When Strangers On The Internet Look Out For You Even When They Don't Have To

When strangers on the internet look out for you even when they don't have to🥰🥰🥰😍😍😍💕💕💕

EEEEEE THANK YOU LOVELY🥰🥰🥰

𝐀 𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐦

Haha...so...I wrote this in one sitting on my phone, which is unlike me. I prefer working on my computer but oh well, I couldn't stop. I'm insatiable and there was not enough Tom in season 2.

Summary: You and Tom take a nice walk through the park...until the rain starts pouring.

Warnings: SMUT (MINORS DNI), public sex, rough oral (m!receiving), kinda mean!dom Tom, implied subspace, teasing, dacryphilia, slapping, daddy kink, degradation, orgasm denial/control, and fluff cause I couldn't help myself🤷🏻‍♀️

word count | 2.2k🤙🏻

It had been a few weeks since Tom came back home. Tears of joy rarely seemed to leave your eyes, as Tom rarely ever let you leave his bed. But today, you decided it was too lovely outside to stay indoors all day, even though it would’ve been enjoyed regardless. The weather was predicted to be sunny with a nice breeze all afternoon, so you couldn’t possibly let yourself waste such a day.

You managed to convince Tom of the idea, after what seemed like hours of complaining and trying to get you to change your mind. But you weren’t having it, no matter how many times Tom said he’d bring you to a breathtaking release if you’d just allow yourselves to stay home.

You both walked to a local park, hand in hand, basking in the warm glow the sun offered, hearing the birds chirp happily, and glancing around at all the other people who must've had the same idea as you. And Tom, albeit reluctantly, started allowing himself to enjoy it and your company. Although, seeing a kid drop their ice cream cone and immediately bursting into fitful wails brought him enough joy that he started to think it was worth it. 

It wasn't until the skies suddenly darkened, the sun almost disappearing into oblivion, that you and Tom started regretting your decisions. 

It was slow at first, just a few droplets hitting the tops of your heads, then a few droplets turned into an absolute downpour. 

You squealed as you, Tom, and everyone else at the park started to get drenched, most scurrying to their vehicles or shutting themselves in their homes that were somewhat nearby. You and Tom didn't have such luck, as you both walked miles to get to this destination. What a great choice on your part. So all you really could do was take cover along the treeline of the woods that aesthetically encircled the park. 

As you watched the rain come down harder, you heard Tom sigh heavily and you rolled your eyes, already knowing you were about to get an earful...but it never came. You looked up at him in slight curiosity, seeing that a content expression was plastered over his visage, not an annoyed wrinkle or frown in sight. 

Tom glanced towards you, seeing your confused expression. "What?" 

You shook your head, jutting your bottom lip out slightly and shrugging your shoulders. "Thought you'd be...less calm than you are right now. More...mad." 

Tom furrowed his brows, going back to watching the rainfall. "Why would I be mad?" 

You chuckled weakly. "Well, you didn't really wanna come out here in the first place." 

He smirked, gently bumping your shoulder with his. "Ah, I was just pulling your leg, luv. I was happy to come out here, with you. I'm still happy to be here with you...never thought I'd get the chance again." 

You'd think your whole body would turn into a puddle right then and there, mixing with the rain and seeping into the damp soil. But alas, all it did was ignite a burning, consuming fire in the pit of your belly, almost disappointed Tom said such a thing and didn't do anything afterwards. 

You looked at your surroundings. Not a soul in sight, nobody but the two of you. The scarce playground equipment shook and swings swung violently with the wind, creaking and groaning from the force. If you were to scream, most likely no one would be able to hear you through the small storm. Why did the thought turn you on even more? And Tom, he looked so peaceful, the ever permanent curve in his lips deepening every time thunder shook the earth. 

Before you could overthink it, you started to lower yourself to the ground, the muddiness of the dirt that started to stick to your knees and ends of your dress doing nothing to quell the desire that kept on building inside you. 

Gaining his attention immediately, Tom looked down at you in dark intrigue, watching as you settled yourself on your knees. "And what do you think you're doing, sweet girl?" You didn't reply as you reached your hands up to palm his cock through his trousers, hearing him let out a barely audible grunt at your ministrations. "You do realize we're in public?" 

"You want me to stop?" You looked up at him with wide doe eyes, putting on an innocent expression even though you and Tom both knew fully well how debaucherous you really could be. 

You gasped as Tom reached down, grabbing you by the roots of your hair at the nape of your neck, pulling you into a bruising kiss. "You're a fuckin' vixen, you know that? A whore is what you've turned into since I've been gone, is that it?" 

"Yes...but I'm your whore." 

And with that response, you crossed the point of no return, which is exactly where you wanted to be. 

Tom smirked, his cock instantly responding to your words and actions. "Yeah, you are, baby." He brought you into another passionate kiss, biting your bottom lip before pulling away, making you whimper. "Let's see how your whore mouth can be put to use, hm?" He growled, leaning back and relaxing against a tree, a smug aura surrounding him as he watched and waited for your next move. 

You smiled as you took his cock out, hard and pulsing warmly beneath the weight of your hand, a gush of slick pooling at your entrance at the breathy moan Tom made as you ran your tongue along him from base to tip, weakly suckling on the head to tease him. And you repeated those motions a few times before he stopped you, grabbing onto your hair with a growl. "Fuckin' tease. You gonna suck my cock like a good little slut, or do I have to force you? 'Cause I can force you, luv, you know I can." You involuntarily let out a whimpery moan, clenching your thighs together at his low, threatening voice. "Ah, I see. That's what you want, huh? You want me to use you like the whore you are? I can fuckin' do that." 

"Tom-" You yelped when he slapped you with his cockhead, making you widen your eyes up at him. 

"Nah, sweetheart, whores don't get to use my real name. So, I'm only gonna ask you once: who am I?" 

Your heart hammered in your ribcage, never having felt so frightened and aroused at the same time. "...Daddy." 

Tom grinned evilly, and in pride. "That's my good girl. Now, beg Daddy to fuck your mouth, go on." 

"Daddy," you let out with another pathetic whimper, "please, fuck my mouth. I need to feel your big cock." 

"Open." He prodded the tip of his cock at your lips, coaxing them to part. "Wider. Yeah, that's it." He groaned loudly as he rammed himself inside your hot, wet mouth, hitting the back of your throat immediately and making you gag around him. "Fuck, so good for me." He pulled back and thrusted back in roughly, over and over again, until tears ran down your cheeks and your drool spilt down your chin copiously. "See what happens when you tease your Daddy, hm? You brought this on yourself." 

You moaned around his cock, the vibrations making him groan loudly, the still pouring rain drowning at any noise. No one would be able to hear you gagging on his dick, or his moans, nor the wet squelching of your cunt as you started to finger yourself to relieve some of the tension building in you. But Tom could hear it. "You better not be touching yourself, girl. Only I get to abuse that pretty pussy of yours." Tom pulled you up from the ground, your lips releasing his dick with a wet pop, your fingers retreating from your quivering form in the process. 

Your eyes were glazed over in a haze, mad with lust and pleasure, unable to focus as Tom brought up your hand by the wrist. He lightly slapped you, bringing your vision back into focus. "Were you touching yourself?" 

He asked so lowly, you were scared, so you mewled out a soft, "No." 

Your response only made him smirk. "Hm. So, if I were to stick your fingers in my mouth, I wouldn't be able to taste you, right?" You didn't even have the chance to respond before he wrapped his lips around your fingers, his tongue swirling around the digits before releasing them with another hum. "A whore and a liar? What am I to do with you?" 

And before you knew it, Tom had you pinned up against the same tree he was leaning on previously, the bark digging into your back uncomfortably. "You know what I do with whores, but what do you think I should do with liars? Surely, I shouldn't reward them for their behavior, right?" 

You stuttered, unable to form words in your lust driven mind. "Tom-" You started to sob out, being interrupted with another slap, much harsher than the last. 

"What did I tell you?" He growled. "Whores aren't allowed to use my real name. Why can't you just do as you're told? You've grown so wild and rebellious since I've been away. I think I need to put you back in your place." 

Tom turned you around, lifting up your dress to reveal your underwear already pushed to the side, giving him access to your needy cunt. "Just a slut." You cried out loudly as he pushed two fingers inside you roughly. "That's all you are." He spat in your ear, curling his fingers to hit your sweet spot, tears springing to your ears as pleasure overtook you all too easily. "So worked up, aren't you? You gonna come so quickly?" 

"Yes!" You sobbed, practically shaking from the cold of the atmosphere and the pleasure Tom was giving you. And he wouldn't fuckin' stop, bringing you right to the precipice before pulling away completely and landing a painful slap to your clit. "Ow!" You whined.

"What? You think I was gonna let you come that easily? No, you have to earn it, girl." 

"Please...please..." You cried softly, completely leaning onto the tree in quiet exhaustion, so desperate for a release that you couldn't possibly notice or care about the wood scratching up your delicate skin. 

"You sound so pretty for me, luv. And using your manners. It's almost enough to make me wanna show you mercy." 

Your body thrummed with hopefulness, your mind going into tunnel vision at the prospect of getting off. "Daddy, please. I'll be a good girl. I won't touch myself, I won't tease you, I promise. I'll behave, Daddy, I swear it." You sobbed, soft hiccups escaping your lips. 

"Hey, hey," Tom cooed, running his hands over your skin gently, gooseflesh rising along where his fingers made their path. "You are a good girl. My good, sweet girl." You preened at his praise, letting out a shuddering sigh as he finally pushed his cock into you. "I believe you've learned your lesson, luv. Now, all you have to do is come for me." He whispered in your ear, a strangled moan brushing past your ears as he sped up his thrusts. "Think you can do that for me?" 

You cried out softly as the tip of his cock kept bullying the rough patch along the front of your walls, your climax already building back up with brutal force. "Yes, Daddy." 

"Tom." He corrected, and you grinned. 

You moaned as Tom reached around to run circles on your clit, pleasure dizzying your senses, making you lightheaded. You were right there. "Please..." You wailed. 

"Say my name when you come, sweet girl. Come for me." 

"Tom!" You chanted his name like a prayer, your velvety walls squeezing around him tightly as your orgasm washed over you in tidal waves, Tom's grip on you the only thing keeping you standing on your own two feet. 

"Fuck, baby!" Tom cursed, rutting against like a wild animal until he came with a loud grunt, almost collapsing against you until he remembered there was only a tree there that couldn't keep the both of you upright in the position you both were in. 

A calming beat until Tom broke the silence first. "I love you." 

And just like that, the skies cleared and the rain stopped. The sun shined brightly once again, the fresh smell of watered earth covering up the stench of sex and sweat. 

"We should, uh, probably be getting home, huh?" Tom smirked, putting his softening cock back inside his pants and helping you fix your dress. To anyone none the wiser, it just looked like you both were drenched with rain water. You were of course, but it mixed with sweat from exertion. "And if anyone asks, you slipped and fell because you're atrociously clumsy."

You faked offense, playfully shoving him off the sidewalk as you walked back home, an easy grin on both your faces. 

You grabbed ahold of Tom's hand, squeezing it gently before leaning to kiss his cheek, the innocent gesture making him blush harder than any sex driven act could. 

"I love you too, Tom Bennett, more than you could ever know.”

sorry it's a bit shorter but i legit don't have time to write long fics all the time anymore. sadge. hope y'all enjoyed regardless. hashtag justice for Tom Bennett.

🎵so thiiiis is what makes liiiiife...diviiiiiine🎵

"So This Is Love" - Aegon Targaryen II x Cinderella!Reader

Summary: Aegon falls in love with you, the sweet lady he meets on his nameday hunt.

TW: profanity, innuendo, she/her pronouns, fluff, abusive stepparent a la lady tremaine in cinderella

Word Count: 3,145 words

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are never required but are immensely appreciated ❤️

As a young girl, your mother taught you something that stayed with you through your entire life - to have courage and be kind, and that these words would see you through all the trials life had to offer. You lost her when you were quite young, at the tender age of six, and watched your father, Lord Rykker, suffer through the most devastating form of grief. He held himself together for your sake, raising you with all the love and affection he held in his heart, though your mother’s absence left an emptiness in both your hearts that you were never quite able to fill.

Years later, when you were nearly a lady grown, at the age of six and ten, your father informed you of his plans to remarry, to a widowed lady of House Lannister. You were struck by how beautiful she was, with her angular features, her emerald eyes and golden hair. With her, she brings her two daughters, Cerelle and Tyshara, near your age and are as vain as they are beautiful. They seem to think of you as some sort of simpleton, a fact which you do your best to ignore and adjust to your life with your stepmother and stepsisters.

When you turn seven and ten, and your father begins sending letters out to potential matches for you, you are horrified when he falls ill during a trip to the Riverlands, and eventually succumbs to his illness. That is when your life changes. Your formerly charmed life in Duskendale turns into something far less serene. You are soon treated more like a servant in your own home than anything else, even more so when your stepmother states that the household staff must be let go to cut expenses. You are expected to do all the cooking, cleaning, and the like, treated like nothing more than a maid. And any talk of finding a potential match is now focused on Cerelle and Tyshara.

All you have to remember your beloved parents by is a heart shaped locket, one with your mother and father’s portrait on the inside, holding you when you were a mere babe. It is your most cherished possession, and you have never taken it off once.

It is one day when things become too much for you to bear, your grief and sadness overwhelming, that you take your father’s old stallion and ride out into the Kingswood, wanting to have some time to yourself, to clear your head.

And on that ride, your life changes forever.

As your horse gallops through the forest, you’re taken by surprise when a stag finds its way before you, frightening your mount. Your horse rears back, nearly knocking you off, making you yelp with panic, before he settles. You hear the sound of a horn and realize that a hunt is afoot, and the stag is very likely the prey. 

You meet the creature’s gaze and whisper softly, urging it on, “Quickly, my friend, before they catch you.”

It tilts its head before bounding away, seemingly understanding you. Your stallion is still spooked, whinnying in a panic, when someone rides up beside you, taking the reins from your hand and calming your mount.

You turn to see, quite possibly, the most handsome man you’ve seen in your entire life. He’s beautiful, with platinum blond hair that brushes his shoulders, soft lilac eyes, and a kind, gentle smile as he soothes your horse.

“Are you alright, my lady?” he asks, his voice a rich, deep timbre that sends shivers up and down your spine.

“I am fine, ser, but you nearly frightened the life out of him!” you chide, regaining your bearings.

The man knits his brows together in confusion, “Who?”

“The stag!”

His brows fly to his hairline and he resists the urge to chuckle at your indignation at his treatment toward his intended prey, “Well, he is a stag, sweet lady, we are hunting him after all. It’s what’s done each time one of the princes celebrates a nameday.”

“Just because it’s what’s done doesn’t mean it’s what should be done!” you protest, meeting his gaze evenly.

The young man smiles at you, his expression soft, “You are a very compassionate person, my lady. It is rare to find that in this world. What do they call you?”

Your expression falls slightly. You think of what your stepmother and stepsisters call you. Wretch. Wench. Girl. Cinderwench. Cinders.

“Never mind what they call me,” you say quietly.

He frowns slightly at your evasive manner before clearing his throat and speaking again, “You shouldn’t be this deep in the forest alone, my lady.”

“I’m not alone,” you counter as your horses circle each other, I’m with you, Ser… What do they call you?”

The stranger looks at you, seemingly shocked, questioning, “You don’t know who I am?” When you shake your head, he smiles to himself and responds to you, “They call me Egg.”

“Are you from the palace, Ser Egg?” you ask curiously, noting his extravagant doublet and cape, assuming he’s some sort of knight in training or from a minor house, feeling a bit self conscious about your own rather worn dress.

He nods, hesitating for a moment before answering, “Aye. My father is, erm, teaching me his trade, so to speak.”

“Oh, you’re an apprentice?” you ask curiously.

“...Of a sort.”

“That’s very fine,” you smile at him, “Do they treat you well?”

‘Egg’ thinks for a moment, laughing slightly before answering your query, “I would say they treat me better than I deserve,” he pauses, “And you, my lady?”

You freeze for a moment before replying, “They treat me as well as they are able, Ser.”

He frowns at your words, picking up on the implication behind them, “I am sorry, my lady.”

“It is not your doing, you have no need to apologize,” you quickly assure him.

“Nor yours either, I would bet,” Egg says pointedly.

You shrug, holding your head high in a way that has him gazing at you with great admiration as you speak, “Others have it worse, I am sure. We must simply have courage and be kind, mustn’t we?”

A smile spreads across his lips and Egg nods at your words, “Yes, I agree entirely.”

You hear the sound of a horn, signifying the arrival of the rest of the hunting party and decide that it is time to take your leave. Before you go, you see a gentleman who seems to be of Dornish descent, with his dark hair and tanned skin, approach Egg.

“There you are, Your-”

“It’s Egg!” your new friend nearly yelps, cutting the man off, “Just Egg!”

The man arches a brow, glancing between the two of you, seeing your form as you ride back off toward your home, “As you say, Ser Egg.”

“I hope to see you again, my lady,” Egg calls after you, a dreamy tone to his voice.

You glance back over your shoulder, offering him a sweet smile, “And I you, good Ser.”

Later that day, Prince Aegon trains with his brother and Ser Criston. While he has never been the best swordsman, his head is completely in a whirl after meeting a certain young lady in the woods. After meeting you. Prince Aemond disarms him yet again with relative ease, his blade pointing at his brother’s throat as he smirks.

“You have been off ever since your nameday, hunt, brother,” he taunts, sheathing his blade.

“It’s that wonderful girl,” Aegon sighs, “I simply cannot stop thinking about her.”

“There are plenty of girls, you twat-”

“Ah, not like this one,” Aegon cuts his brother off, “Her spirit, her kindness-”

“You don’t suppose she has a sister, do you?” Aemond comments sarcastically as they enter the main hall of the Red Keep, “Mother seems to have doubled her efforts to find you a bride, brother. She insists on a ball in a fortnight’s time in honor of your nameday, one where all the eligible ladies of the realm will attend so that you may have your pick of women,” he pauses before adding, “Mayhaps Daeron and I will find ourselves wives as well.”

Aegon hums, hoping beyond hope that you will be in attendance at this ball, knowing that some noblewomen bring their handmaidens with them as attendants whilst attending such events. He knows that no lady will catch his eye at this ball, in spite of his mother’s best efforts, the way you have already captured his heart.

When the ball is announced, your stepsisters are beside themselves with excitement. Everyone knows that the purpose of this ball is for Prince Aegon to find himself a lady wife, and what could be better than a lady of House Lannister? When you broach the subject of attending the ball with your stepmother, stating that you do not even need a gown, you can mend one of your mother’s, you are met with derision, despite your saying that you have no designs on the prince. That you merely hope to see your friend who is an apprentice at the castle. 

You decide to spend your free time mending the dress despite your stepmother’s words, despite the mockery from your stepsisters. You manage to ride in the carriage of House Sunglass, with the girls you spent time with in your youth, who readily offer to hide you from your stepmother. Your gown is a beautiful blue, one that you vividly remember your beloved mother wearing on the occasions that she and your father went to balls together. Golden butterflies accent the dress, its skirt is extravagant, and the golden accents match perfectly with your cherished locket. You have never felt more beautiful or elegant than you do as you exit the carriage alongside your friends. They wish you luck and go off on their own with their respective suitors, leaving you to your own devices, reminding you that they need to leave by midnight so as to get you back home before your stepmother and stepsisters.

Aegon recognizes you immediately the moment you enter the ball. All eyes are on you as you descend the steps, one foot after the other, graceful as a swan. Aemond smirks at his brother, knowing that, judging by the starstruck look on his face, you are the one who has stolen Aegon’s heart. He gives him a friendly shove, gesturing for him to go greet you. Aegon quickly makes his way to you, the crowd parting to allow the two of you to meet on the dance floor. He greets you with a low bow, you greet him with a deep curtsy, your eyes locked on each other’s.

“Prince Egg, it would seem?” you smile playfully.

Aegon chuckles, a bit shy at being called out for his former deception, “I did not wish for you to think differently of me if you knew I was a spoiled, sheltered prince. I thought you a good, honest country girl, but now I see you are every bit a princess who merely did not wish to overawe a plain knight,” he pauses, extending his hand to you, “May I have the honor of this dance, my sweet lady?”

“You may,” you answer sweetly, placing your hand in his.

His hand is large and warm, and so very comforting. It feels safe, like home somehow.

As the two of you begin dancing, you feel everyone’s eyes on you, feeling somewhat self conscious, you whisper to Aegon, “They are all looking at you.”

“Believe me, my lady,” he murmurs, “It is not me they are admiring.”

You remain in Aegon’s arms for the greater part of the night, waltzing as though you are the only two people in the world, one of his hands intertwined with yours, the other resting on your waist. Those beautiful lavender eyes never once leave yours, giving you every indication of how completely besotted he is with you. He makes the silliest jokes and you find yourself laughing at each one.

After some time, he leads you out to the gardens, away from the prying eyes of the rest of those at the ball. You laugh breathlessly as he leads you away.

“I cannot believe you are the prince…”

“Well, I am a prince, there are two other princes. And my sister’s sons,” Aegon trails off, chuckling.

“That is a mere technicality,” you shake your head, the two of you giggling as you walk through the gardens, “And your name is not Egg, of course.”

“My family does call me Egg,” he smiles at you, “And before you say anything, I am indeed an apprentice. An apprentice monarch learning my trade.”

You laugh again at his words and realize that this is truly the happiest you have been in a very long time, “Won’t they miss you at the ball?”

Aegon sighs, taking a seat on a bench, gesturing for you to sit beside him. He takes your hand in his, his thumb grazing the back of your hand, causing him to smile at how soft your skin feels against his own.

“Maybe. But let’s stay out here a while longer,” he inhales deeply, gazing up at the moon, high in the sky, before turning to you, “When I return, my mother and grandsire will try to pair me off with a lady of their choosing. They expect me to marry for advantage.”

“Oh,” you say softly, “Well, whose advantage?”

“That is an excellent question,” Aegon muses, “One that I am unsure I like the answer to.”

“Well,” you smile at him gently, “Surely you have a right to your own heart.”

Your words bring Aegon a sense of peace he does not know that he’s ever felt in his entire life. Your kindness, your sweet disposition, it all serves to make him fall even more desperately in love with you. He gazes at you, moving to rest a hand on your sweet face, his thumb brushing against your cheekbone.

“Won’t you tell me who you really are?” Aegon murmurs, almost pleadingly.

You remain silent for a moment, content to gaze into his eyes before you whisper, “If I do, I fear it will change everything.”

“Can you at least tell me your name?” he takes your hands in his, nearly begging.

You nod, “My name is-”

And you hear the chime of the clock. It is very nearly midnight. You gasp, covering your mouth.

“I am so sorry, I must leave,” you say, gathering your skirts and breaking into a run to make it to the carriage in time, “Thank you for a wonderful evening,” you call over your shoulder, “I loved it. Every second.”

Aegon sits there, dumbstruck for a moment at your sudden departure. Then, as if it comes as second nature to him, he breaks into a sprint, running after you, though all he manages to see is you waving goodbye to him as House Sunglass’s carriage rides away. He feels heartbroken and dejected, though there is a glimmer of hope in the form of a golden locket that lies on the ground. One that he recalls you wearing on both the occasions he has seen you.

Your deception is quickly unveiled by your stepmother when you return home, and she grows ever more cruel, demanding more and more work from you, especially when she learns that Prince Aegon is riding the length and breadth of the Crownlands in search of the owner of a specific locket, asking them what is inside of it as a test of sorts.

The day he arrives at Duskendale, your stepmother demands you tell her what is in the locket so she may have Cerelle or Tyshara answer correctly and thus pass them off as you to the prince. When you refuse, she locks you in a dusty old room, taking the key with her. However, she does not realize that said room has a window.

When Prince Aegon arrives, he speaks to the ladies Cerelle and Tyshara, immediately knowing that these vain young women are not the lovely girl he seeks. This is the last household in the Crownlands he had left to search, and as such, he feels quite dejected at his failure to find you. As he turns to leave, exiting through the front gate, he hears the most beautiful voice, like the cooing of a dove.

“Lavender’s green, dilly dilly, lavender’s blue. You must love me, dilly dilly, for I love you…”

“Had you not said you introduced my brother to every eligible maiden in this house, Lady Rykker?” Prince Aemond questions.

“I did, Your Grace,” your stepmother protests.

“Then has your cat learned to sing?” Prince Aemond snarks, crossing his arms.

Aegon sees an open window and turns to your stepmother, demanding that the young lady to whom such a beautiful voice belongs.

“She’s just a serving girl,” your stepmother protests, “She is nothing, you need not concern yourself with her, Your Grace.”

“Bring her to me nevertheless,” Aegon insists, standing in the foyer, staring at your stepmother, unimpressed, recalling your words about her treating you as best as she is able.

You take a deep breath as you descend the stairs, wearing your simple blue dress, the same one as the day you first met Aegon, cinders in your hair and covering your face. You quickly wipe your face off, taking a deep, calming breath, remembering the words your mother once told you.

Have courage and be kind.

You enter the room where Aegon stands, your lost locket in his hands. You give him a deep curtsy, one he recognizes very well. Aegon steps toward you slowly, gazing at you with those sweet lilac eyes, a smile playing on his lips.

“Who are you really, my lady?”

You finally tell him your name, taking a breath and speaking, “Your Grace, I am no princess. I have no carriage, no parents, and no dowry,” you eye your locket, “That locket is the only thing I have left of my family. A portrait with the two people who once loved me,” you meet his gaze, “I do not know if I am the lady you are searching for, but if so, will you accept me as I am?”

“And who is that?” he smiles, taking one of your hands in his.

“An honest country girl who loves you,” you say softly.

“Of course I will,” Aegon vows, placing your locket around your neck, smiling at the way you light up at his words, “And will you take me as I am? An apprentice still learning his trade?”

You feel a few tears escape from your eyes as you nod. Aegon takes you in his arms and his lips meet yours in a soft, sweet kiss. At that moment, you realize that this is love.

𝐒𝐚𝐟𝐞

Summary: Captured by Danes as a young child, you never thought you'd escape...until you were saved by a certain baby monk.

Warnings: triggering content (past sexual assault), PTSD, flashbacks, angst, Osferth being a sweetie (aka fluff), crisis of faith, and religious talks

word count | 5.3k🤙🏻

part 1 | part 2

You didn’t remember much before you were captured by the Danes.

You were just a little thing, barely even old enough to take care of yourself. So when your family was killed in front of you, you had no choice but to be subjected to the wills of your captors. You couldn’t run, you couldn’t fight, you couldn’t scream. It was a hellish existence, demons always right behind you, breathing down your neck.

You were forced to grow up with these savages, watching them pillage and murder like they didn’t know how to do anything else. They tried to make you like them, but even as a child, your family instilled such a strong faith in you that to become like a Dane was unthinkable. And they tried to break you, so many times, almost allowing the demons following your every move get closer and closer. But as you made your way into womanhood with still no cracks in your convictions, they decided you were no good for anything but work and…other things.

Getting used almost every day by your captors was the only thing that threatened to break your spirit. They were callous, uncaring about your pain, further proof that Danes were the source of all evil and that you’d eventually die by their hands.

You were always numb; unmoving. To anyone else, you may have looked lifeless if not for the man above you using your body like you were his own personal toy.

Sometimes, you wish to be killed, even thinking about disobeying or fighting back just to have your wishes fulfilled. Most of all, you wished death upon your master. You wished to be the one to kill him. But you were only a woman, inferior, weak. But your spirit was strong, it must’ve been to survive every single torturous exchange by the hands of your master. And that was something no one would ever be able to take away from you, or so you hoped.

One day, you snapped. You actually tried to fight back, but that only got you punished so severely, you didn’t wake for days. After that, you started to wonder, if God did exist, why did He let all this happen to you? Why did He let one of his children be violated each and every day, let you be beaten and forced to do the Danes’ bidding? It didn’t make any sense. You hated Him…you fucking hated Him. You couldn't devote your life to some being that seemed indifferent to suffering. But ironically, it made your existence as a Dane’s slave much worse, now that you had nothing to hope for. No warrior of God would come to save you, no reward at the end of your life, no “well done, my good and faithful servant,” once you got to Heaven.

You completely gave in to your fate, not even bothering to fight back or argue with your masters anymore, thus, allowing your demons to take over.

As the days went on after your loss of faith, the idea of staying in the company of the Danes got more and more unbearable. As your master was using you for his own pleasure for the umpteenth time, you decided that you wouldn’t take it anymore. Taking your own life was thought to be a sin in your religion, but then you remembered, you didn’t follow it anymore. So really, you had nothing to lose.

But then, your master was suddenly pulled away and turned around, blocking the view of the culprit. Perhaps it was another man who was tired of waiting his turn.

Then you felt a splash of something wet. It was red, it stained your dress and skin. Blood. Your master’s blood, you were covered in it. A sword had been pushed through his stomach, all the way until it stuck out his back. Only when he fell to the ground could you see who killed him.

It was a young man, no older than you were. He was wide eyed in panic, his blue irises piercing even in the dim lighting of the room. His eyebrows were furrowed in a way that expressed concern that was directed towards your frozen form. He looked as though he did not know whether to help you or run away, or to cry really. “Are you alright, miss?” He asked as soft as his voice, but you didn’t know how to respond. No, you weren’t but yes, you were, now that your evil master was dead. “I’m not gonna hurt you, I promise. You’re safe now.” 

Safe? What did safe even mean? You’ve never known what it was like to be safe, why would following this man be any different?

“My lord will keep you safe, he is an honorable man.” You looked down from the young man’s face to his chest, seeing a wooden cross hanging loosely from his neck. You could have laughed, the irony was not lost on you, of course. “You don’t have to, of course. But…you’re bleeding. Please, let me help clean your wounds, at least.” He was…giving you a choice? You’ve never been allowed a choice before. He cautiously held out his larger hand towards you, his innocent pleading eyes almost mirroring yours from a long time ago, whereas now yours were blank and cold from years of torture. But seeing his seemingly caring expression, you figured it couldn’t get much worse. Everything horrible that life had to offer had already been done to you.

You were surprised how warm his hand was as you shakingly reached out to it, every other hand that has touched you always so rough and cold, but his weren’t. “It’s okay…” He spoke so softly, you almost had to strain to hear him. You were like a baby deer, him being so afraid to spook you, but he just didn’t know you still had a death wish.

When the Coccham squad came across your little village, it was chaos. Danes, killing and assaulting each other, they had only heard horror stories about places like these villages. Danes weren’t normally like this, Uhtred could attest to that. Danes took care of each other, they never would kill one of their own without reason. At least, that’s how Uhtred saw it. This village you were in, there was no saving them. They had encountered a few Danes from your village on the road, and friendly they were not. They had killed one of Uhtred’s men, and he wouldn’t let that slide.

There were many slaves in the village, you being one of them. Uhtred and his team snuck in and killed every Dane they could find, freeing every slave in the process. Osferth had grown more confident in his fighting skills, didn’t cry every time he killed someone, and the thought he’d be helping people in the process made it easier. Uhtred didn’t feel he needed to be babysat anymore, he trusted that he could take care of himself. So everyone split up throughout the village to cover more ground, and it must’ve been some sort of luck or divine intervention that Osferth found you.

Osferth wasn’t completely naïve anymore, having more experiences with Uhtred’s team in the couple years spent with him than his whole life of being a monk. But when he came upon you being violated by your master, the first thought that went through his head was how could someone do that to someone else? Anger coursed through his veins, an anger that he’d never felt before, a dangerous anger that scared him. For the first time, he felt pleasure in taking someone’s life. The filth that was rutting against you deserved the most painful death anyone could possibly imagine, but Osferth just wanted to save you as quickly as he could, thrusting his sword into the creature’s chest. He didn’t even have time to savor the moment, wanting to make sure you were okay.

You were bleeding, wounds and bruises all over your body. But what was most concerning for Osferth, was the fact that you didn’t seem bothered at all. There was no light behind your eyes, like you were alive but not really living. Which makes sense considering all you must’ve gone through over the years. He didn’t want to scare you, speaking as softly as he could without being inaudible. But you didn’t flinch, not even when he reached out to you. You took his hand without question, and Osferth didn’t know if he should’ve been relieved or even more worried.

Osferth brought you to a secluded part of the village, where no dead bodies could be seen. You’ve probably seen worse, but he didn’t want to subject you to any horrors, even if those dead bodies brought you just as much harm as the man he killed himself. He sat you down gently, near a water well, using the cool water to wash away your master’s blood that mixed with yours.

You didn’t speak as he helped soothe some of your wounds, and he started to wonder if you were mute or simply too traumatized. “I am Osferth. What’s your name, miss?” He asked, breaking the tense silence. But you didn’t answer, staring ahead despondently. Osferth smiled weakly, slightly shaking his head. “That’s alright. You don’t have to speak if you don’t want to. Whenever you’re ready.” If you were ever ready, that was.

Osferth led you to where they set up camp just outside your village, sitting you down outside his tent next to a fire to warm you. You looked slightly worried at the man that was cleaning blood off his weapons, but seeing a similar cross around his neck, you didn’t feel you needed to run or fight. “This is Finan, he also helped free your village.”

“Why’d you bring her here?” Finan asked.

Osferth blushed. “I thought…she could travel with us, if she has nowhere else to go. Or if she wants to.”

Finan scoffed a laugh. “Did she tell you she wanted to?” But Osferth stayed quiet. “Uhtred will not be happy about another mouth to feed.”

“Uhtred will understand.” Osferth insisted, not leaving any room for argument, forcing Finan into a begrudging silence.

Suddenly, Osferth heard you let out a panicked gasp, whimpering and pulling out of his delicate grasp. He looked behind himself where you were staring, seeing his lord Uhtred. “A Dane…” You trembled fearfully.

“No, no, no, that’s my lord, Uhtred. He’s not gonna hurt you. He’s a good man.” Osferth tried to reassure you, but your fearful expression didn’t change.

“Osferth?” Uhtred spoke, looking back at you in curiosity.

Osferth placed you inside of his tent and went to Uhtred to push him away to speak with him. “I’m sorry, my lord. But I feel it is best if you don’t let her see you. She’s terrified of Danes.”

“You know I’d never hurt a woman.” Uhtred hissed, offended.

“She…her master was assaulting her when I saved her.” He whispered, Uhtred’s expression darkening. “Please just, let me take care of her.”

“Osferth, I’m sorry, but she’s not our concern. We have to travel back to Coccham and-”

“In all respect, my lord, I don’t care. I wanna help her…okay?”

Uhtred sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Alright, Osferth, fine. But she’s your responsibility.”

“...thank you, lord.”

Osferth grimaced when he saw you flinch when he entered his tent, carrying a bowl of hot soup. “My lady,” He kneeled down beside you, holding out the bowl, “you must be hungry? It’s not much, but it’ll push the hunger pains away for a little while.”

You took the bowl wordlessly, closing your eyes in contentment at the taste. “Thank you…” You whispered, trying your best to give him a weak smile. “For saving me.”

Osferth couldn’t help but blush under your grateful gaze, a bashful smile gracing his own face. “I was only doing the right thing, miss.”

You didn’t speak much throughout the journey back to Coccham, only thanking Osferth whenever he brought you food and drink. Nobody pushed you to talk, knowing only what Osferth told them was enough to try to give you your space. But in the rare times you did speak, you never spoke to anyone except Osferth. He figured it was because he was possibly the first friendly face you had encountered. He saved your life, perhaps it formed some sort of attachment.

Osferth could tell him getting you to join them was a bit of an annoyance to the rest of the group, and the fact you only ever responded to him didn’t make matters any better. But he wanted to make sure you were okay, he wouldn’t be a good man if he just left you back at the village. Though, he felt ashamed, but he kind of liked that he was the only one you spoke to. He decided you just needed some time to get adjusted to a new free life, and maybe a few weeks in Coccham would give you some comfort.

You never expected you’d get to share a little home, having been used to just sleeping on a dirt ridden blanket on the floor, or even having been forced to sleep in a barn with the animals. So that fact that you had your own bed, it brought tears to your eyes, reminding you of a time when you were with people who actually cared about you. Perhaps Osferth was trying to be that for you again, though you didn’t know how you felt about sharing a house with him, even if for a time until your own house was made should you choose to stay.

Even though you didn’t have much, you found yourself unpacking what little you had and placed the various things around your new room just to distract yourself. You never had a room to decorate before, you immediately thought of plants, flowers that could survive in the winter. Pansies, which you remembered being your mother’s favorite. 

You looked down at your hand, clutching the only thing you had left of your family; a small amber gemstone. You had done everything you could to keep this with you over the years, hiding it from your masters where they would never find it. But now that you’re free of them, you have no use to hide it anymore. You thought it would look nice on your own small mantel in your room. Turning around towards your mantel, you froze when you saw Osferth standing in your doorframe, leaning against the wall. “Settling in okay?”

You nodded meekly. “Yes.” You whispered, ignoring the nerves in your gut and walking to place the amber on the mantel, unwanted tears coming to your eyes at the sight, wiping them away before they even had a chance to fall.

“May I ask what happened to you, miss?” Osferth asked softly, but immediately regretted it when your face fell. “I’m sorry, I shouldn't have asked. Please, forgive me.”

You shook your head. “It’s alright…it’s natural to be curious, I suppose.” You paused, clearly contemplating the right action before a pained expression came over your visage. “I’d prefer not to speak of it…” You sighed heavily.

“Of course…I’ll leave you to it then.”

You didn’t know why you had a pang of disappointment when Osferth left, his presence somehow more comforting than when you were alone. You chose to ignore it. Though, it seems like Osferth himself had trouble staying away from you. Whether it was just checking up on you or simply wanting to be in your company, he was practically attached to you from the hip. You still had issues talking to anyone else, Osferth would help you get your point across whenever you needed. Despite his lack of personal space, you were thankful for him. He never let anyone push you to speak, or even try to talk to you without your permission for that matter. He was a bit overprotective, but you’d never experienced it before, or at least haven’t in a long, long time. It was nice to feel cared for, even if you still had difficulty trusting said kindness.

For Osferth, he fell for you pretty quickly. Despite having matured much in Uhtred’s company, his heart was still prone to a sort of childlike wonder and optimism, certain traits like those often getting him picked on by his friends. Though, Osferth never wanted his heart to harden like the company he kept. He never wanted to be a brooding pessimist like his lord, nor use sarcasm as a defense mechanism like he’s seen Finan or Sihtric do so often. He was always taught to be kind to others, not to judge as that’s the Lord’s business to judge. Those traits instilled in him from birth, it was no wonder he always fell fast and hard. 

Osferth thought he had been in love several times, from women he had one night stands with to women who politely smiled in his direction…another thing he got picked on about. You were no exception. As soon as he laid his eyes on you, even with the circumstances, he thought you were the most beautiful person he’d ever seen. And that opinion never seemed to lessen in its sincerity, in fact, it seemed to deepen the more he spent time with you.

The more time you stayed in Coccham, the more your true personality started to show. Now that you weren’t fearing for your life constantly, Osferth noticed you had a decent sense of humor. You would understand his jokes and chuckle at them, still too shy to allow yourself a full belly laugh, but he was more than content with what you managed to give him. Every giggle you made always caused blood to rush to his cheeks…and a little other places, though he felt guilty every time it happened. He never wanted to make you uncomfortable in any way.

Osferth attempted to hide his shock when one day you approached him, asking him to teach you how to defend yourself, but his eyes widened despite his attempts, causing you to shy away but he didn’t let you. He was elated that you wanted to learn, and in all honesty, Osferth would feel a lot more at ease if he knew you could defend yourself.

Osferth still wasn’t the most skilled at combat, everything he learned from Finan, so he figured the Irishman would be the most qualified for the job. But soon into the session, he realized it was the worst idea he had ever had. Finan was serious about combat, never taking it easy when teaching Osferth, he didn’t know why he thought he would be gentle with you. He seemed to overwhelm you pretty quickly, knocking your training sword out of your hands with ease, just to tease you, which you obviously didn’t appreciate. Finan was prone to being a bit aggressively playful, which is tolerated and even enjoyed by some, but it was not what you needed at that moment. Every parry by Finan, who had a constant smirk on his face, seemed to upset you more and more…until something seemed to snap in you.

The dull sword shook in your hands, a feeling of overwhelming panic washing over you. You couldn’t tell why, you were in a safe environment where you knew no one would intentionally hurt you, but as you watched Finan attempt to strike at you with his own sword, you only saw your former master.

You blocked Finan’s blow out of pure instinct and fear, but he only saw it as that you were learning, earning praise from him. “Good.” But it wasn’t his voice, there was no accent that resembled Finan’s at all, nor pitch. It was him. Could you never escape?

Fearfully, like a cornered animal, you swung at the man wildly. No technique or thought behind the blows, all you wanted was your sight to be rid of him. You sobbed and screamed, desperate to escape, desperate to kill. But the man kept evading your blows with ease, mocking laughter filling your ears, spurring you on further in a rage. You felt your blade hit something, and an almost feeling of relief washed over you, but it wasn’t enough. You barely could sense your surroundings, up until you felt a pair of arms wrap around you.

Osferth was frozen as he watched the interactions, unsure of the best decision and terrified of making the wrong one. It was clear you weren’t there anymore, not really, your mind forced back into the state you were before you were rescued, but no one else clued in on it. Not even Finan, who he figured was just playfully excited that you were being more aggressive, making the training session all the more worthwhile. But Osferth saw the frightened look on your face, immediately telling him that something was wrong. He finally made a move when you had almost connected your blade to his neck, if it had been a non-training sword, would have the capacity to cut Finan’s head clean off. 

Finally, Finan seemed to sense something was wrong too. His laughter stopped and his expression fell, realizing that you were actually trying to hurt him. He hesitated for the briefest moment, but that was enough for your sword to actually connect to his body. The dull blade hit his shoulder, your fear seemingly amplifying your strength, making Finan fall on the cold ground. “Hey, hey, hey-!” Finan started to shout in a panic as you surged forward, your sword raised above your head, prepared to strike. But Osferth came to Finan’s rescue, and yours too.

Osferth wrapped his arms around you, ripping the sword from your hands quickly to prevent further injuries. You flailed about, screaming to the top of your lungs, demanding he let you go. But he knew he couldn’t, not when you were like this, a danger to others but most of all, yourself. All he thought to do in the moment was whisk you away, back to your shared home. “I thought this was only supposed to be training, lass, not an actual fight!” Finan called out angrily.

“Don’t.” Osferth called out sternly, shocking the Irishman and the rest of his friends.

Osferth tried his very best to use soothing words to calm you down as he walked you back to your home, guiding you to your bed and repeating that you were safe. Whatever you think you saw wasn’t real. Once you realized you were indeed safe, you clinged onto Osferth, your arms tightening around his shoulders, not allowing him to leave your side, not that he ever wanted to. He’d stay by your side forever if he could. But you settled, slowly releasing him from your grip, your expression bashful and ashamed; Osferth could already tell where your mind was at.

“I don’t know what happened…” You whispered, your voice cracking. “I-I was fine one moment and then…” You whimpered, huffing angrily, willing yourself not to burst into tears again. You relaxed again slightly when Osferth ran a soothing hand up and down your back, his presence more than comforting. He started to feel…like a safe space. “I kept seeing him…in my mind’s eye. The image wouldn’t go away and I felt like I was back in that village, back in his house and forced to-” You quickly cut yourself off, not sure if you were even ready to say the words out loud.

Osferth shook his head, grabbing a hold of your hand and squeezing gently. “You don’t have to say any more.” he reassured. “You’re safe here. No one's ever gonna hurt you again, not while I’m still breathing. One day, all those memories will become so distant they’ll be like a dream. It won’t hurt as much anymore. Time heals all. You’ll see.” Your gaze was so transfixed onto him, Osferth thought the skin of his cheeks would burst from all the blood that rushed to them. His own gaze fleeted from your eyes to your lips, over and over again on a loop, his own lips tingling with the thought of how easy it would be to just…lean forward and make that connection.

But no, Osferth respected you too much. He’d never push your boundaries, nor with anyone, but especially not with you. He tried to ignore your confused expression as he quietly excused himself, stating that you should find rest, leaving your bedroom in a hurry, retreating to his own room to steady his rapidly beating heart. Maybe it was a mistake to have you living with him…

Even after your first lesson not going the way you planned, you still wanted to learn to fight. Finan, unsurprisingly, was more than hesitant to teach you again, so it was up to Osferth, not that he minded. He let you take a couple days to gather yourself, recover, for it was best to train with a clear head. Unlike Finan, Osferth went more easy on you, giving you a fair challenge but not babying you. You seemed to have more fun with Osferth’s training style, a determined smile on your face never falling during that first lesson. He figured you appreciated his style, but you just loved being around him regardless of the situation, not that you’d ever admit this. Not yet, at least. And slowly but surely, over the course of a couple weeks, you felt you’d be able to handle yourself with a sword. The feeling was empowering, knowing you’d be able to fight and hold your own. All thanks to Osferth.

You still had much to learn, but you just had to thank Osferth for all he had done for you. After a training session, he looked so…pretty. Sweat beaded his brow, his chest expanding with each deep breath he took, a proud smile on his face at your progress. You didn’t think before you kissed his cheek, a shocked expression coming over your face as well as his. You almost regretted it until he grinned widely, his eyes sparkling with pure joy, making your heart warm. “Thank you, sweet Osferth, for everything.”

You had finally started to find some semblance of peace with your life in Coccham, mostly because of Osferth. Most of the time, you were content, spending time training with the baby monk being the highlights of the day. You just wished it was always day. You wished the sun never set and the world was never covered in darkness, you started to despise it. You realized that nights were the worst.

Every shadow you might’ve seen, or any twig that snapped under the pressure of various wildlife that were roaming their woods, it always startled you, pushing you to the verge of a panic attack. You felt so vulnerable in the darkness. Constantly. It didn’t help that the company you kept didn’t even try to keep themselves out of trouble, if anything they went out of their way to find trouble. While that might not have been exactly true, your traumatized mind found the extreme in everything.

You could scarcely find sleep with tossing and turning in fear and paranoia that your master would rise from the grave to steal you away again. You’d always finally find sleep once the sun had already started to rise. It was frustrating, you were angry that your mind still tormented you so. You were free now, so why couldn’t your mind comprehend it?

You knew you were fitful in your sleep, whenever you managed to find it. But no one had ever mentioned you making much noise when traveling back to Coccham, until one night. 

Even after staying in this new town for over a month now, you still had such bad nightmares in the form of embellished memories, your subconscious making them seem even worse. One particular nightmare had you gasping awake, a scream escaping your mouth as you sat straight up in your bed in a cold sweat, your heart beating so fast you thought it would stop.

Osferth had heard you from across the little house, immediately brandishing his sword to frighten away or kill whatever or whoever dared to hurt you. But unfortunately, Osferth’s sword couldn’t scare away your own mind. “My lady?” He asked, panicking at your state.

You were hysterical, unable to even say more than stuttering apologies. Osferth went straight to you, ignoring the boundaries he set for himself just for you, bringing your shaking frame into his arms to try to soothe you, cooing comforting words in your ears. “It’s okay, it’s okay. It’s okay now, sweet girl. You’re okay, you’re safe.”

“Osferth…” You spoke in broken sobs, leaning into his touch while your body heaved with the pain of your memories.

“I’m here, love. I’m here.” Osferth’s heart broke for you, just imagining what you might’ve gone through to have nightmares that elicited such reactions from you. It also brought back that similar dangerous anger that rooted itself deep in his heart, making him hold you tighter, his expression hardening and willed anyone who was curious to keep away lest they wanted to be up close and personal with his fists.

After a few minutes of crying onto Osferth’s chest, your body finally started to stop shaking. “I’m sorry…bad dreams.” You stuttered, even though they weren’t just dreams.

“You have nothing to apologize for, my lady. I can’t imagine…” Osferth sighed, choosing not to finish that sentence. “I hate that you are troubled so. Is there anything I can do to make it better?” He moved to pull away, to fetch you water or whatever you so wished, but he was surprised to find you didn’t want to let him go.

“Can you…stay with me?” You asked timidly. “I’ve learned I don’t like sleeping by myself.”

Osferth’s expression softened, settling himself back beside you, placing an arm over your shoulders to pull you to him gently. “Of course, my lady. I’ll always stay with you, if that’s what you desire. Now, try to get more sleep. I’ll be right here when you wake. I’ll have no harm come to you ever again. I swear on the cross.”

You looked up at him, your eyes heavy with exhaustion, but no sleep could come to you when you had so many questions. “Why are you so kind to me? You don’t have to be, but you are.”

Osferth blushed, smiling bashfully. “It’s the Godly thing to do, miss. Treat others that way you’d want to be treated.”

You frowned. “I’ve never been treated with much kindness throughout my life.”

“It shouldn’t have been that way. You deserved kindness and respect, much like anyone else. But the fact that you yourself are still kind and respectful, despite all you’ve been through, is a testament to how strong you truly are, my lady.” Now it was your turn to blush, hiding your face from his view by cuddling into his chest.

“I don’t feel very strong most days, not with my mind so…shattered.” You sighed, fiddling with the cross necklace he wore. “How do you keep your faith, Osferth, when you’ve seen so much death and cruelty in the world?”

Osferth frowned. “I will not say it isn’t difficult, my lady. But all of this has to have some meaning, doesn’t it? If there is no reward after death for our good deeds, why do we bother at all? My faith remains strong because of all the good I’ve seen, in spite of the bad. The ability to be kind towards others, to show empathy, to protect the ones you love…those are all Godly things, innit?” 

Osferth shifted, moving to sit up, you moving with him with a curious expression decorating your features as he removed his cross. “Here,” He placed the cross around your neck, the feeling of rough callousness of his fingers along the sensitive skin making gooseflesh rise along your body, “I want you to have this, my lady. Perhaps, let it be a reminder that there is good in this world, even if some days it doesn’t feel like it.”

You didn’t realize it until right then, but you were in love with Osferth.

Don't worry, there's gonna be a part 2. I wouldn't do that to y'all🥰 next part is gonna be even more angst and some smutty smut, so if anyone wants to be tagged for that, just let me know💕

Me after reading this masterpiece

Anhedonia

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x nameless female character (third person perspective) Warnings: Canon typical sexism. Mentions of past trauma. Angst. Heavy Petting. Oral (m receiving). Smut. Word count: ~6.1k

Summary: A young noblewoman's family have travelled to King's Landing for an upcoming tourney and are guests of House Targaryen. She is excited to explore the capital and all it has to offer, however, she finds herself dismayed when a certain Prince does not share her adventurous spirit. She makes it her mission to ensure he learns to appreciate the pleasures he considers to be "depravities". Based on this request.

Author's note: No gods, no masters, no tag lists. Only scabs community label fics. If you find yourself tempted to slap a label on this, please block me instead.

A month in King’s Landing, she can hardly wait. The journey from the Vale to the capital has taken ten days, each of them feeling like they stretch on for an eternity. She hops down from the carriage once it pulls to a stop in the grounds of the Red Keep, helped by the footman, and does her best to remain poised and ladylike despite the overwhelming urge to exaggeratedly stretch her limbs after having been seated for so long. Her and her family are to be guests of House Targaryen, invited to attend a tourney being held in honour of King Viserys’ upcoming name day, a gesture of goodwill for having hosted the royal hunting party the last time they visited the Vale.

While life in the Vale is lush, green and peaceful, it is also quiet, too quiet, and she finds it dull. The only excitement she has are her visits to Riverrun to spend time with her betrothed; she is six months into a courtship with Lord Tommen Tully, but even the Riverlands do not offer the excitement that King’s Landing boasts. She longs to explore the maze-like streets of the city and immerse herself in a culture where sheep do not outnumber people.

They receive a warm welcome from Queen Alicent and the Hand of the King, Otto, who informs them that, regrettably, the King’s health prevents him from being able to greet them personally, but he sends his regards. The children that Alicent shares with Viserys all stand in a row as part of the greeting party. Prince Aegon leers at her, his eyes roaming the length of her body, making her feel self conscious and embarrassed. Princess Helaena puts her at ease, however; there is a natural slouch to her posture which lends an air of informality to her, and makes her seem more approachable than the rest of her family. She smiles easily, which is in direct juxtaposition with the stony demeanour of her younger brother, Prince Aemond. He stands straight as an arrow, arms clasped firmly behind his back and offers little more than a curt nod and a quick glance her and her family’s way, his gaze remaining fixed on the middle distance the rest of the time. She wonders if he is like that all of the time, or if he has taken a particular dislike to her presence.

Once they are settled, she is elated when she is sent to spend time with Helaena, her imagination running wild with the possibility of all the interesting things they might get up to. She is disappointed, however, when she finds that Helaena is happy to simply sit and embroider. The Princess talks dreamily about insects, as she stitches away with her needle and thread, but from the faraway look in her eye, she gets the distinct impression that it wouldn’t matter to her if she was there or not.

She slips out of the Princess’ quarters in search of something else to do, and doesn’t have to go far to find it.

“Did you tire of my sister already?” Aegon leans against an alcove, a smug smirk on his face.

She feels her cheeks heat up, she hasn’t even been here a day and yet already she has caused offense. Remembering how he’d looked at her earlier, she worries what he might do to her, her heart thudding loudly as her eyes dart around the corridor, looking to see if there’s anyone to save her. “N-no, my Prince, I simply-”

“-it’s fine,” He holds up a hand to halt her embarrassed apologies. “Helaena isn’t what I’d describe as exciting. You’ve come all this way, it seems a shame for you to sit cooped up in the Keep, when there’s an entire city to explore.”

His apparent lack of anger towards her, and offer of companionship eases her mind. and she grins at the possibility of finally getting to see more of King’s Landing. “What did you have in mind?”

“Follow me.”

Aegon leads her to what she assumes are his chambers, donning a hooded cloak, before throwing one to her. She slips it on, her eyes going wide as she watches him move a chest of drawers out of the way and push through an opening in the stone wall. They exit the Keep and head down the hill to what Aegon tells her is “Flea Bottom”.

She is overwhelmed by the sights of street performers dancing, breathing fire and offering palm readings, the sounds of traders shouting out to sell their wares, the smell of urine that seems to linger in every corner they pass, and the sheer number of people. They jostle in crowds up and down the narrow, winding cobbled streets and she grips tightly to Aegon’s hand, terrified she’ll get lost if she lets go even for a moment.

They drink brown ale that tastes like old copper coins and eat roasted meats that have been burned to the point that she is no longer able to discern their animal of origin. She decides it’s best that she doesn’t know. For every cup of ale she drinks, Aegon has three and it’s not until they reach the door of a building where the cheers of a crowd can be heard from inside, that she realises how far into his cups he is as he sways beside her.

“Perhaps we ought to go back.” She suggests uneasily, feeling apprehension begin to gnaw at her insides.

“Rubbish...” He slurs. “...come on, you’ll enjoy this.”

He grabs for her hand, tugging her through the jeering crowd and she recoils when the sight of two children hitting each other in a pit below comes into view. Her stomach turns at the sight, not wanting to look long enough to comprehend what she is seeing, the thought is simply too awful. She wrenches away, pushing herself back outside.

She leans against a wall, catching her breath and it is not until her heart rate has slowed that she notices that Aegon has not followed her. She had assumed he’d be just as disgusted as she was, and a shiver runs through her as she realises that he had intended for them to watch that, it was no mere accident, he enjoyed it.

The faces of the people on the street seem more sinister now she is alone and it dawns on her how perilous her situation is; she is a lone noblewoman in a foreign city, absolutely anything could happen to her here, and there’d be no one to save her. She breaks into a run, sprinting through the narrow streets, not knowing if she’s following the same route that she took with Aegon on the way there, but just knowing that if she keeps the castle on the hill in sight then she will make it back in one piece.

Winded by the time she eventually returns, she shuts herself away in her bedchamber and vows never to spend time alone with Prince Aegon for the rest of her stay in King’s Landing. His idea of a good time could not be farther removed from her own. 

She has a troubled night’s sleep, plagued by the visions of what she’d seen in the fighting pit. She feels fuzzy headed by the time she eventually rouses from her bed, and a sadness settles over her. The month was going to be an incredibly lonely one without anyone to keep her company; her parents would be entertained by the Queen and her father, they would not want her around. Tommen could not even come to visit; an invitation had not been extended to the Tullys, it would be impolite and presumptuous for him to simply turn up.

Walking towards the window, she looks out across the city. The faint orange glow of the sun has barely begun to rise above the rooftops in the distance, it is still the hour of the rooster. A sound of steel clashing against steel draws her attention to the courtyard below.

She watches a tall, silver-haired man cross swords with a dark haired knight. Though they both fight valiantly, it is clear that the knight’s opponent is getting the best of him. It’s only when the fairer of the two turns that she notices the eyepatch. Aemond.

Though she has yet to actually speak to him, she knows all about him, all of Westeros does, she presumes; the terrible accident that cost him his eye and that he rides the largest dragon in all of Westeros, both subjects of keen interest in every noble household.

She wonders if he is as vulgar as his older brother, or perhaps possesses a gentleness that’s more akin to his sister; it was impossible to tell from his stoicism when she’d arrived yesterday. Smiling as she watches him point the tip of his blade towards the knight’s throat, she decides she will seek him out and find out for herself. Perhaps he will be a worthy companion for the duration of her stay.

Once she is washed, dressed and has broken her fast, she goes in search of the One-Eyed Prince. He has long since departed the training yard, so she wanders the halls of the Red Keep, hoping she might run into him.

It’s not until she reaches the library that she finally encounters him. He is seated at the head of a long, mahogany table with a book in his hands. He has changed out of the doublet he wore when sparring and is now dressed in a black leather tunic, his long silver-white hair falling elegantly around his shoulders.

He does not look up as she enters the library and she finds herself unsure of how to handle the situation; she hadn’t anticipated that he’d ignore her.

She draws in a breath and clears her throat, and when he still doesn’t acknowledge her she then speaks.

“Prince Aemond, it is a pleasure to meet you properly. I saw that you were part of the welcoming party for my family and I yesterday, but I wanted to formally introduce myself.”

He looks up then and she feels she may wither from the intensity with which he glares at her.

“Hm,” is all he musters, before returning his attention back to his reading.

The logical part of her knows she ought to take offense to his dismissiveness of her, however, her curiosity is far greater and she wants to know precisely why he’s so reluctant to speak to her. She walks towards him, stopping a few paces in front of where he sits, regarding him carefully.

It’s obvious that he does not enjoy the intrusion, visibly bristling and shifting haughtily in his seat. She makes no moves, determined to stand her ground until he talks to her.

Aemond sighs, closing his book and fixing her with a pointed stare. “What is it that you want exactly?”

She gives a gentle shrug of her shoulders, fingertips grazing over the smooth wood of the tabletop as she approaches him. “I thought we might be friends.”

“I don’t have friends.” He replies stiffly, reopening the tome in front of him and continuing to read.

“You must get lonely.” She watches the way his eye scans the page and smiles to herself. He isn’t really reading.

“No.” He doesn’t look up, keeping his focus firmly on the text.

“What are you reading?” She pulls out the chair next to where he sits at the head of the table and sits down.

“It wouldn’t interest you.” He says dismissively.

“Try me.” She stretches out her arms, gently drumming her fingers on the table.

He looks up then, annoyance pinching his angular features. “What do you mean?”

“Read it to me.” She fights the urge to laugh at the expression of horror that flashes across his face.

“Read to you?! Are you an infant?”

“I’m not going to leave you alone until you do, and it means you get to carry on with your book, so you might as well.”

He sighs, rolling his eye. “Fine, but I’m not starting from the beginning.”

She settles back in her chair as he reads aloud, paying rapt attention to the way his brows raise for particular sentences, the way his lips shape around each word. His voice is soothing when he’s not being petulant. A warmth blossoms in her chest at how animated he becomes. It is a history book he reads to her from, but he is almost passionate in his delivery of every word. It seems she has found common ground with Aemond, and perhaps the beginning of breaking down the walls which he appears to have built up around him.

She watches Aemond train from her chamber window every morning, and visits the library every afternoon over the next few days. Each time Aemond reads to her; books about history, philosophy and dragon lore. She finds each topic fascinating, but it perhaps has more to do with how ardently he speaks of them than her own interest or understanding. Whether he enjoys or simply endures her presence is a mystery to her, but he doesn’t turn her away and reads aloud without complaint, so she continues to come back. Each day their chairs draw closer together, until they sit shoulder to shoulder, her leaning in to follow the words along with him. He is stiff at first, seemingly unsure of her physical presence, but gradually softens, leaning into her as much as she does to him.

The day of the tourney arrives and as she is seated in the stands she looks around, noticing that Aemond is absent, despite the fact the rest of his family are all in attendance; even Viserys has made it out to spectate, though he appears to be frail and in ill health. A golden mask covers half of his face, and a maester hovers by his side, while Alicent looks on worriedly. She wonders if he’s even aware of what he’s supposed to be watching. Assuming that on account of all Aemond’s training, he will be taking part, she is surprised that as the jousting gets underway she cannot spot him.

She feels restless and bored without her new found friend, if she can even call him that, and during a commotion when a knight is unseated from his horse, she uses the distraction to sneak away back to Keep. It’s the time of day when Aemond would usually read to her, so she knows exactly where to find him.

He looks up from his book as she enters the library, the faintest of smirks pulling at the corners of his lips.

“You’re late,” He drawls. “I started without you.”

“I was at the tourney,” She replies, taking her usual seat beside him. “I thought you would be too.”

“I don’t give a shit about tourneys.” He says matter of factly.

Her eyebrows raise in shock, she’s never heard him speak so colloquially before, but she finds she rather likes it. “No ladies whose favour you’re after then?”

“No need. I’m to be betrothed to one of Lord Baratheon’s daughters.”

“Lucky you! Which one?”

Aemond shrugs slightly. “I’ll choose when I fly to Storm’s End.”

“And leave three poor ladies heartbroken afterwards.” She teases with a smile.

“I hardly think so.” He mutters, stiffening with discomfort and frowning slightly.

Assuming he is being needlessly modest, she places a hand on his arm. “You must have no end of admirers.”

Aemond snatches his arm away, fixing her with an angry stare. “I do not appreciate your mockery.”

“I-I wasn’t…” She stammers, stunned by the abruptness of his reaction.

“Well, then I do not need your pity.” He utters darkly, rising from his seat and striding from the library.

She stares after him, a tightness in her chest preventing her from calling out to him. She has no idea what she has said or done to make him behave in such a way, but the urge to burst into tears is overwhelming, so she makes a hasty return to her chambers so that is able to do just that in private.

She weeps bitterly as she curls up on her bedspread, a combination of remorse for having offended her only companion in this city, and shock that such a harmless remark could have done so in the first place. As her cries subside, they give way to confusion. What had she said that had upset him so much? She had only meant to pay him a compliment. Words of flattery should not inspire such outrage. Her perplexed state gradually evolves into anger. She decides it is him in the wrong, and if he wishes to be annoyed with her then he can be.

For two days she does not speak to Aemond, fighting the urge to go to the window in the morning to watch him train, refusing the familiar path to the library that her feet long to take in the afternoons. She misses him, and the Red Keep becomes a lonely place to be without the only friend she has made within its walls. She wonders if perhaps he misses her too, but is resolute in her determination not to seek him out.

It is on the third day that she hears a soft rapping at the door to her quarters. She only ever receives visits from the Keep’s serving staff, so she calls out for them to enter. Her heart feels as though it has leapt into her throat when she sees Aemond slip through the door, softly closing it behind him.

He holds a book in his hand, and the pair of them stare at each other in silence for a few moments. She knows she should rise when in the presence of royalty, but it’s taking all of her effort just to remind herself to breathe, formalities are the furthest thing from her mind as her yearning for his company and her anger at how he’d spoken to her are at direct odds with each other.

It appears he is unbothered by her lack of formality, however, as he grips the book tightly in both hands, swallowing thickly. His right eye is almost pleading as he looks at her. “It’s been a few days…I thought I might read to you, if you’d like me to?” Though he does not say the words aloud, they are clear; I’m sorry.

She softens, unable to help the smile that spreads across her face. She’d expected him to be far too proud to have ever come to her, and yet here he was. “I’d like that,” She says; I forgive you.

Aemond seats himself next to her on the settee and begins to read. It is a volume about the Age of Heroes, and though interesting, she is barely able to register the words, just thankful to have the ease of his presence once more.

He squirms as he reads, something she is unused to seeing. Aemond is still by nature, his posture stiff and unyielding, yet he arches his back and rolls his shoulders until eventually, with a sigh, he stops reading and closes the book.

“This seat is unbearable, how can you stand it?” He grumbles.

“We could go to the library, if you’d prefer?” She offers.

“I’ve a better idea,” He says. “But you’ll need to be dressed in something warmer, much warmer. Get changed and I’ll meet you back here in a moment.”

She watches him leave, wondering what he could possibly have in mind, and why she’d need to dress warmly. It is early summer, and the sun shines brightly, regardless of this she dons her thickest clothing before Aemond returns. She notices that he too has changed, he’s wearing a long, thick jacket and leather riding gloves. Puzzled by his choice of attire, she does not have time to ask questions as he gestures for her to follow him.

He guides her out of and away from the Red Keep, the briskness of his pace causing her to break into a light sweat on account of how wrapped up she is. Her discomfort is short lived, however, replaced by a mixture of fright and awe as the sight of the largest and most monstrous beast she has ever laid eyes upon draws closer into view the further their footsteps draw them away from the center of the city.

“Are…are we going towards that?” She asks fearfully.

Aemond chuckles drily. “That is Vhagar,” He tells her proudly. “Is she not the most magnificent dragon you’ve ever seen?”

“She is the only dragon I’ve ever seen.” She replies, voice shaking slightly.

“I thought you might enjoy an opportunity to escape the Keep, and experience something more exciting than a tourney.”

“We’re going to ride her?!”

“It’s perfectly safe, I do it often. But if you’re afraid, we don’t have to.”

She chews her lip in uncertainty. The thought of flying on dragonback terrifies her, but at the same time she’d arrived in King’s Landing in search of adventure and this certainly was one. She decides to place her trust in Aemond. “I want to.”

Trembling as Aemond helps her up into the saddle before climbing on after her, she tries her best to be brave in spite of the way her stomach lurches as Vhagar takes flight. She holds onto the handles of the saddle for dear life, thankful for her thicker than usual garments as a rush of cold air gusts over them as they gain more height.

The queasiness she feels at the weightlessness subsides a little, as she feels Aemonds arms encircle her waist in order to take hold of the reins of Vhagar’s saddle. For a moment she is sure she imagines it, until she hears it again; Aemond is actually laughing. It’s the first time she’s ever heard him express such unbridled joy since she met him, and she turns slightly, taking in the view of the upward curve of his mouth, the crinkle of his seeking eye, how utterly carefree he looks. It suits him. She would endure a thousand death defying flights on Vhagar if it meant she got to see more of him like this, it is so far removed from how solemn he usually seems.

They land on a grassy cliff top, overlooking the sea, and he informs her that he has brought her to Parchments, as he helps her down, an area that overlooks Tarth and the Narrow Sea towards the Flatlands of Pentos and Myr.

“It is too loud sometimes, even in the most silent parts of the Red Keep. It’s quiet here.” Aemond tells her, shrugging off his coat and laying it upon the ground before sitting upon it. He gestures to the empty space beside him and she joins him.

“You like the quiet.” She muses, looking out sea, watching the gentle undulation of the waves as the breeze softly moves through her hair.

“It is preferable to being laughed at.”

She startles, assuming he is referring to their conversation in the library a few days’ prior. “I wasn’t–”

“I did not mean you,” He tells her, glancing quickly over at her, then returning his gaze to the horizon. “They have always laughed at me. I grow tired of it.”

She is unsure of who he means by they, but is eager to comfort him. “I think you are magnificent, Aemond, I’d never laugh at you. My compliment was genuine.”

“I know that now,” He admits. “No one has ever sought my company willingly before, or expressed that I am…desirable. It was hard for me to imagine you weren’t joking.”

Her heart aches for him. “Have you never even kissed a woman before?”

Aemond shakes his head. “Aegon took me to a pleasure house on the Street of Silk for my thirteenth name day. He said ‘time to get it wet’. I don’t really remember much of that day, just that it smelled unclean, and that when I encountered the woman I was to lay with…” He pauses, drawing in a breath. “...the sight of her spread out like that was too much. I couldn’t do it, so I turned and ran. Aegon laughed. He has always laughed. I haven’t bothered with that sort of thing since.”

She frowns, thinking back on her own experience in Flea Bottom with Aegon. “Aegon is a shit,” She tells him, earning the slightest of smiles from him. “But I am sorry that that happened to you, you deserve better. It is not supposed to be that way.”

“How should it be then?”

“You should feel safe and comfortable, it should be with someone who cares for you, who wants to take the time to learn what makes you feel pleasure.” She says wistfully, heat creeping across her cheeks.

“It sounds as though you speak from experience.” He says with a slight raise of his eyebrow.

She hesitates a moment, shame giving her pause, but she has trusted Aemond once already today and he has not failed her, so she decides to confide in him. “Yes, I am betrothed to Tommen Tully. We have…explored the various aspects of intimacy together during our courtship. If you are going to enter into an arranged marriage then it makes sense to know what you are doing, and are able to keep your partner happy.”

“Hmm, Lord Tully,” Aemond says quietly. “Lucky man!”

She giggles at the way he mimics her compliment from a few days’ prior, and they both turn their attention back to the expanse of the Narrow Sea.

It is dusk when Vhagar lands back on the outskirts of King’s Landing. Streaks of lavender, orange, pink and yellow all disappear into the horizon, slowly swallowed by the darkness of light as she climbs from the saddle with Aemond’s help.

She is taken aback when he sweeps her into his arms as she makes her dismount, pulling her close to him. He presses his lips to hers and it is filled with the clumsy inexperience that comes with the action of a first kiss, but the plushness of his mouth against hers is not unpleasant and she returns the gesture softly and slowly.

He pulls back, his eye looking deep into hers. “I feel safe and comfortable with you,” He murmurs. “And I would like for you to teach me…how to be intimate. If that is agreeable to you?”

Her stomach flutters as she stares back at him breathlessly. “Yes,” She whispers, before leaning back in again.

Aemond is a fast learner and over the coming days he becomes more confident with his kisses. He leans in to kiss her each day as he reads to her, begins walking her back to her quarters at the end of every evening so that he may kiss her goodnight, his tongue licking deftly against her own. His lips possess hers with such assertiveness that it steals her breath away, the softness of them molding to hers in a way that has her chasing forward for more with a whine when he pulls away.

She knows that she ought to feel guilty, she is betrothed to Tommen after all, but she reasons that they are not married yet, and it is unlikely that he has shied away from having fun of his own when they are apart. She is merely ensuring Aemond feels confident when the time comes for him to depart for Storm’s End in pursuit of his own betrothal. With this in mind, she does not push for more beyond what he is willing to give, waiting for him to give the signal that he is ready.

It is early evening as he walks her back from the library, his mouth moves unhurriedly against her own as he presses her back against the door to her bedchamber.

He lingers once they break apart, not bidding her goodnight as he usually would. “I thought I might…come inside, if that is fine with you?”

She nods, her breath quickening as he follows in behind her. Aemond sits himself on the edge of the bed, suddenly looking uncertain of himself.

“How do I–”

“It’s alright,” She smiles, sitting beside him. “I don’t mind taking the lead. Just tell me to stop if it’s too much.”

He nods, laying against the pillows as she gently pushes him back. Draping herself over him, she resumes their earlier kisses, deep and passionate, both savouring the taste of each other. She breaks away to trail her lips along the sharpness of his jaw as her fingers work to unbuckle his tunic. She delights in the soft sighs that he emits, unbuttoning his undershirt and admiring the hard planes of his lean torso.

“Do you ever touch yourself?” She whispers, feeling how his pulse races as she strokes her fingers over his neck.

“Sometimes…” He breathes, eyes fluttering closed as her fingertips trail across his chest.

“What do you think about?”

“Lately…” He inhales a shaky breath as her hand moves lower, toying with the laces of his breeches. “...I think of you.”

She feels the warmth of arousal pooling between her legs as she palms the hardness of him through his underclothes. Though she does not have much to compare Aemond to, he is much larger than Tommen. She cannot resist dipping her hand beneath the fabric to touch him. “And what am I doing in your thoughts?”

He hisses through his teeth as she wraps her hand around him, and she lets out a hum of satisfaction at how weighty and warm he feels against her palm as she strokes him.

“You are…fuck…you are beneath me, and I-I am inside you.”

“Is that something you’re ready for?” She questions, slowly lowering herself on the bed, mouth watering at the sight of him; long and thick, flushed pink with arousal at the tip.

“I want to be.”

“Why don’t we start with this instead…”

She licks delicately at the head of him, grinning to herself at his quiet gasp, then allowing him to pass between her lips, suckling delicately. He is slightly salty against her tongue, though not unpleasant. Releasing him, she glances up.

“G-gods…don’t stop…” Aemond all but whines, his eye screwed shut as he bucks his hips slightly.

She smirks, taking him once more into her mouth, deeper this time, bobbing her head back and forth and using her hand to stroke the length of what won’t fit. He tenses and trembles beneath her attention, his knuckles turning white with the intensity with which he grips the sheets. She readies herself as the telltale pulsation of his length indicates he is nearing his peak, swallowing as he releases down her throat with a low groan.

Wiping her mouth, she crawls to lay beside him, smiling softly as she takes in his lazy, blissed out expression; right eye hooded with pleasure and lips slightly parted.

“Can I stay with you?” He whispers.

“As long as you’d like.”

From that point on, when Aemond walks her back to her rooms he does not depart to his own. They spend every evening exploring each other, hands, lips and tongues roaming over every bared inch, before falling asleep in each other’s arms. She does not recoil when he lifts his eyepatch for the first time in front of her, instead she takes his face in her hands, turning it slightly, admiring the way his sapphire glimmers in the firelight, before softly stroking her thumb over the scar on his cheek.

He takes her that night. It is brief, as she knew it would be, a few awkward thrusts inside of her and he spills himself, embarrassed apologies uttered into the crook of her neck. She strokes his hair and tells him not to worry, they will try again once he is recovered, and they do.

She sits astride him, hips rocking back and forth, head tilted back in pleasure as the length of him stretches and fills her over and over, working at a spot inside of her that causes her to clench around him. Taking his hand, she guides it to her pearl.

“Stroke here,” She instructs, moaning wantonly as he begins to rub in tight circles.

She collapses against his chest, white hot waves of pleasure coursing through her as she falls apart, and he follows soon after.

Aemond is dutiful, fetching her moon tea without needing to be asked, and the pair fall into a happy routine of reading and dragon riding by day and lovemaking by night.

She lays against his chest, listening to the soft thud of his heartbeat as his fingers stroke through her hair.

“Thank you,” He tells her earnestly. “For all you have done for me.”

“I have done nothing but remind you of what is already there,” She replies. “You are intelligent, you fight fiercely, you are a skilled dragonrider, anyone can see that.”

“How do I fare as a lover?” He asks.

She does not need to look at him to hear the smirk in his tone and she giggles lightly. “Extremely well. Your Baratheon girl will certainly be lucky to have you.”

She hates the pang of jealousy she feels acrid and hot within her chest as she says those words, but what she detests even more is the look of sadness that flashes across Aemond’s face, his eye glancing away as the upward curve of his mouth falters. So they speak no more of it, clinging desperately to each other and the time that they have left.

On her final night in King’s Landing, Aemond fucks her into the mattress as though he means to push her through it, his grip on her hips so tight it is sure to leave bruises in its wake. She does not care though, clinging to him just as tightly, her nails digging crescent moons into his shoulder blades as she tries her best to memorise the way that he moves inside of her.

Come the morning, he sits up in the bed, his expression sullen as he watches her hurriedly throw her belongings into a chest - a task she ought to have completed the previous evening, but Aemond had kept her otherwise occupied.

“The stewards will be here for my things soon,” She says, stuffing a dress down the side of the rest of her haphazardly packed possessions. “You should leave before anyone sees you. You’ll be expected to be a part of the official send off for my family anyway.”

Slowly, Aemond rises from the mattress, walking over to her. “Don’t go,” He pleads quietly, taking her hands in his.

She could cry from the gesture; a month ago he’d have rather flung himself from the walls of the Red Keep than initiate any form of physical contact with her, let alone a gesture so intimate.

“You can’t ask that of me, Aemond,” She tells him gently, softly pressing her fingers into his palms. “It isn’t fair.”

He swallows thickly and the sincerity she sees in his eye is more than she can stand. “But I love you.”

She feels wetness rim her eyes, sharp and stinging. “And I love you. But so what? It’s not enough. We are duty bound, you and I.”

He bows his head sadly for a moment, but eventually nods. “I hope Lord Tully appreciates what a fine woman he has.”

Smiling warmly, in spite of her unshed tears, she nods. “And I hope the Baratheon girls give you a warm welcome. Be sure to kiss them all, don’t settle for what’s offered up first.”

He huffs a silent laugh, that releases itself as a heavy exhale through his nose.

“I mean it,” She urges. “This world is too small for you, never let anyone make you feel less than what you are.”

“Thank you,” He murmurs. “For everything.”

She lets go of his hands, crushing herself against his chest as she wraps her arms around him, as he envelopes her.

“Don’t forget me.”

“As if I could.”

She stares out of the carriage window as it rolls away from the Red Keep, away from King’s Landing, away from Aemond. Though she is returning to the Vale, she knows a part of her will forever remain in the capital, a part that she has imprinted upon Aemond. It is bittersweet to leave him behind. She is comforted knowing that she has pieced together the broken man she encountered when she first arrived. The world is too small a place for the likes of the Targaryen Prince, but she has given him the confidence to realise that he holds it in the palm of his hand.

HYPEEEEEEE

Tag me if ya please👉🏻👈🏻🥰

Ten Thousand Miles Away

On Sapphire Seas Part 1 of 12

It’s all of a brave and a gallant ship with a fair and fav’rin breeze / A bully good crew and a captain too to carry me over the seas - Joseph B. Geoghegan, "Ten Thousand Miles Away"

Aemond Targaryen x Reader (Pirate AU)

Summary: After fleeing your home, you thought perhaps you would be free from fear. Until black sails appear on the horizon.

Series Masterlist

Word Count: 3.5k

Rating: Mature/18+

Warnings: death, gore/blood, there are guns in this AU, language, referenced alcohol abuse, reference to physical and verbal abuse though none of it is explicitly depicted, mention of vomit

A/N: all I can say is: just wait until we REALLY get going

enjoy bbys <3

dividers by @firefly-graphics

The thin panes of the window separating the captain’s cabin from the outside elements are speckled with sea spray, clouding the view of the endless ocean. You might have thought it was raining outside had you not known any better.

You peer through it, looking down at the ocean below, gray and choppy, the dark swells of the waves lapping at the wooden sides of the ship, seeming to try with all their might to peel back the boards and sink you. For a moment, you wonder what it would feel like to surrender yourself to the sea and let it take you in its frigid embrace. To pull you down to unknown depths, places where the light of day could never reach. 

“Martyn!” the sharp, clipped tone of the Captain’s voice, calling the false name you’d given when you boarded in Braavos, shakes you from your head, and you snap to attention, eyes wide. 

It has been two long months at sea, sailing from port to port in Essos before beginning the voyage west across the Narrow Sea. You thought you might have grown tired of it by now, but you had not. You adored it all–the salt spray that stung your cheeks, the rolling rhythm of the waves, propelling the boat forward, even the ever-terse demands of Captain Simon Strong.

“Sir,” you speak with a respectful nod of your head, taking care to lower the natural timbre of your voice as much as possible. It was a narrow line you walked, living in secret like this. Every time you opened your mouth, there was a chance you would raise suspicion, be discovered, and be sent back to your uncle.

“Go below deck and fetch a bottle of Dornish Red, would you?” he requests idly, his eyes locked on the papers before him, scarcely sparing you a second look. 

“Yes, Captain,” you nod again, turning on your heel to leave his cabin at once. The sea breeze bites at your face the second you step outside, cool and sharp against you. You breathe it in deeply, relishing the smell of salt and tar before you make your way below deck, eyes lowered. 

It was in this manner you spent most of your days–quiet, meeting no one's gaze for fear that they might see something in your eyes that would inform them of the truth: that you are a woman. 

You managed to keep your identity a secret these last weeks, refraining from speaking when you could and taking care that you were not caught without a shirt or the bandages you used to hide your chest. Still, it was a small price to pay for the freedom your indiscretion afforded you. 

Back in Braavos, you had nothing and no one save for your uncle, whose usually foul temper grew worse when he drank–a nightly occurrence. You bore it with grace as long as you could, for almost twenty years, but eventually, cleaning up his sick and piss and dodging the bottles he threw at you in blind rage grew to be too much. 

In the dead of night, you’d cut off your hair to your chin, suitably short enough to be mistaken for a boy, and fled, securing passage on the first ship that would let you on board.

Anything was better than what you left behind.

Below the deck, you make your way to the hold, passing by the crew's quarters and the galley as you go, giving the cook a tight-lipped smile. The wooden sides of the ship creak and groan, and up above, you hear muffled yells from the crew and thudding footsteps against the deck. 

Inside the hold, it is pitch dark, nearly impossible to see anything even centimeters before your face, and the air smells still and stale. By now, you know your way around well enough not to bother yourself with a lamp, instead extending a hand before you, blindly reaching in the direction you know the bottles of wine are kept. You fetch one from where it is bound to the shelf and tuck it under your arm, humming under your breath to yourself to fill the silence of the hold.

You are moving back towards the door when the yelling above deck changes. 

The muffled, conversational shouts you were accustomed to grow into yelps of panic, then screams, and you hear a cannon shot go off, loud enough to shake the beams of the boat. It nearly makes you drop the bottle of Dornish Red on the floor, and you grip it tighter, sweaty hands squeezing at the cool glass neck of it. 

You scurry out, back up to the galley, intent upon going above deck to see what could have caused the commotion, but as you pass by, you are yanked into the narrow space between the counters, the grasp on your arm pulling a soft scream from you before the cook's hand slaps over your mouth as he drags you to the floor. 

“Quiet, boy,” he hisses, his voice roughened by the pipe he often smoked, colored with fear. “What you heard was a warning shot–if there is one thing to be certain of, there will be pirates coming after.”

Your heart hammers wildly in your chest, almost painfully so, and your breaths become difficult to draw, but you do as you're told, crouching there beside the cook, the bottle cradled in your arms.

You'd heard stories before about the criminals that trawled the seas, stealing from merchant ships such as this one and leaving behind no survivors. Screwing your eyes shut, you try not to think of what horrors could befall you at the hands of pirates, your fingers shaking uncontrollably.

The ship shudders, and again, the shouting changes, the panicked yells of the crew drowned out by the voices of other men, jeering and rough, the thumping footsteps above deck growing louder, though your heartbeat thundering in your ears nearly drowns it out. 

“Easy, lad,” the cook murmurs, squeezing your shoulder, though the gesture holds little reassurance. He doesn't need to tell you that you've been boarded–that much is clear from the clang of steel on steel and the unmistakable popping of gunfire. You squeeze your eyes shut again, fingers gripping the bottle so tightly that your knuckles begin to pale.

When you were a girl, your mother used to play games of hide and seek with you back before the fever took her. She would tell you that she would close her eyes and count all the way up to thirty, and then she would come and find you. It was your favorite game to play then. 

You were always terrible at hiding, but she would humor you, giving you long stretches of time to remain undiscovered, allowing you to think that perhaps you'd won. Believing you'd fooled her, you would giggle to yourself, a palm pressed over your mouth to stifle your mirth.

Now, where you lie on the floor of the galley, you place a hand over your mouth to quiet your breathing and begin to count.

One, two, three, four, five, six–

You don't make it to twenty before the pirates find you. 

It is a large man, broad and gruff, that pulls you from the galley. He is rough with you, tying your wrists tightly together behind your back, the ropes cutting into you, but in your fear, you scarcely notice the pain. 

He drags you above deck, and you squint at the change in lighting, blinking rapidly to let your eyes adjust, fighting the urge to vomit up every scrap you've eaten today, swallowing harshly to choke it down. A massive black warship sits alongside the boat, connected by tethers and wooden planks to provide access to cross from one ship to the other, and all around you, bodies lay dead and bloody, scarcely recognizable from the men you knew they had been.

A raggedly dressed man, thin and leering, grins as you pass by, showcasing several missing teeth as he yanks his sword from the corpse below him. Blood bubbles thickly from the wound, pooling around the body, staining the deck dark red, and you squeeze your eyes shut, unable to look any longer as bile rises in your throat.

Your captor shoves you to your knees, lining you up with the other men on the deck carelessly. Your kneecaps bang against the wood below them, pain lancing up your legs from the point of impact, and you whimper, earning yourself a smack in the back of your head that nearly sends you tumbling forward onto your face.

“Shut up, boy,” the large pirate growls behind you. “Keep that mouth closed, and maybe the captain will spare you.”

You kneel between the cook and Captain Strong, your hands shaking where they're bound behind your back, breaths labored as they puff from your chest.

“Gentlemen,” the narrowly-built pirate that smiled at you moves to stand before the line, a sick sort of glee contorting his thin face. “Today is a lucky day for you all indeed–you've been boarded by the honorable crew of the Three-Headed Dragon.”

Captain Strong is the only one who dares to meet his gaze. He sneers up at the pirate from beside you, eyes icy and unyielding, and the pirate notices, striding toward him with a wolfish grin. 

“You do not seem pleased, Captain,” he snickers, grabbing the older man's chin and angling his gaze up toward him. “You ought to rejoice–it is a privilege you've been given.”

“A privilege?” Captain Strong snorts dismissively. “We have been apprehended by filthy fucking fools–layabouts who couldn't concern themselves with honest employment–”

With a snarl, the pirate goes for his knife, seizing the captain by the hair, the blade pressed to his throat. You close your eyes, preparing yourself for the warm, sticky spray against your face and the horrible gurgling sound of Captain Strong choking on his blood, but then comes another voice.

“Wait.”

Hesitantly, you crack open an eye, searching for the source, your throat tightening at what you see. 

A tall, slender man dressed in leather and well-made linens stands before the prisoners now, arms clasped behind him, his shoulders rolled back comfortably. He looks at ease, his limbs relaxed as if he were standing in his own home rather than raiding a merchant ship. 

If not for having known otherwise, you might have thought he was a Lord or a wealthy merchant, given his state of dress. On his hip rests a large sword, and pale white hair spills over his shoulders, all but glowing, even with the grayed skies overhead, but none of that is what catches your attention. 

No, what grabs your focus is the leather eyepatch he wears, stretched across his face, covering his left eye. The ends of a thin scar protrude from beneath the cover, pink against his pale skin, though the injury does nothing to diminish how handsome he is. 

You'd heard rumors of the one-eyed pirate–the terror of the seas, ruthless and black-hearted, killing indiscriminately for his monetary gain–but you'd barely allowed yourself to believe them until now. 

“Remove your knife from the good captain's neck, Ulf,” he commands dryly, pursing his lips, his single eye trailing over the rest of you in a disinterested fashion. 

“But he–”

“That was not a question,” the one-eyed man drawls, irritation flickering over his face, his eye narrowed, an unspoken threat simmering behind it. 

“Yes, Captain,” the other man– “Ulf”, if the one-eyed pirate was to be believed –releases Captain Strong, stowing his knife back in his belt and stepping away as the pale-haired man steps closer. 

“What is your name?” the pirate asks the captain, a cold, indifferent smile curling over his lips. 

“Captain Simon Strong,” he replies, voice unwavering. 

“Strong…” the pirate muses. “How wonderful. And do you know who I am?” 

The captain stares up at him, his jaw set before he answers, his tone dripping with mockery and disdain, “There is no seafaring man alive who does not know of the great Kinslayer.”

The pirate’s smile broadens, and for a beat, he looks almost amused, but before you can blink, there is a sharp bang beside you, and a warm, sticky substance splatters over your shirt, and what skin of yours is exposed. You scream, cowering into the side of the cook, away from Captain Strong’s body as it collapses to the deck, thick, dark blood spilling from the clean hole in the center of his skull.

The cook is quick to shove you upright, and when you dare open your eyes again, the pirate now looks upon you, pinning you in place with a deadly stare. A smoking gun hangs from his pale hand, and he steps toward you next, tucking a finger under your chin. 

“And who might you be boy?” he asks, his tone terrifyingly measured and steady, given that he'd just killed a man with not so much as a blink of his eye. 

You can feel Captain Strong’s blood soaking through the knees of your trousers, and you can do nothing but stare, eyes wide in fear. 

“I asked you a question,” the one-eyed man warns, squeezing your chin between his thumb and forefinger painfully, his jaw ticking in mild aggravation.

“Martyn, sir,” you manage to choke out, exhaling sharply when he releases your chin. 

“What a sweet little voice,” he mocks, “Are your stones still in your stomach, Martyn?” he quips, raising a dubious brow. 

His comment elicits a laugh from his crew at the expense of the higher pitch at which you talk. You pray to any gods that are listening that he cannot see down your shirt to your chest, bound in bandages to hide it, and you swallow hard. 

“My voice has always been this way, sir,” you whisper, your voice wavering. “An unfortunate defect, I am afraid.”

“Hm,” he considers you with amusement, tilting his head and taking a step backward, “unfortunate indeed.”

“I am Captain Aemond One-Eye,” he barks to the rest of the crew, his voice louder than before. “You are all, for now, my prisoners. Once we have relieved you of all of your possessions, we will be off, of that you can be assured. I leave you a few moments to ponder a decision: surrender and return to your employers in disgrace, where you will be punished for aiding and abetting pirates, swear your fealty to my cause and join us, or die an honorable death.”

With that, he turns on his heel, nodding to the broad man who'd first found you in the galley as he passes, stepping back onto one of the planks connecting the ships and walking across.

“Right,” the large man grumbles, striding forward on measured, firm steps. “We're going to do this real nice like–if you surrender, lay down on your stomachs and stay there like the yellow-bellied dogs you are. If you choose fealty, stand. If death is what you prefer, remain on your knees.”

Your heart thunders in your throat, watching from the side of your eye as the cook and several other men lay down as they are bidden. The cook glances up at you, his gaze tinged with panic when he sees you still kneeling.

“Boy! Lie down!” he hisses intently, an edge of fear creeping into his voice. “There's no shame in living to see another day.”

You look back down at him, and the prospect of surrendering and returning to Braavos, to your uncle, looms in your mind like an evil specter, heavy and dark.

“I know,” you answer, breathing in unsteadily.

Then, you stand. 

Aboard the Three-Headed Dragon, you stand alone, wrists still bound, back pressed to the main mast. 

Of the entire crew you'd left behind, you were the only one to rise to your feet, moving as though possessed toward the big pirate who fixed you with an amused look but took you on board nonetheless.

Aemond One-Eye is nowhere to be found, and you are instead surrounded by his crew, all leering at you, half-interested, half-cruel. You try to keep from shaking, curling your hands into fists to steady them, your eyes darting from face to sun-aged face, not daring to stare at any one person for too long. 

“You lot, to your posts,” the broad pirate growls to the rest of them, shoving through the loose circle and grabbing you by your upper arm. “We're to be at Driftmark within the month–Captain's orders.”

He drags you off without a word, down the deck and up the narrow wooden stairs to the captain's quarters. The large man doesn't speak to you, just stares straight ahead as he walks, coming to a stop before the door and rapping on it with his massive fist. 

“Come.”

The burly pirate pushes the door open and pulls you through it behind him, shoving you in front of him. You stumble, nearly colliding with the polished desk in the middle of the room, and when you regain your balance, you look up to make dead eye contact with Captain One-Eye himself. 

He flicks his gaze over you carelessly, cutting his eye toward the man behind you, “Thank you, Hugh. You may go.”

Hugh does as bidden, the thick door scraping shut behind him as he swiftly exits the cabin, moving with surprising grace for someone of his size. 

You stand before the captain, privately cursing your knees for the way they tremble, trying in vain to steady yourself so as not to look weak. The captain doesn't speak for a long moment but rises from his desk, circling to the front, considering you.

“Martyn, was it?” he questions, leaning back against the desk with a lazy elegance, long fingers drumming on the table. You nod wordlessly, and his eye narrows.

“When you are spoken to, speak back,” he commands tersely, his displeasure sending a hot bolt of embarrassment and fear through you as you trip over your words to reply.

“Yes sir, I am sorry sir,” you spit out. “That is correct; my name is Martyn.”

“How old are you, Martyn?”

“Eight and ten years old, sir,” your voice trembles, but you manage a reply, lying about your age–there was every reason to do so. 

The truth of the matter was that you were three and twenty, but it would do you no good to tell him you were as old as you are–that would only raise more questions about your lack of hair upon your face and the already too-high pitch of your voice. 

“Eight and ten?” he repeats, eyebrows pinching together, fingers stilling against the table. “And still not a hair upon your chest.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hm,” he tilts his head, lips twitching slightly at your formality. “Can you read and write?”

You pause, considering your answer–the truth was, you could, but displaying too much in the way of your abilities could be just as much of a danger as having nothing to say for yourself. Wetting your lips with your tongue, you nod. 

“Yes, yes, sir,” you reply, “I can.”

“Good,” he says, unsheathing his knife from his belt and reaching for your hands, sawing at the ropes that bind them. “You shall work by my side as a scribe and as my cupbearer. As long as you remain of use to me, you shall have safety and protection while aboard the Dragon. In time, should you prove yourself loyal, you will be taught our trade. Learn to fight and sail and to earn your keep.”

“Thank you, sir,” you breathe as the ropes come free, rubbing at your wrists where your binds cut into your skin, soothing the angry indentations. He rakes his eye over your frame and the clothes you wear, still covered in a thick splatter of Captain Strong’s blood. You sincerely doubt they are the kinds of stains that will wash away. 

“See to it that one of my men gives you new clothing,” he comments, eyeing the dark red blotches with distaste and moving back around the table to sit once more. “Return to me when you are done. You will sleep here tonight, on the floor. I may require your services as a scribe and have no desire to waste time looking for you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We have set course for Driftmark,” he twirls his dagger in his fingers, testing the weight of the handle in his palm and running the thumb on his opposite hand down the flat of the blade. “You need not know anything more at present,” he decides.

“Yes, sir,” you repeat, remaining rooted before him, uncertain whether or not you are dismissed, rocking nervously on your toes. His lips quirk upward, almost amused, the soft pink curve of his mouth curling at the edges.

“Go now,” he bids you with a flick of his wrist, shooing you away. 

You waste no time doing as you're told, scrambling from the room with great haste. Part of you cursed your decision to come aboard the Dragon, but you push those regrets down–they would do you no favors now. 

What was already a dangerous game had become infinitely more so, and the hiding of your true identity was now a matter of survival. 

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