, Ser.”

For reasons unknown to you, Ser Erryk seems reluctant, but quickly bows to avoid confrontation, leaving you alone with Ser Criston. You hear his footsteps grow ever quiet, until they cannot be heard at all.

“This way, my lady,” Ser Criston instructs, and you set off towards the courtyard with him.

The air is thick, and you are acutely aware of his presence beside you. Where with Ser Erryk it is comfortable and content, Ser Criston makes you feel on-edge and, ultimately, unsafe.

You feel you are overthinking things.

“Which subjects are the prince schooled in?” you ask, filling the stifling silence with forced conversation.

“History, my lady,” he replies, “philosophy, religion, warfare, politics, swordsmanship.” He laughs, as if the list is unimaginable to you. “A great deal.”

“I see,” you answer, the prince growing ever more radiant in your eyes, the more you learn of him.

“None of which, I am sure, would interest a lady such as yourself.”

His quip comes out of turn, and from a place of scorn and derision. You cast him a sideways glance, full of the power of your position.

“As a lady born from history itself, perhaps I should be the one teaching it?”

Ser Criston laughs, but you were not joking.

“Ah,” you say, “perhaps you are not privy to that information.”

He gives you a pointed look, but you smirk to yourself, and avoid it.

The day is as splendid as it was this morn, bright sun and clear skies, and when you descend the stone steps to the training yard, there are already a few soldiers and guards sparring together. Dust from the ground below kicks up at their movements, and you grow excited to watch how legendary prince Aemond is said to be with a blade.

“This way, my lady,” Ser Criston calls, and you follow quickly, crossing the yard at length to come upon a table filled with an assortment of weapons.

Swords, spears, daggers, morning stars.

“Do you wish to hold one?” he asks, smirking slightly. “Although such things should be kept shielded from fair ladies, to protect them from the depravity of battle and war.”

You feel a natural gravity towards the dagger, picking it up slowly, the weight of it solid in your palm. Something echoes at the feeling, reverberates at the mention.

Black as night, to match the scales of your mount. Cold hilt weighing heavy against your palm, perfectly balanced for none else but you.

“Spell-forged by the elders,” the voice comes as if from the depths of your soul. “Only for royal use. Like your forbearers, this one is yours alone to wield. No common flame nor dragonflame will do damage. She is beautiful, is she not?”

Ser Criston’s voice snaps you back to the present day, heaving you from your memory. He is holding a morning star; ball and chain dangling from his grip, and you drop the dagger like it burns, stumbling backwards, skin peppered with goosebumps.

“Careful, my lady!” he fusses, dropping to pick the weapon up. “You may hurt yourself.”

You blink a few times to gather yourself, focusing on your surroundings.

“I shall wait for Prince Aemond at the edge of the yard, Ser Criston,” you nod, turning sharply to put as much distance between you as possible.

You head for the walls, thinking of them as safety, leaning back against the stone, cold seeping through your gown, grounding you sharply. You sigh out at the feeling, and no sooner have you reached sanctuary, than something urges you to pull your gaze upwards.

There, at the pinnacle of the steps, stands the white-haired prince, like a heavenly spectre. His gaze sweeps over the courtyard quickly, flicking back and forth, searching for you. Your chest blooms when your eyes meet, and he relaxes, smiling only slightly.

He is fast when he descends, quick to make his way to you.

He bows. “Good day, my lady.”

You smile. “Good day, my prince.”

The pause is filled with nothing but the sound of sharp metal, the two of you not close enough to greet one another in a more familiar way, and yet, no longer strangers who can ignore the other.

“In this light, your hair looks heavenly,” you compliment, gazing up at him.

He swallows audibly, mouth parting, closing, eye tearing away from you, nodding curtly at your words, willing his face to look not so terribly flustered.

Ser Criston appears by his side, and you deflate, annoyed suddenly at the interruption.

“My prince.” He is far livelier when speaking to prince Aemond, you note. “Are you ready to begin?”

The prince turns his attention away from you, composure regained, like there were never any cracks in it at all. “Yes, Ser Criston. I am.”

They leave you leaning against the stone wall, sheltered from the midday sun, and although you are waiting for the prince to cast a look towards you from over his shoulder, it never comes. You are left to stare after him, watching his white hair slide across his back from his movements.

No sooner left alone, than a lesser lord approaches you, the golden opportunity to finally meet the last daughter of Valyria arising. You see him coming from your peripheral, and steel yourself for the conversation.

“High Lady (y/n)!” the man greets, bowing to you. Round and stout, soft beard to match his eyes, he’s dressed in dark red, and you smile politely at him. “We have not formally met yet, but it is an honor and a pleasure!”

“My lord,” you nod.

“A royal of Valyria,” he hums, eyes crinkling with joy, “An honor – a true honor! Your people and the legacy of your dynasty lives on through you--” your smile becomes forced. “--of course, it is terrible what happened, but as long as there is but one that remains, all is truly not lost!”

“Yes,” you hum, “Indeed.”

“You are here, of course, to watch the prince spar?” he questions, but you can tell it is rhetorical.

“I am.”

“He is quite remarkable with a weapon,” he continues, “Easily the best in Kings Landing.”

You internally call out to the void to gift you with an opportunity to escape the conversation, threads of your composure pulling tightly, threatening to snap.

“My lady.”

You look up at the sound of the sudden and familiar voice. Prince Aemond stands before you, appearing like a saviour, his presence intimidating enough to have the lesser lord stumbling over his words, one-eyed stare like hot venom.

“A-ah, Prince Aemond!” he bows, “Forgive me, I was conversing with High Lady (y/n) about her Valyrian heritage--”

“I am sure my lady is here to observe the sparring, and not to discuss her past.”

“O-of course, your grace,” he bows, offers you an apology with a meek smile, and takes his quick leave.

You watch him go with relief, sighing out at the slowly returning air filling your lungs.

“I fear what happens when I leave you alone,” he mutters, smiling.

You cannot look fully at him. The sun is so high that when you try, you must squint, like he himself is something you cannot fully face, unable to look directly at his brilliance.

“It seems like I cannot escape the curiosity of the Keep for long,” you hum, squinting as the sun partially blinds you. “Thank you, my prince. I was hoping for someone to come along and rescue me.”

He becomes visibly shy at your choice of wording, nodding at the ground, before turning his body to gesture behind him.

“If you stand by the gathering crowds, you will be able to more clearly see the events,” he suggests. “I can walk with you, if you wish?”

“Thank you.”

It is like a ballroom dance; a slow waltz the two of you are performing, in the way you flit around one another, tracing the edges of etiquette and familiarity. You allow your body to carry you through the motions, following his lead, filling the space he gives with your own motions. Courtship is new for you, as it is with him, and although there is still much of the dance to perform, you are enjoying the rhythm as it is set now.

“Here, my lady,” he motions, as he parts the crowds by his height alone. “I believe this spot will prove to have the best view.”

You are positioned at the frontmost edge of the gathering crowds, and begin to feel very much out of place. Prince Aemond appears nervous as he directs you, one hand discretely wiping sweat from his palm against the leather of his pants, the other wobbles slightly as he directs you. A few older lords with long gray beards meander closer to you, whether to ask about your heritage or simply to view the training is unknown, and out of your line of sight, Prince Aemond gives them a sharp look. They freeze, and leave a larger space than necessary for you at his silent threat.

You pat down your dress, musing, “I am excited to watch you, my prince.”

He exhales with a little more force than necessary and opens his mouth to reply. Ser Criston’s voice calls out for him sharply, and prince Aemond thinks better of what he was to say, bows to you, and swiftly take his leave.

You watch on as he picks up a weapon from the table you were at previously, a steel sword, and his other arm hooks around a shield. Ser Criston opts for a morning star, daunting in the way he lugs it around, sharp spikes foretelling of grievous injury. You wonder for a moment if you should even be so close.

The training begins without word or hesitation, and the two men lunge into their fight with venom and speed.

Ser Criston, it seems, favors brute strength, swinging his morning star with reckless abandon, whilst Prince Aemond leans on technique and precision, deflecting the weapon with ease. You watch with intent, transfixed on the way the prince moves. How he twirls, dodges, steps, twists, bows and leans to avoid the weapon striking him. His foot placement is deliberate and well-balanced, and you find yourself realising that the extensive twisting and turning of his body is to overcompensate for his injury. He is desperately aware of how the lack of eyesight affects his ability to fight and does his utmost to rectify it. How incredible, then, that he fights so elegantly and ferociously, that he is the only one you wish to watch. You have not once looked at Ser Criston. Prince Aemond is a fearsome thing to behold, indeed.

“He is handsome, is he not?”

“In a ruggish, brooding sort of way, I suppose.”

“It is a shame about his scar, though.”

The three hushed voices come from somewhere behind you, filtering through the crowds like their sole purpose is to find you.

“Be quiet!” A giggle, and then, “That is his future lady wife,” you hear, whispered just below the clashing and clanging noise of your surroundings. “The one in the dark blue gown.”

“Prince Aemond’s future wife?” the voice is painted with disbelief. “Surely not.”

“I tell you it is!”

“The poor girl,” the voice comes with a giggle, “married off to the disfigured maelstrom of house Targaryen. With a face as beautiful as that, I’d have thought the king would take pity on her. Alas, someone must wed the one-eyed.”

You turn your head with a slow precision, deliberate in your movement, your eyes far more lethal than you planned for them to be, as you stare in the faces of those gossiping. The slew and force of your look elicits wide eyes and harsh swallows, stumbles over “forgive me, my lady”, “a thousand pardons” and “overlook our rudeness”. There must be something lurking behind your already venomous gaze – an omen of something unspeakable – that causes the three women to jerk back, and quickly take their exit.

You turn back just in time to watch the prince out-manoeuvre his opponent, Ser Criston having no other option but to yield. You are among the first to clap, and Prince Aemond’s gaze immediately finds you, eye softening slightly.

“Well done, my prince,” Ser Criston praises, clapping along with the crowd. “It seems you grow more skilled with each spar.”

Prince Aemond lowers his sword, sighing heavily, and wipes his brow. He discards his weapon and shield on the wooden table and takes a moment to collect himself, before making his way to you. You are standing by yourself when he arrives, and beam at him as he approaches.

“My prince!” you begin, “I did not think sword fighting could look so beautiful, nor so enthralling.”

“Ah,” he hums, “I was simply... it is only... sword skills are— what I mean is—”

“My prince!” Ser Criston interjects, once again interrupting. Prince Aemond’s brow furrows, like he’s annoyed, but Ser Criston continues, “you were excellent today--” he turns to you, “--was he not?”

“Ah, yes,” you agree, “wonderful--”

“You had some fine ladies of the court watching you today, too.”

You don’t miss the pointed glance Ser Criston gives you as he pats prince Aemond on the shoulder, the sly dig not unnoticed.

“I don’t give a shit about that,” comes his blunt reply.

He must forget himself and his company, and when he realises, both men turn their heads to you sharply, the weight of uttering foul language in the presence of a lady is almost unforgivable.

You laugh from your chest at the comment, quickly regaining composure over the unruly bark that slipped from your lips, trying miserably to disguise it as a cough.

“Ah... well. I shall leave the two of you to enjoy the rest of your day,” Ser Criston announces, bowing. “My prince. My lady.”

You dip your head politely, watching the queen’s sworn sword take his leave. His is attractive, of course, but all semblance of handsomeness is poisoned by the rage left festering beneath the surface of his composure. You notice the same feeling permeating from him as you did with prince Aegon. One that warns you to tread carefully.

“My lady,” Prince Aemond begins, and you refocus on him. “Would you perhaps like to take a walk together?”

“Very much,” you reply. “Through the gardens, then?”

He nods in agreement, and you set off together. It has been only days since your last walk through the grounds of the Red Keep with him, and yet, the feeling is completely different. Where before, he would hardly spare you a second glance, now, he is actively engaging in – albeit quiet – conversation with you.

The dance develops, and you are both keeping time.

Prince Aemond feels like an immovable force beside you, keeping pace perfectly, staying separated by an inch, and refusing to part any further. Respectful, and yet, somehow tremendously intimate. He is sweating, you realise, from the spar – small pebbles dotting his silver hairline, and he dabs them away with his fingertips, sighing softly to settle his breath. The courtyard of the Keep is attached to the gardens, the two separated only by a few minutes' walk and a large wooden door.

“Your technique in fighting is--”

“It was a pleasure to see you--”

You both speak at once, and stop short of finishing your respective sentences. There is a moment of pause, and then you laugh together, softly, and his eye crinkles with mirth as he looks down at you. The small detail sets your soul on fire.

“Please,” he offers.

“Ah,” you hum, remarking, “I noticed your sword fighting technique was very swift, and elegant. It looked as if you were performing a dance.”

He pauses. “Really?”

“Yes,” you confirm, “Although it was terrifyingly deadly. You must have trained for so long to reach such a standard.”

“Ever since I was a child,” he answers, “Although, I must admit, I never had that much interest in practising. I was always bested by my elder brother. Ser Criston oversaw our progress and was in charge of teaching us the necessary skills, but I suppose he took a particular interest in me.”

“The two of you were sparring with real weapons. Is it not terribly frightening? Ser Criston’s morning star looked dauting enough simply sitting on the table.”

He laughs at this. “Only a little. I enjoy the focus that comes with it, though. Allowing myself to immerse my body and mind completely builds character and skill,” he explains, adding hastily, “in my personal opinion.”

“Hmm,” you take a moment to think on it, and then, “I agree.”

He nods, like your opinion on his own was one of importance.

Before you notice, the gardens are upon you, and you sigh out at the smell of foliage and flowers. Small pebbles crunch under your shoes as the two of you walk, unencumbered by others.

“What were you uttering before, my prince?” you ask with curiosity. “Before I spoke over you?”

“Oh,” he hums, tucking his arms behind his back, smiling at the ground. “I wanted to say I was glad you came today.”

You are aware that he is visibly relaxing around you the more time you spend together. Posture that was like an intricate puzzle now solves itself within your mind, and you are learning to read him and his emotions clearer by how he presents himself. It is like an unspoken language, you think – one you are keen to translate.

You smile, all the way to your eyes. “You are?”

He breathes a laugh through his nose, like the question is one you needn't ask. “Of course. I was...” his voice dips quiet for a moment, “worried... that you would not. Ladies do not eagerly watch sword fighting, nor any kind of sparring. I would not have been offended had you rejected my offer, though, my lady. So, in the future... you may decline me if you wish.”

“I know, my prince,” you lie. You feel he would be deeply upset if you did. Prince Aemond seems like someone who feels emotions strongly, despite his best efforts to conceal them. “But I will not. I very much enjoyed watching you. Something in your air and manner makes all things enjoyable if they are with you.”

He says nothing in return, looking ahead, but you can see something threatening to reveal itself – an elated grin. He does a terrible job of concealing it.

You look ahead, and peeking out from tall shrubs and foliage, are the maroon leaves of the ancient tree – the same one from your earlier morning's activities.

“Oh!” you exclaim softly, and prince Aemond casts you a look. “The Wierwood tree!”

He follows your gaze, eye landing on the canopy of the deciduous tree. “Would you care to sit underneath it?”

Your face lights up. “Please! I sat there with your sister just this morning and it was wonderful!”

He laughs softly at your happiness, extending and arm for you to lead the way as he follows. The tree is more splendid than you imagine, and you wonder if it is because the company you keep now is different from that which you did earlier.

“Would you like my jacket, my lady?” he asks, as you approach the base.

You are a little confused, asking, “What for, my prince?”

“To... sit on. So the earth and soil does not mar your gown.”

“Oh, no, that is no worry of mine, my prince,” you reassure, plopping yourself down and leaning against the trunk. “I care not about dirt. But I thank you for your kind offer.”

This is the second time today you have taken him aback by your lack of concern for etiquette and rules, and he is not put off in the slightest. He finds your blasé attitude like a cold bath after a humid day.

Prince Aemond settles beside you, on your left, relaxing against the solid bark. The tree casts a shade over the two of you, and here, in this space, you are equals.

You turn to him. “Ser Criston told me you take an extensive set of lessons. Is this the unspoken duty of a prince?”

He gazes up at the canopy, side profile sharp and regal. You are enthralled.

“In some ways, yes,” he answers, watching the leaves dance along the breeze. “Male heirs should have a comprehensive knowledge on the history of the kingdom, the values and religion therein, and the politics of the court and how to navigate it.” He sighs, softly adding, “even if they are far down the line of succession.”

“Hmm,” you note, sounding very much like him.

“Second sons are more formally bestowed the burden of commander. Of the kingdom's army, navy... dragons...” he laughs under his breath at something that is lost to you. “I suppose that is why I train so hard with a sword.” He tilts his head ever so slightly, casting his good eye at you. “It is my duty.”

“Sometimes, I believe duty is the death of love. I told your sister as much this morning, sat exactly here.”

“What do you mean?” he asks, staring at you intently.

“Is it not better to do things that you have a true passion for? Things you deeply love?” you suggest. “It seems like such a terrible waste to be forced into something only for the sake of duty.”

His lip purses thin, and you realise you may have overstepped, free tongue carrying away with loose thoughts. You turn your head away, avoiding his eye.

“Those in high positions do not have the luxury to simply do as they please, nor should they,” he retorts, tone a little sharp like you’ve wounded him. “Any who do are not deserving of their rank in the first place.”

The air becomes incredibly awkward and stifled, and you fear you have ruined what was otherwise a pleasant day. Although you cannot stand the idea of foregoing what you love in place of duty – to act with all the grace and decorum someone of your notoriety should, forgetting who you are in the process – part of his words unfortunately ring true. Life cannot always be spent living for yourself.

“Forgive me, Prince Aemond,” you speak up. “I feel I have spoken too freely.”

He sighs, admitting, “Duty frustrates me, too. But I cannot overlook what is expected of me. I have been awarded a grandiose life, and I wish not to be remembered as one who whittled it away indulging in my own pleasures. As I am sure my brother will be.”

You think on your own situation. What are you hoping to achieve here, at the Red Keep? Will you forever spend your days flitting about the castle – passing time with your future husband and sister? Riding only Archeon and forsaking his siblings? Will you stroll about the gardens, eat imported pastries, drink fine wine, and stay ignorant to the rest of the new world? You were spared from death for a reason. Are you to throw it away for a life of meaningless comfort? You cannot turn away from the second chance you were given, last daughter.

“If I may,” you speak up, “and if you have time – will you... teach me of the histories of Westeros? From the time of the Doom to the present day?” Prince Aemond notes you do not recoil in the face of the word anymore. “I know you study history, so perhaps we may do so together? It should be my duty to learn about the new world.”

His gaze softens considerably upon hearing your request, and there is a part of him that regrets biting out his earlier words.

“Of course, my lady,” he answers. “I will do my best.”

You feel a sense of belonging at his words, no matter how small. Learning about events from the time where you were absent gives you something to strive towards – something to give you meaning. If you know more about what happened in that period, perhaps you can understand yourself and your place better.

“Would it be terribly improper of me to ask you to teach me to spar?” you blurt. Sadly, you know the answer. Ladies do not lift swords.

“Terribly improper does not always mean it is wrong,” he answers, smirking. “If you wish it, I am happy to oblige.”

“I would like that very much,” you beam, and he smiles right back.

You spend much time with Prince Aemond under the Wierwood tree, flitting from listening to him talk about history, and swordsmanship, to speaking of your time with his sister, and your hopes to grow closer to her. The two of you talk animatedly, laughter mixing, and when the afternoon wanes, he escorts you back to your room so that you may rest before your dinner.

When he returns to his own quarters, he exhales sharply through his nose, high strung and exhausted. The more time he spends with you, the more he finds himself becoming unfocused. He forgets himself. Forgets his purpose, his anger. He cannot begin to explain it, and does not wish to face it openly yet.

The toll from today's spar presents itself in the form of a blackening bruise across his upper arm. His fingers press into it absentmindedly, so he can feel the pain more.

He straightens up upon a knock at his door. A fleeting thought hopes it is you.

“Come,” he calls, stone voice and annoyed expression.

It softens when his mother hurries inside, and grows once again irritated as his grandfather trails behind her. He feels disappointed in your lack of presence.

“My son,” his mother greets warmly, hugging him close. “Are you well?”

“Mother,” he murmurs, smiling. “I am.”

His grandfather speaks up. “How was your day with your betrothed?”

He steels his expression. “Good.”

“Has your forwardness been received well by her?”

“I believe any form of kindness would be openly accepted by such a woman,” his mother replies curtly, disapproving. He thinks anger does not suit her. “She is completely alone, and any alliance is one she would welcome.”

Aemond feels his chest constrict at the position he is in.

“Mother,” he soothes, “All is well. Please do not fret.”

“How can I not?!” she grows emotional. “My beloved son offered up like some meagre tribute! How could your father?! How could the king--?!”

“It is my duty,” he replies, holding her shoulders softly. The word sits heavy on his tongue. “I am happy to do it.”

“What of her dragons?”

He casts his eye towards his grandfather, always one to gather information no matter the cost. He thinks briefly on what this will ultimately cost himself.

“She is being truthful.”

“Oh gods--!”

“Gods forbid,” Otto inhales sharply. “This cannot be. You are sure of this?”

“I am,” Aemond casts his eye elsewhere. Betrayal has a bitter taste that lingers on his tongue. “She spoke of them openly. Their details, names, appearances. I believe them all to be as large as the one she rides now.”

His mother clasps a hand over her mouth, stifling a guttural sob at the damming information. His grandfather has no color to his face. Aemond knows the weight of his words, and yet, does not feel fear from them in the same way his relatives do.

“If you were to see them in the wild,” his grandfather speaks quickly, “would you be able to correctly identify them? Do you trust yourself enough to discern which are hers, and which are not?”

Aemond does not like where this conversation is going. A large part of him hoped that nothing would ever come from his relaying information about you to his mother and grandfather. That is why he thought nothing of it; happy to do his part for the realm. Suddenly, he is reduced back to a boy of ten; anxious about the thoughts that go through another's mind when they listen to his words.

“Aemond,” his mother urges, unshed tears in her eyes weigh heavy on her lashes, “you must listen carefully to what we are about to tell you. You must think of our family when we ask this of you.”

He is clutching his mother's skirt, ten, eye weeping blood through the stitches, pain so unfathomable, he fears he might die. Only her, only his mother would protect him.

He swallows heavy.

His grandfather speaks first.

“According to the king, this is the woman you are soon to marry. We understand it is making you uncomfortable, but you are performing your duties far better than we could ever have hoped. Should all go to plan, you need not worry for long,” he pauses. “If she gathers all five of her dragons, based on what we know, and what history has taught us of these beasts, she’ll be able to conquer or burn her way through the entirety of Westeros in a month.”

Aemond must remind himself to breathe at the information, such is the staggering amount of power you could potentially hold.

His grandfather continues, “We are working to develop a weapon that could potentially destroy her dragons, but if they truly are at the size of the one she rides now, it would be incredibly difficult, and perhaps not even effective. The only true weapon... the only sure way we have is...” he takes a breath, before looking poignantly at his grandson. “Only a dragon can kill a dragon.”

“No.”

“Aemond, please listen--!”

“I will not,” he snaps, pulling away from his mothers clutching embrace. He is not a child of ten any longer.

“You must!” his mother sobs, “For our family, for our realm!”

“You must find her dragons, Aemond. Whether you want to or not, you cannot allow her to regain them! No matter what! The lives of everyone in the realm depend on it – not just the lives of your family, but the lives of every single person alive!”

He feels cornered, trapped, drowning under the weight of their expectant stares. He spoke of duty to you earlier, but this surely cannot be asked of him. This is not duty. This is only death.

“Have I not been the one to protect you?” his mother reasons. “Always? Was I not the only one to stand up for you? To keep you safe? Your father cares only for his sick obsession with Valyria, and this woman is an opportunity to fuel it. He is blind to the threat – blind to the danger!”

“The past is dead, Aemond. We live in the present, and can only control the future.”

He feels himself backing away from them – or is he backing away from the truth? He cannot tell.

“Think on it,” his grandfather tells him. “Think well. Your mother and I will be waiting for your answer, but we hope you choose the right path.

He casts his gaze to his mother, her eyes holding a thousand emotions, like she is begging him to reach out and be the one to save her this time.

But who will save you?

“Find us when you decide, my son,” his broken mother whispers.

They leave him to his thoughts, and he cannot stop thinking about you.

His gaze wanders, taking in his surroundings, his feelings.

There is something atop his desk that was not put there by him. He frowns, charging over to it. His sisters handwriting sprawls cursive over a note atop a folded piece of sketch paper

A present, brother, of your most beloved~

His fingers unfold the paper, and the air leaves his lungs.

It is a sketch of you, deep in thought, staring out across the gardens of the Keep, sitting under the same Weirwood tree you shared with him earlier. It is an almost perfect likeness, beautiful, breath-taking, and he cannot help but look at it fondly, with guilt.

Aemond folds it up and places it in his chest pocket, wordlessly.

[part 6]

#aemond x y/n #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen #prince aemond #aemond targaryen x you #hotd #house of the dragon fanfiction #house of the dragon #house of the dragon aemond #aemond drabble

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