Wordbreaker

Ghost

Aemond is sick and you give him comfort.

Aemond/Reader

Fluff, Oneshot, 1322 Words

Masterlist

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When you're chosen to be Prince Aemond's chambermaid, you're grateful. He's not like the others at court. He's quiet, studious, and well regarded as a man of few pleasures except for his books. If that wasn't good enough, his room is always kept immaculate. So, all you have to do, is change the bed linens, clean the fire, and dust.   

You never even see him, at least, you never see him in his room.   

You see him in the halls, sparring in the courtyard and eating dinner at the high table. But he doesn’t see you. He doesn’t even know you.   

You’re like a ghost. Sneaking into his private space every single day yet leaving no real trace of your existence. Only hints.   

The straight stack of books, lined from tallest to shortest. The perfect shine on the gold sigil emblazoned on his chest plate. The sheets tucked so tightly over his mattress that you like to think he must battle with them every time he goes to bed.   

By now, you’ve haunted Aemond’s chamber for almost an entire year, and you’re thinking today will be no different, until it is.   

You’re quietly humming to yourself as you enter his room, your arms bursting with fresh linens and there he is, lying in the bed, his chest bare, the sheet sliding down his narrow hips.   

You almost scream in fright, dropping the linens to the floor before bowing deeply, respectfully. “Please forgive me, your grace, I did not mean to disturb you.”  

“Come closer,” he mumbles, his voice hoarse and you realize the room smells stale, the air thick.  

Still, you do as he’s asked and tiptoe towards him.  

Sweat glistens on his brow, his white hair plastered to his skin.   

You gasp, not really thinking before you place the back of your very cold hand against his very hot cheek.   

“You're burning up,” you say, snatching your hand away, but he holds your wrist, pressing you fingers back against his cheek and relishing your touch.

“I shall fetch the maester,” you insist, wanting to turn towards the door and leave as quickly as possible, but his grip is like a shackle.  

“No, stay-” he coughs, his voice as weak as a kitten despite the strength in his fingers.   

You give up trying to fight him and consent to stay. Perching gingerly beside him on the very edge of the bed and even this feels like an intrusion.  

Trying not to let your eyes stray down the length of his body which is still barely contained by the sheet, you pick up the jug of water from his nightstand and pour him a cup.   

Bringing it to his lips, he takes small but satisfied sips, his voice a little less husky when he says, “thank you.”   

No one you serve has ever thanked you for anything before, and a bubble of pride swells in your chest as you reach tentatively to brush your hand against the other side of his face.   

He nuzzles into it with a sigh, and you wonder what the other maids would think if they knew you had the prince in the very palm of your hand. But he’s too sick for you to really enjoy it.   

“I’m going to fetch a cloth,” you warn before standing and returning to your bundle of linens which are still spread across the floor.  

You find one of the rags you usually use to dust his bed frame. Its clean and fresh enough for you to dunk it in the jug of water before bringing it to his face, allowing the coolness to soothe the heat.   

Aemond’s breathing deepens, relaxed as you move the cloth from head to cheek before dunking it again and moving to his neck. Finally, you draw the cloth across his chest, but you dare not sink any lower than that.   

“You need medicine,” you tell him instead and he seems to concede to this, his head giving the slightest nod but his hand regaining control of your wrist.  

“Send the guard,” he whispers, and you do as he says, feeling frightened to issue an order to the men standing outside the door.  

They look at you as you’d expect, laughing, thinking you a stupid little girl, but no matter what they’re thinking, they still do as you have told them, and you find a certain pleasure in that.  

Returning to Prince Aemond, you offer him another sip from his cup and resume the press of cloth on hot skin until two maesters arrive.  

Ignoring your presence in the room, they squabble over the best course of treatment before procuring a glass vial filled with an unknown cure.  

“One drop every hour on the hour,” the oldest of the maesters warns as he hands the responsibility over to you.   

You want to tell him ‘no’, that you cannot possibly do this, but they are turning to leave, and they are shutting the door.  

Staring at the vial, you consider your fate if the prince were to die while you were caring for him, and perhaps that is exactly why the maesters were so quick to leave.   

You could leave too, but you take one last look at Aemond, who looks so pitiful in the bed, and become determined not to lose your head for such a thing as letting him die.   

“Open your mouth,” you order, taking out the little glass dropper to give him a dose of whatever will cure him.   

Afterwards, he falls asleep, and you wait for the hourly tolling of the bells to give him another drop, every hour on the hour.  

Before long it is dark and his fever has not broken so you stay, sitting in a chair which you’ve pulled to the bed and flicking through the books though you cannot read them. Instead, you imagine their stories and the stories are always the same.   

Ones where you are the person who sleeps in such a grand room. Where you do not need to clean linens or sweep soot from the fire because you are the wife of a prince instead of his chambermaid  

When the bell tolls for 5am, Aemond stirs and you lean in, meeting his eye before pressing your hand to his head.   

“How are you feeling?” you say, thinking his temperature feels much cooler.  

Aemond rolls his shoulders with a groan before sitting up on his elbows to grab his cup of water.   

“I feel like I’ve been swallowed by a dragon and shit out the other end,” he says, his voice still croaky before he takes a long drink, and you suppress a laugh.  

When he places the cup down on the side, his eye meets yours before falling to the chair pushed up beside his bed, and there is a sudden shift in the room.   

You can’t pinpoint exactly what it is, you just know that you don’t belong here anymore.   

Ghosts are not supposed to be seen.   

You stand, picking up the chair to place it back beside the desk and, though this room is as familiar to you as your own, you feel like an intruder.   

“Will that be all, your grace?” you say, your head bowed so he cannot see your face.  

“No,” his tone is stern, and you meet his eye, nerves pricking at your skin.  

“I want to thank you for today,” he says, much clearer than before, and that same swell of pride fills up your entire chest. 

You can't say anything, only smile bashfully and feel as though you might be walking on air as you scoop the linens from the floor and leave. Only this time, you don’t leave without a trace.   

Prince Aemond knows exactly who haunts his room and he starts to see you everywhere.   

In the halls, in the courtyard, from the high table.   

It only baffles him that he never really saw you before.   

Whoever requested a meeting between Sunfyre and Aegon’s wife, know that it has become a full-blown oneshot 😳

Team Green this. Team Black that. Blah blah blah.

Have you considered that maybe I’m team sexy people? Have you considered that maybe I’m a whore?

Silly little idea for a drab but what if reader claims Cannibal unknowingly or in a stupid manner and now they have this behemoth of a beast who does not take kindly to anyone approaching them, friend or not, and when asked how they’re like;

Reader: idk I just came across them, apologised to cannibal for disturbing them and left, but turns out they followed me home. :)

Meanwhile cannibal behind reader; 😡 fuck off and leave me and my human alone.

I would love to elaborate on this idea but depends on whether ppl would like to see that type of thing on here…