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safely-in-vhagars-belly · 2 days

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''Fight and Die'' Slightly darkAemond x AFAB Reader 18+ MDNI PART 6!

Aemond x fem oc/reader

Tags: Show setting, abusive brother (but its not aemond) mentioned of forced marriages and duels, mentions of parental loss.

🔷Summary: Your ancestors once betrayed the Targaryens and paid a high price. Now you are back at court with your brother, who hopes to sell you in exchange for his freedom.

🔷Author's note: It might still be a little darkish but not as dark as usual. I think this is the closest to show aemond I ever got. So he still is not a unicorn yall but he is at least imo he is decent and nice.

🔷Wordcount :3347

Warnings below the cut

WARNINGS: Gore, mentions of assault (but it doesnt happen, and its not aemond who wants to do it) mentions of blood, gore, and violence as well as miscarriages (oc's mother)

Blood does not scare you. It once did, but not anymore.

It is liquid, water in a way. And there is nothing more natural to you than water.

Just funny coloured water that comes pouring out of your body if you are injured.

You came into this world, covered in blood as your mother bled out on the sheets, according to Fyrand. You were screaming and crying, kicking and alive. Despite Maesters feared the worst, despite your enemies hoping the worst, you came out alive.

And you did just that.

Time and time and time again.

Whenever you see blood, it brings you back to a distant but fresh memory. Not your birth. You don’t recall what your own mother looked like. You never saw a portrait, or anything. You never dared to ask Fyrand either. Your mother is a wound that never healed.

So, another memory surfaces from the dark instead. A dark memory of you, standing on a ship, during a storm. Your brother close to you, his fingers holding a crown. Your family’s crown.

You recall how badly the ship and the men smelled. Like piss, like beer, like all unpleasant unladylike things. Like hell, if you are being honest. You never had any man eye you with desire, but in that very moment you had. The captain of the pirateship couldn’t keep his eyes off from you.

Fyrand had made a deal, selling the crown for passage to Westeros. But the Captain had decided he wanted more. He wanted you. ‘’Westeros is a boring place. It would be best to have her stay here.’’ You remember the way his crew laughed, that sickening, twisted laughter.

Fyrand has never been kind to you. But he was not stupid either. He would not give up his pawn to a mere pirate. Not when he already offered the crown of his mother.

It is funny how the gods have a sense of humor, as that man that wanted to marry you, too missed an eye. And his teeth were almost falling from his mouth, caused by rotting.

Fyrand huffed, took the crown and left the ship, dragging you with him. But you were denied access and grabbed. The captain placed his dagger against your throat. He hissed that you needed to be quiet and that Fyrand had to make a choice. ‘’Either your sister gives me her hand, or you do.’’ You weren’t sure what you ever did to that man. But you noticed a golden sealion that day. A few weeks after the attack, you found out your house tried to destroy that house. He was taking revenge for a crime none of you were even alive to remember.

You remember how you screamed when Fyrand took a sword of a crewmember and placed it at his left wrist, and just chopped. The flesh teared, blood poured and the captain finally released you as you sobbed on the deck, hearing Fyrand’s roar of pure pain and agony. The hand wasn’t off fully. It remained, tangling by pieces of flesh, as a leaf dancing in the wind. You felt your stomach turn and whatever meal you had would soon come back up. The captain approached Fyrand, grabbed his hand, and just pulled, tearing the flesh fully as Fyrand threw his head in his neck and screamed.

After that, somehow, you were both allowed to stay. It was a uncomfortable journey for you, but no incidents had happened aside from people calling ‘’doll’’ and smirking whenever you passed.

You and Fyrand shared one room aboard, and in that room, you stitched close his wound with a needle and ripped threads from one of your dresses. You never had stitched a wound before and Fyrand didn’t have anything to soften the pain. You were afraid at first. But you knew he would die if you didn’t get over it. So you pierced his skin and started stitching, bringing the wound flesh close, and tied it close.

It is strange.

Many years and moons have passed since that night but you can still hear your brother scream and picture his hand, the way the blood sprayed out of his hand, coloring the deck red as the pirates cheered.

Aemond does not seem to notice that you are not there anymore, but your feet become quicker as if you are a dancer that takes the lead and your breath increases. Aemond, Aemond doesn't notice. In truth, Aemond seems happy. Almost dazed, enchanted or drugged. He can't seem to stop smiling as you drag him with you, faster and faster as memories plague your mind.

You think back of the conversation the two of you had earlier. How Ser Criston was allegedly a good sword fighter. How good can he be, if he injured the Prince? “I thought you told me that Ser Criston was an excellent swordsman?” Your voice sounds snappy, angry and furious.

Aemond barely hides his chuckle. You turn around to look at him, so he can see the pain and worry in your face. The moment he sees how much this hurts and worries you, the smile dies. He steps forward. You back away at first but he bumps into you anyway. Clumsily he grabs you gently and kisses your forehead. “He is, Revaera. It was a small cut and my own fault. I got too impatient. I am many things, patient is not one of my qualities.”

You smile, mischievously and play with the pins on his shirt, touching his chest. “Someone should teach you patience. I don't want you injured.” You tell him, kissing his cheeks.

He breaks into a grin, a stunning bright grin that lights up your entire world. You feel your cheeks warm and are pressed against his body. “Maybe you can teach me.” He whispers, seductively. You like the way he has you where he wants you to. You feel safe and relax, until you see that the wound still drips with blood. You stare at it, as the world seems to fade.

“We need a maester.” You hear Aemond say, but you don’t react. This time, he needs to drag you with him.

You and Aemond soon find the maester in his room. It is nicely decorated and as you assumed, it has dozens of books. You wonder if the Maester himself wrote anything. The maester in question is a bald man, wearing classical robes and a chain, as you suspected. He is reading a big book that lies in front of him on the desk, not paying the two of you any attention.

That is until you speak, pushing Aemond in his direction, surprising the young prince, who stumbles on his feet, his good eye widened in surprise. ‘’He is hurt. The prince is injured.’’ You speak, your voice clear and calm.

You expect perhaps some urgency. Perhaps a worried glance. You don't expect what happens.

The maester slams his book closed, his eyes full of fear and terror as he looks at Aemond. ‘’What? Where? Show me!’ He cries out. The chair he was sitting on falls on its back and you watch, a bit flustered.

Even Aemond seems shocked.

That was perhaps not a good idea.

You feel terrible when the concerned and dutiful Maester looks at the tiny cut in Aemond’s hands. You really scared the poor man and avoid his eyes for now on.

Aemond chuckles, smiling at you as if you are his whole world. You don’t understand why, you scared a poor man, and you also made a scene. Yet he seems to appreciate it.

You think back of his words. Earlier, he mentioned that his father wouldn't even notice if he did not attend the supper you two skipped. What was that supposed to mean?

The maester allows himself to calm down, sighing with relief as he takes in Aemond's injury. He looks at the cut. ‘’O. A small cut.’’ The maester says, after studying it. “Luckily it looks like a clean one. Did you injure yourself when fighting?” He asks prince Aemond.

Aemond turns his head away, so that is a yes. “It was just a scratch, but Revaera insisted.” Aemond should be annoyed or fed up with your behavior but instead he smiles adoringly at you, holding your hand in his free one as the maester looks closer at the wound.

‘’You have a protective wife, my prince.’’ The maester comments kindly. “It is Princess Revaera, is it not?” He asks you, and you can tell by his piercing glare that he knows all too well who your family is.

You nod. The maester does not say anything but his look says it all. Disapproval.“To have a Marthyralys back in the castle. Your ancestors left a colorful mark on Westeros's history books.” You know he is right. You know your ancestors killed a lot of people. But is it really the time to have that conversation? And is it really up to him to judge you for the crimes of your ancestors?

Any other day you might have reconsidered: This man has a story, same as you. Maybe he is a family member of someone killed. Or maybe he simply wants to keep the castle and the royal family safe.

But you can't stop the words rolling off your tongue. You can’t stop the fire that burns in your veins. “So did any family worth their salt.”

The maester makes a disapproving grimace. Next to you, Aemond nods approvingly as his wound is cleaned, smirking proudly.

The Maester turns to Aemond, tying the bandage over his cutted hand. “A fierce wife. You do best to muzzle her. I'm not so sure Westeros is ready for such a free spoken woman.” You wonder instantly if the Targaryens knew you were hiding in Pentos. You told Aemond, you assume the court knew but why does a Maester know this? A maester, who knows everything about curing a illness….

And causing one.

You look at Aemond and he seems to know you caught on too, quickly scratching behind his ear and turning his head away once more. You will talk with him about that. But you have another problem. The Maester is right.

You embarrassed Aemond. You spoke out of line. You threw a tantrum like some little girl. You disappointed him beyond words.

Aemond speaks, and you can't even look at him. You really aren't cut out to be a Princess. “She has become quite fierce. I don't mind it one bit, however. She can speak however she wishes.” He says, fierce and protective. He kisses your knuckles as a token of appreciation and love. Then his gaze hardens when he looks at the Maester. “Westeros might not be ready for her, but she is ready for Westeros. Whether it likes it or not; Here she is and here she'll stay. Am I understood?” You beam, pleased as the Maester visibly cowers, afraid of the temper of the Prince.

You see the Maester gulp and know that Aemond has made his point very clear. “Yes, my prince.” The maester mutters.

Aemond smiles, barely hiding his pride, that you are his wife. ‘’I am truly blessed. My princess has enough worries on her mind. She does not need this as well.” there is a barely hidden warning there. The maester must not disturb you.

The maester does as he is told, and you and Aemond soon leave his rooms. You walk back with him, your left hand into his injured right one. You try not to think of how your brother lost his own hand. But that is difficult.

You two walk in a peaceful silence and when Aemond speaks, you nearly jump out of your skin. “How has your day been?” You think back of your talk with Fyrand. A baby must soon be made. A child. A heir. And you hate how your memories keep haunting you, whenever you see blood.

And there’s something else.

On your wedding day, Princess Rhaenyra said something that haunts you still. She said she had her ‘’own’’ maesters. Is that a good thing? Or a bad thing? And can you even trust them? And why did she tell you, of all people?

Aemond is unaware your thoughts are gathering and forming a storm in your head. “What hobby did you pick?” He asks Excited to know your answer as you remain silent. You freeze. You had forgotten all about that. You would try to find something to entertain yourself. To bring him joy, rest, and so that he doesn’t have to worry when doing his duties.

Some wife you are.

“Uhm, well…I…” You laugh first then you become nervous, as the walls seem to close around you and your breath quickens.

You laugh, begin to breathe harder and eventually you become dizzy. You sway on your feet and begin crying as the air is taken from your lungs, as you collapse to the ground.

Aemond is shocked at first. He kneels down by you right away however. “Calm, my love. I am not mad. Calm.” He whispers, holding you by your wrists, gently so you may be free any moment you want. He also allows you room to breathe and takes deep breaths with you. You follow his example and soon you feel better and calm and stand back up, with his help.

He kisses you after you have stopped crying too. “I had a change of heart. If it truly makes you that anxious to be outside of my rooms, if it truly upsets you so much…” He swallows and looks at the tiles, clearly ashamed he encouraged you.

That's all he did. Encourage you. To be free. To be happy. To let your trauma go. To live your life. Maybe he is right. “No, maybe you were right. Maybe I need this push.” You speak.

He shakes his head. “I don't want to become someone you fear or worse, hate.” He whispers.

You could never hate him. “You were only worried for my own wellbeing and safety. You were right, Aemond. I can't stay cooped up in your rooms as some chicken.” No matter how safe you feel there. “No matter how comfortable your bed is.” You add, to jest. He takes it well and laughs, grinning.

Aemond helps you stand, testing if you can remain on your own two feet before letting you go. “How about we try to find something fun to do tomorrow? I never showed you the city. We can do that, should you wish for it.” King's Landing.

You have never seen it. Only heard stories. Stories of fierce men and dangerous dragons and treason and loyalty. “Your ancestors built this city side by side with mine. I know my family wants to erase you from our accomplishments. I know your ancestor was a great traitor. But he is not the only Marthyralys that lived. There are dozens before him that advised and counseled my family…” He is right. You know he is.

But…

Seeing your own history…

You aren’t sure you are ready for that.

Your ancestors might have build this city…

But they build it over the grave of millions.

Is it truly something to be proud of?

But Aemond doesn’t seem to know shame when it comes to history. “So, you could learn your history and ancestry, should you wish it.” He finishes a bit shy, and that makes you understand how important this is to him. He wants to show you the city he grew up in. He wants to spend time with you and to hold your hand as you walk through stinking streets as two ordinary people in love.

“Is that even allowed?” You ask. You doubt his father will approve. The king hates you, you are certain of it. And to have a Marthyralys wonder the streets, learn about Targaryen secrets and plots…

He chuckles. “I'm the Prince. You are the Princess. Asides, how can we learn from our mistakes if we do not acknowledge them?” He asks, and there he makes a good point.

Still, you aren’t sure. “That is true.” You mutter.

He breaks into a grin, victorious at last. “It stands then.” He kisses your cheeks and you are reminded of what you and Fyrand discussed. His baby. Aemond kisses increase as he leaves a trail of kisses on your collarbone, his smile something between a smirk and a smile as he softly pins you against the walls of the hallway, quickly looking around for servants or any other witnesses.

You tremble. And just like that, the spell is broken.

Aemond's good eye closes suspiciously, and the sweet kisses end. “What is it?” It is terrifying how well he can read you already.

You know he wants a baby.

You know so.

And you can’t say that you don’t want that. That you can’t want that. That you are terrified of dying like your mother. “Nothing.”

He scoffs, concern written all over his face as his body language changes from excited to worry. “There clearly is. Tell me what is the matter? I do wish us to discuss this.” You nod, and Aemond allows you to leave the wall.

You go to his bedchamber, tears burning in your eyes and you hear his footsteps, never that far behind you.

Aemond closes the door and waits for you to explain yourself. You sit down on his bed, sniffling. “Fyrand has been pressuring me about a baby.” You admit.

At first he is confused. “A baby?”

You wipe away at your tears, furiously that this makes you so upset. Giving Aemond a child, an heir, making princes and princesses, it should be the highest honor. So why does this terrify and hurt you so deeply? “Yes. A heir for you. For your father too.” You blurt out.

Aemond raises a brow.

“You want to carry my father's heir?”

You would rather die. Disgusted, you shake your head. “No! I meant, I'd give you a son, and him a grandchild. According to Fyrand that will disincrease the hate he has for me.’’

Aemond scoffs, and you can tell he does not agree with that idea. He scoffs at Fyrand, not you. “My brother thought the same thing for a while. But nothing will please that old buffalo.” You keep crying. No matter how eager you are to stop.

Aemond sighs, and he soon joins you on the bed, sitting next to you. He grabs your hands, where you are pulling your skin, to stop just that. “I know it is expected of both of us to soon present our child at court.” You nod at his words.

But he grabs your hands tightly and kisses your knuckles. “But I want us to have that child, when you want to have a child.” You are shocked.

He continues, storking your belly through your gown. “I want you to glow, beam of pride and joy and to stroke and caress your belly and to love our child. I want you to be ready for it.” He says.

You can’t believe this.

And so you won’t. “But what of your legacy? The Targargen line? Don't you want my baby?” You ask. You can’t imagine Aemond being fine with his line dying out. You just can’t.

He grins, and you can tell he is hiding something from you. He cares. He cares so badly, about having his legacy, about having this child with you. He is hiding his own darkest desires, his own insidious thoughts. ‘’I want you. I married you. I didn't marry your title. I didn't marry your bloodline. But you, Revaera.’’ You tear up, lips trembling as you wrap your arms around his neck, burying yourself in the safety of his arms. “It's alright, my love. Just let it out.” He whispers, holding you. ‘’We will find a way. I just know we will.’’ You nod, and you wonder just how much he believes his own lies.

/TRAILER CAME OUT

so uh

IM SCARED xD

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