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Bound by Embroidered Chains - Aemond Targaryen x Seamstress!OC x Jacaerys Velaryon - Prologue

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Summary: Dragons have a habit in hoarding the prettiest of jewels, and pearls are of no exceptions.

Warnings- MDNI 18+ Future NSFW, Obsessive Behavior (we all knew this was coming), Childbirth, Future Sexism & Misogyny (this is Westeros), Political Struggles, Future Deaths, Dark Themes, etc. etc. Also translations for Valyrian will be added at the bottom!

Author's Note: WHO ELSE SCREAMED AT THE HOTD SEASON 2 TEASER TRAILER????? The costumes, the cinematography, the set design, FUCKING BAELA ON MOONDANCER???? But this idea was something that had been on my mind for a while, and I am really excited to share it with all of you! Shoutout to @valeskafics whose works served as a HUGE inspiration to this idea! If you liked reading this work, reblog and comment if you want to be tagged in future installments of this work! Also I apologize for any grammatical errors, I wanted to post this as soon as possible.

“PUSH!” yelled the midwife to the soon-to-be mother. “Lady Doreah, I can almost see the head!”

“Almost?” the poor woman cried out; her body had grown weary after experiencing a day’s worth of labour. Her hair clung to the sweat on her brow as the rest of her skin was soaked in perspiration from the pain. She cried out in agony as a gentle kiss from above attempted to soothe her from the torment that came with bringing new life into the world. Normally she would preen at such affection, but considering the circumstances she was in, she was in no mood for soft affections. “Ao nādrēsy! You did this to me!”

“Yes, my love,” agreed the man beside her. Unlike most husbands, Hotho Pyke refused to not remain by his beloved wife’s side during the birth of their child. He wanted to welcome the product of their love into the world with open arms. He was desperate to hold this new tiny babe in his arms as his fingers would trace over the features given to them by both their mother and father.

“You speak true my darling; I am a bastard. But if memory serves me right, it was my bastard birth that finally made you look my way after months of me begging for your attention. Well, that and a bit of my bastard tongue.” He tried to hide the wince that almost spilled from his lips at the furious grip on his hands in response of his wife. Even at the worst times, the man would never stop in his attempts to make her laugh. It was a most excellent quality in a husband in any other time but now.

“Gods help me Hotho – if this child does not come out of me soon, I will take my shears and cut out that bastard tongue of yours myself!” Doreah let out another scream as she continued to push her child out – although the pain was intense, the longing to hear the newest member of their family was greater than anything else she had felt in her lifetime.

“The baby is crowning!” exclaimed the midwife, who stood forgotten by the couple. “You are so close my lady, a few more pushes and you and your husband can welcome the newborn!”

This news filled Doreah with a newfound determination. Using every bit of her strength, she grasped her Hotho for support as she let out a furious yell as her body clenched to push out the newborn.

And after what seemed to both a lifetime and no time at all, powerful and shrill cries filled out every corner of the room. Not bothering to lean back against the pillows to rest, Doreah reached forward and demanded to hold her baby. She didn’t even care if you were a son or a daughter- you could have been a goat for all she cared. All she wanted to was to hold whomever had been growing inside her for the past nine months. She wanted to breathe in the scent of their skin and kiss their tiny faces. She wanted to love her child- her new world and her greatest love. Son, daughter, goat- Doreah knew that this child would forever be perfect in her eyes.

And perfect this child was indeed, and perfection suited their daughter.

Ten toes and ten fingers covered in blood, and kicking as hard an airborne goat, Doreah and Hotho wept as loudy as their newborn girl. It was only when the midwife insisted that she have the baby cleaned and wrapped in blankets were the two able to part with her. When you were returned to your mother’s arms, all felt right with the world as they continued to weep at the sight of the newest member of their small and strange family.

“Ziry's kesīr, īlva tala,” whispered Doreah with tears rolling down her cheeks. She looked up to gaze at her husband. “Gaomagon ao ūndegon zirȳla, ñuha jorrāelagon? Jurnegon rȳ zirȳla! Iksis ziry daor se olvie precious riña emā mirre ūndegīon!”

“I see her my coral,” whispered out her husband, whose face was soaked in tears in response to the overwhelming joy flowing within him. “Our pearl is beautiful. But most importantly, she is healthy and she is loved.”

He traced a finger across his daughter’s delicate features. Although you were currently sleeping, he knew that your eyes would take after hers, and he was ecstatic. There was a time when he believed that he would never love anything or anyone more than he loved the sea, only now there were two women in his life whom his love was consumed by entirely.

As the world slipped away into the background, the love from the new parents was so great it formed an almost impenetrable barrier surrounding them. But all peaceful things reach an end and theirs came from the knocking of a serving girl.

“My Lord and Lady…Pyke,” came a new voice, clearly disgusted by the act of referring a bastard as a lord, “if the Lady is presentable, the Queen Alicent would like to come in to see the child.”

“Oh yes!” exclaimed Doreah. “Please let her in! I would be most honored to have Alicent meet my sweet pearl!”

“My brightest coral, are you sure? You just went through birth. Queen or not, shouldn’t you recover before she asks your attention?”

Hotho Pyke was an impoverished bastard born from the Iron Islands. He knew how to predict wind patterns and navigate with the stars before he could write. His skills as a seafarer were so great that he caught the attention of Lord Corlys of House Velaryon who sat on the Driftwood Throne. But however impressive his skills were with a sail, there was still much to be desired with his knowledge of etiquette appropriate for the Royal Court of the Red Keep in the Crownlands. His raised brow and confused tone suggested that he believed his question to be one borne of common sense despite the horrified expressions on everyone else’s faces save for his wife.

“Hotho, ñuha jorrāelagon,” Doreah tiredly chuckled as she shook her head, “there is still so much for you to learn about the Red Keep. Please Jeyne, let the Queen enter. I want her to meet our pearl!”

Almost immediately, a heavily pregnant figure in resplendent green and gold came dashing into the room in hopes to be the first to reach the bedridden woman and greet the child.

“Doreah!” exclaimed out the queen, relieved that her dearest friend had survived the trials of birth with the result of a healthy child. “Let me see you! How are you? Are you sure you are well? Do you need anything for the pain?”

Doreah couldn’t help but laugh at the onslaught of questioning from her fretful childhood friend. Since they were still just young girls, Alicent Targaryen nee Hightower always worried about the seamstress’ health and wellbeing despite being a few years younger. She fondly looked back on the days when she and her would peacefully discuss about their days as they worked on their embroidery or took lessons from the Head Septa. Handing their daughter to her husband to hold, she reached out to her friend in attempt to soothe her worries.

“Alicent, I am fine. Truly, there is no need to fret so much.” Doreah reassured her friend before looking back to the love of her life. “Besides, I was never in any danger. Not with my brave Iron Knight by my side the entire time.”

Still holding their radiant babe, Hotho Pyke beamed at his wife’s tender words before laying kisses on her hands, her fingers, the top of her hairline, before eventually stopping at her lips.

Alicent, however, was less than pleased at the shameless display of affection shared between the couple.

“Ser Pyke,” – she refused to refer a bastard of all things as a lord – “surely you know that men are not permitted in the birthing room during the delivery. I thought that this was made clear to you when you first learned of your wife’s pregnancy.”

Not recognizing the insult in being referred as “Ser” as opposed to “Lord,” Hotho only took the queen’s words as a sign of worry for her favored companion.

“My mother would rise from her watery grave to string me by my feet and call me a cunt if she knew that I left my wife alone in bringing our child into the world. Besides, had I not been in the room, she would have let her vicious tongue loose on another unfortunate soul.”

“In any case, are you sure you should not be resting? You are carrying the King’s child, surely that takes priority over seeing me.” Doreah knew that this pregnancy had been particularly difficult for Alicent, recalling the many times she walked in on her kneeling before her chamber pots in emptying out the contents of her stomach.

“Nonsense,” replied Alicent, who shook her head at the statement, “there is no one more important to me at this moment than you, sweet Doreah. I just hope that your husband’s brash tongue does not influence such a young innocent.”

“Ah, no worries my Queen. The brashness of my tongue is no match for that of my wife. She proved that many a time in our quarters.”

The Iron Island-born bastard was promptly cut off by a swift slap on the arm from his wife.

Before Alicent could respond to such vulgarity, she was interrupted by the presence of another figure dressed in a gorgeous red and black dress patterned with masterful gold embroidery.

“Rhaenyra!” Doreah exclaimed in excitement, happy to have not one but two of her closest friends greet her daughter. “You did not have to come! Are you sure you are not currently preoccupied with your duties?”

“Oh, please,” the princess uttered, “what could possibly be more important at this moment than to greet the firstborn of Laenor and I’s closest friends?”

Walking over to Hotho’s side, Rhaenyra was entranced by the sight of the newly arrived babe. She could already see how you would grow to be the spitting image of your mother.

“May I hold her?” she asked with arms already reaching toward your father.

Looking back to his wife to make sure she approved of it, he carefully handed you to Rhaenyra – but not before he laid a dozen kisses on your face.

“Oh Doreah,” Rhaenyra softly cooed, “she is absolutely perfect. I can tell that she will grow up to be as kind and beautiful as her mother.”

“Oh, Rhaenyra,” tears filled your mother’s eyes at her friend’s kind words, “kirimvose.” She turned to Alicent, who was currently sitting beside the bed in a chair brought to her to ease the stress on her body from her third pregnancy. Your mother reached one arm to each of her friends as a way to show solidarity. “Thank you to the both of you. I would not be where I am now – so happy and full of love – without the both of you here to guide me through the Red Keep. I owe you two everything. I only hope that our children can remain as friends so that they will never know loneliness.”

If your mother knew of the cruel fate she thrust onto you with that wish, she would have given everything to the gods in hopes to free you.

Your father took you back into his arms before handing you once more to your mother. Although you had woken from your slumber, you made no noise. You only gazed at the figures surrounding you with wide and eager eyes. Ever so slightly, you reached out your hand to paw at the green fabric of the queen.

So young, and you already seemed to recognize the beauty in the custom-made garment.

Alicent laughed in a way that was so genuine that it seemed unfamiliar, fascinated by the fervent grabbing of her dress on your end.

“It seems that this little one will be a seamstress as well,” she stated as she reached forward to let you pull and tug at her sleeve in enraptured delight, “I can only imagine what talent she will possess.”

“What will you name her?” Rhaenyra asked, hoping that you will be blessed with a name with Valyrian roots.

But a shared glance between your parents showed that they had already decided a name for you far before this day.

“Ashirri, Ashirri Pyke” your mother confidently stated, “in honor of both our cultures.”

Your father grasped his wife’s shoulder in agreement. “We will never let our child feel she must restrict herself to one background. As her parents, we want to let her know that her world will be one of endless possibilities.”

On this day, Doreah Pyke gave birth to a child for her and her husband to raise. This child will be raised with so much love that it will not matter that you were born from two bastard parents, one from Essos and the other from the Iron Islands. No, you were born as a result of the love from two people from opposite sides of the world who miraculously found one another, and that was all that would matter in the end. Doreah would teach you an art that could only be made through masterfully crafted embroidery and needlework, while Hotho will teach you how to use the stars to navigate waters and open their horizons to an endless sea of possibilities.

And if you did not wish to become either a seamstress or a sailor, it made no difference to them. Westeros, Essos, the Red Keep, the Iron Islands – the world was your oyster, and you were the miraculous pearl.

Their child will not be like the close-minded fools of their homelands, but someone whose mind will be open to new opportunities and will never stop seeing the joy in discovering the unknown. And they would always be there to help guide you in any way the could. Nothing would ever come between the love your parents held for you.

If only the gods could allow for such happiness to last forever.

But dragons have a tendency to burn rather than create, especially ones with sapphire for eyes and strong blood in their veins.

Translations:

"Ao nādrēsy!" - You Bastard!

"Ziry's kesīr, īlva tala... Gaomagon ao ūndegon zirȳla, ñuha jorrāelagon? Jurnegon rȳ zirȳla! Iksis ziry daor se olvie precious riña emā mirre ūndegīon!" - She's here, our daughter. Do you see her, my love? Look at her! Is she not the most precious child you have ever seen?

"ñuha jorrāelagon" - my love

kirimvose - Thank you

Tagging: @valeskafics, @dreaming-for-an-escape, @asa-do-your-thing, @arcielee, @aphroditesmoon, @nighttwingg, @marvelescvpe, @nellychick, @its-actually-minicika, @biancaweasley

Bound by Embroidered Chains - Aemond Targaryen x Seamstress!OC x Jacaerys Velaryon - Chapter One

Prologue

Summary: Dragons have a habit in hoarding the prettiest of jewels, and pearls are of no exceptions.

Warnings- MDNI 18+ Obsessive Behavior (we all knew this was coming), tiny!Aemond is delulu, tiny!Jace is delulu, Dark Themes, not betaread we burn like Harrenhal, etc. Also translations for Valyrian will be added at the bottom! Also I used an online translator for the High Valyrian, so it may not be great 🫠

Author's Note: Hello everyone! Thank you all so much for the amazing support for this story's prologue, I did NOT expect so many positive reviews! I'm sorry this took so long, but I had a ton of applications and finals. But since I am on winter break, hopefully I will be able to upload more fics! Happy Holidays and big shoutout to @valeskafics, who continues to be the HOTD fanfic writing ICON that we all know and love! If you liked reading this work, reblog and comment if you want to be tagged in future installments of this work! Also I apologize for any grammatical errors, I wanted to post this as soon as possible.

You have known your entire life that you were going to be one of the many seamstresses that serviced the Royal Family.

By the age of three, your mother would teach you how to begin your very first stitches, which soon shifted to learning the most complicated patterns of embroidery. You still remember the tears in her eyes as you presented the silk-woven handkerchief that had lovely little purple and blue flowers embroidered on the borders for her birthday. Your face flushed to an almost too bright red when she insisted on showing all the other royal seamstresses and tailors your first handkerchief. But it made you smile in remembering how big her smile was that week, as she was so pleased by how much you’ve progressed at such a young age.

When you were only six, your mother had begun to teach you how to properly extract the dye from beautiful flowers and the scales of brightly-colored insects. So skilled and nimble were your fingers that you even gave your childhood playmate, Aemond Targaryen, a thick green wool cloak with green and silver dragon embroidery. The cloak’s wool had been dyed by your hand with copious amounts of goldenrod and indigo flowers. You then carefully stitched silk to line the inside of the cloak to prevent him from overheating, as even the harshest winters in the Crownlands were hardly anything compared to the summers in the North. It had caught you off-guard in the almost too-tight embrace he locked you in, but you eagerly reciprocated as you could tell he appreciated the gift more than words could describe.

It was not just a gift for is name-day from a childhood companion, but also a way to reassure him that he will one day have a dragon. And even if the gods do not grant him worthy in their eyes, he would always be considered a prince worthy of the Targaryen name in yours. After all, there were not many princes that would willingly spend all their free time with a lowly seamstress’ daughter – even if the supposed seamstress that was your mother was so heavily favored by the Queen.

“Pearl,” came a voice with a tone far too serious despite its youth, “what are you doing in the Godswood?”

You lifted your head from old tome you were studying, only to see a young boy of only nine name-days, that stood as straight as one of the stone pillars that stood in the Sept of Baelor. His white locks nearly blinded you with how the sunshine seemed to reflect on them.

“Well my prince, as you can clearly see, I have decided to take advantage of this fine day to do a bit of studying of my own.” You lifted the near ancient tome on your lap to show him the title, Myths and Legends of the Jade Seas.

Whatever outwardly beauty the book possessed had long diminished, the spine was bent from the hundreds of hours spent looking through its contents and the letters were near faded to a dull grey as the pages yellowed from age. But the colors of the ink remained as vibrant as when they were first painted on the frail sheets, accompanied by beautiful imagery of magical dragons and elusive mermaids. The details were so fine and intricate that it felt as if you only needed to touch the ink in order to be transported into the stories. You remembered how you begged either your mother or father to read it to you every night, as utterly transfixed by the colors back then as you remained so now.

“You are more than welcome to join me, but if – and only if – you share one of those apples hiding in your knapsack.”

Finally showing an expression appropriate for his age, the young prince reached in his pouch to show two gorgeous apples – the skin was practically gleaming in the sun as your mouth watered for its taste. Aemond handed one to you as he sat by your side underneath the plentiful shade of the heart tree. Scooting over to make room on the overgrown root you sat on, you eagerly showed him strange text.

“Look Aemond!” you exclaimed as you shoved the book to his nose. “This book says that there were dragons in Yi Ti! Isn’t that amazing?”

Aemond looked at you as if you had suddenly grown two heads and five eyes. “How can there be dragons in Yi Ti? All the dragons save the ones in the dragonpit and the rocky shores of Dragonstone had perished in The Doom that sunk Valyria. Everyone knows that pearl.”

“These dragons are different! According to my kepa, Yi Ti dragons don’t even need wings to fly!”

The young prince rolled his eyes at that. “How could they fly if they don’t have wings? Even Carraxes the Blood Wrym has wings, and he looks like an overgrown red snake.” Honestly, his pearl could be so silly. “Besides, what would your father know? He’s a bastard from the Iron Islands, that’s nowhere near the Jade Seas.”

Now it was your turn to roll your eyes. “He heard so on his travels with Lord Velaryon and Prince Laenor! Apparently, these dragons use magic and live in the ocean. And they don’t even breathe fire! They make it rain and control the oceans!”

“…Pearl, I think you’ve been spending too much time making those dyes. The fumes must have gotten to your head.”

You openly gaped at your friend’s comment, completely in shock for how blatantly he dismissed you. It made you want to pound your fists on his person until he took it back. So naturally, you did just that.

“Aemond Targaryen, you take that back right now!” you shrieked. Although your actions told otherwise, the smile on your face showed that you took no true offense to his words. If anything, it pleased you to know that you could still make the stone-faced prince giggle as a boy should at his age.

“Never!”

As the two of you giggled and played, several pairs of wandering eyes spied and grimaced at the distasteful display. Although your friendship with the next generation of the royal family was no secret, much of the court disapproved of how highly the royal family thought of you and Prince Aemond’s friendship. After all, he was the second born prince of House Targaryen, born of King Viserys and Queen Alicent. By the time the Targaryen prince could toddle, great things were expected from him. From a very early age, he immersed himself in his studies befitting of a prince of Westeros. You, on the other hand, were only the daughter of a seamstress and a bastard knight who became a lord of a holding so minor that it had no name. You only skills were that you could make pretty dye, and stitch pretty pictures with a needle and thread.

But he always treated you kindly and defended you whenever his eldest brother decided to use you as his latest target for mockery. You were a precious pearl – his precious pearl – Aegon may be his brother, but he could never love Aegon as much as he loved you. True, your father being a bastard did you no favors in the Red Keep’s court, but Aemond would never tell you that himself. Instead, he openly acknowledged his bravery and commended his loyalty to the Crown. After all, how many bastards can boast that they saved the Lord Corlys Velaryon, holder of the Driftwood Throne, from a siege of pirates during one of the lord’s many voyages to Essos?

In turn, you always made sure to provide comfort and support whenever his brother and nephews decided to pick on him. Without fail, he would seek out your company – his eyes red and puffy, while his cheeks were wet from hastily wiped tears. You would take his hands and the two of you would venture out to the library’s more secluded sections. You made sure to pack whatever you have been working on with you. While you were glad that he came to you for comfort, it would do little good for either of you if you were to be punished for not completing whatever tasks your mother assigned you.

“Who cares if you don’t have a dragon?” you once asked him as the two of you laid next to each other, surrounded by books. “There are plenty members of the Targaryen line that did not have dragons, but they still lived out important lives in serving their family however they could. King Jaehaerys was considered a great ruler for how he served the realm– not for riding Vermithor. And even if you had a dragon, is that all you wish to be known for? Your grandfather, Baelon the Brave, was wise and beloved by the small folk for how he tried to make their lives easier. But all he is known for in history books is how he burned down Dorne with Vhagar.”

“Better to be known for a dragon than to disappear, not being known for anything – not even a dragon worthy of the Targaryen name.”

Sitting up against a bookshelf, you repositioned Aemond to lie his head on your thighs. Luckily the candlelight made the area dark enough so that you wouldn’t see his ears turning red. Instead, he buried his face in the soft cotton of your blue tunic as you stroked his soft silver white locks. Although his heart was beating erratically, your sweet scent along with your body’s suppleness was enough to take away any ire left in him.

“Stop that,” you ordered, “you will not be forgotten, don’t be so dramatic.” Eyes softening at his tense shoulders, you eased on the sternness of your tone. “Nyke pendagon iksā brilliant. Eman dōrī rhēdan anyone else qilōni kostagon ȳdragon Valyrio Eglie hae sȳrī hae ao.  Kostā solve problems bona aegon ēza trouble lēda during aōha lessons lēda se Giēñatī.  Aemond, iksā ñuha sȳrje raqiros.  Gaomagon daor ivestragon kesā sagon daor rūnas.”

You pretended not to notice how tightly he clenched your dress as you ignored the how warm the spot where his hot tears grew.

As you continued to stroke his hair, Aemond made a silent vow that when he finally claimed a dragon, you would be the first person he would ride it with. He thought about how his bastard nephews would always try to take you from him, especially Jace, how he despised that boy. No, your touches would belong to him, and only him. Your sweet words and kind demeanor were his to cherish. You were his pearl – his pearl – and no one else’s, especially not the pretend Targaryen that was Jacaerys Strong.

Yes, it pleased Aemond to know that he was your best friend. But sometimes it frustrated him in how you refused to take him seriously as a man. For example, he once announced that when he claimed his dragon, he would finally be a noble dragon knight who would protect you from the most vicious of beasts. No matter how he insisted on his sincerity, you only rolled your eyes at the proclamation. You told him that you had no need for a knight, let alone a dragon knight. You had your dearest kepa for protection, and there was no finer knight in all the Seven Kingdoms in your eyes. So silly was his pearl indeed.

“Ashi’!” a new voice called out, interrupting the comfortable silence between him and his pearl. It belonged to the king’s eldest grandson, Prince Jacaerys Strong Velaryon, heir to the Iron Throne after his mother, Princess Rhaenyra. “Your mother is looking for you! She said that she needs your help with Mother’s clothes!”

“Alright!” When you stood from you spot, you made sure to brush away any dirt or debris left on your skirts. You gathered your mother’s book in both arms when you made your way to the prince. “But why did my muña not send one of her attendants instead? It would not have been difficult to find me. Everyone knows that I enjoy reading under the Hearts Tree in the Godswood during my spare time. Are you not busy with your own duties, my prince?”

Straightening his posture to appear taller, Jace did his best to sound as authoritative as his father had taught him. “I just finished my lessons for the morning, and I volunteered to escort you. Besides, I figured that it would do me some good in practicing escorting you. I’ll need to do it in the future when I am king after my mother.” His round freckled cheeks reddened to a rosy hue at that last part.

Not at all catching the terribly obvious implication, you shrugged off his words as you figured that he meant that he was using you as practice for whichever future noble lady he would court in the future. However, the suggestion was not at all lost on your friend, who was still sitting on the overgrown root, glaring at his eldest nephew with a fury that rivaled the Great Doom that sunk Valyria.

“Well, we should be on our way then. Come on Aemond, we should get going!” You held out your held for your friend to hold on to, but were quickly interrupted by the brown-haired Targaryen at the side.

“He can’t! I mean-” stammered Jace as did his best in thinking of an excuse, “-I’m afraid my uncle cannot join us. You see, um – his mother, the Queen, requested his presence in her solar.”

“I’m sure my mother won’t mind waiting for a few moments while I join you in escorting my pearl to her favorite friend, nephew.” This wasn’t a lie on Aemond’s part. While he didn’t like the idea in keeping his mother waiting for him, he despised the thought of you being alone with the Strong Knight’s eldest bastard even more. Besides, his mother adored you as if you were her own daughter. It would have gone without saying that she would be happy with her son spending time with her best friend’s daughter.

“But why would you want to risk it, uncle?” Jacaerys wasn’t going to let his selfish uncle hog all of your attention. You were his friend too! It wasn’t fair that he had find crumbs of your time and affections, while his uncle got to feast on your smiles and laughter. He had spent hours with the dragon keepers of the dragonpit to help him train Vermax, all so that he could finally show you how close he was in riding him! But you were always too busy comforting his stupid dragonless uncle!

Enough was enough. Jacaerys may have been a Velaryon like his father, but he was also a Targaryen like his mother. It was he who carried the dragon’s blood, and dragons took what they desired or felt what they deserved. And he desrved to be with you more than Aemond.

“It’s alright Aemond, we’ll talk more later! Let’s go Jace, we shouldn’t keep our mothers waiting any more than we have.” Grabbing his hand before walking out of the gardens, you weren’t able to see the younger prince throw a triumphant smirk to his uncle before once more facing you with the story of how Luke accidentally got egg in his hair.

Watching his literal bastard of a nephew walk hand-in-hand away with his pearl, Aemond Targaryen felt his fury grow more potent with each step. He hated that you called his nephew by his nickname, all while he had none. What’s worse was the fact that you allowed him to refer to you as “Ashi.” What a ridiculous name, only a lowborn such as his nephew would refer to someone as precious as you as something as study and simple like “Ashi.” You were a pearl – his pearl, in fact. A fact that he felt was important to emphasize as he watched your head being thrown back in laughter. His anger grew to an all-time high when he watched you ruffle Jacaery’s hair with abundant affection.

Not wanting to make a scene, he walked to his mother’s chambers in fuming silence. While her presence wasn’t yours, maybe he could think of a plan to get you away from his whore of a sister and her illegitimate offspring.

If worse comes to worst, he might need to recruit his sister to his cause. He knew that Helaena would especially be thrilled in receiving your presence. You were the only one besides your parents that did not treat his beloved sister like an oddity. If you were not with Aemond, you were often found stitching with the young princess. It seemed that you were the only person in the entire world that could get her to smile.

Such a sweet girl, his pearl. Someone so kind was not meant to endure the presence of lowly bastards – even if they did technically carry royal blood.

He needed to come up with something fast.

Translations:

“Nyke pendagon iksā brilliant. Eman dōrī rhēdan anyone else qilōni kostagon ȳdragon Valyrio Eglie hae sȳrī hae ao.  Kostā solve problems bona aegon ēza trouble lēda during aōha lessons lēda se Giēñatī.  Aemond, iksā ñuha sȳrje raqiros.  Gaomagon daor ivestragon kesā sagon daor rūnas.” - “You’re brilliant. I’ve never met anyone else who can speak such fluent High Valyrian, especially at your age. You can solve problems that Aegon has trouble with during your lessons with the Maester. Aemond, you are my best friend. Don’t say that you will be forgotten.”

Tagging:

@valeskafics, @faesspace, @aphroditesmoon, @dreaming-for-an-escape, @nellychick, @asa-do-your-thing, @arcielee, @bellamys-girl1, @immyowndefender, @xxlovingfandomsxx, @elinedjarin, @meg-egg-blog, @marvelescape, @mandiiblanche, @lokiofasgard12, @boxedpandas, @anewpersonthatexists, @toodlesxcuddles, @mckiquinn, @cvspians, @aemondslove

Bound by Embroidered Chains - Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen x Seamstress!OC x Jacaerys Velaryon Multichapter fic

Summary: Dragons have a habit in hoarding the prettiest of jewels, and pearls are of no exceptions.

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Bound by Embroidered Chains - Aemond Targaryen x Seamstress!OC x Jacaerys Velaryon - Chapter Two

Previous Chapter

Summary: Dragons have a habit in hoarding the prettiest of jewels, and pearls are of no exceptions.

Warnings- MDNI 18+ Obsessive Behavior (we all knew this was coming), tiny!Jace is delulu, tiny!Aemond is kind of a jerk in this one, Dark Themes, shit is going down, not betaread we burn like Harrenhal, etc. Also, translations for Valyrian will be added at the bottom! Also, I used an online translator for the High Valyrian, so it may not be great 🫠

Author's Note: I'M BACKKKKKK! I am so sorry for leaving this story alone for so long! I have been getting into other fandoms and making new stories because of those fandoms. But the two new trailers for HOTD season 2 brought me back! I swear I will be better at updating this story! But on the bright side, I made this chapter over 5k word length! I own only the plot and OCs of this story, please do not repost without my permission.

Despite living in the Red Keep for nearly your entire life, you still felt hopelessly lost as you walked down the corridors beside the prince. Like you and Aemond, the sight of you walking side by side with the heir of the Iron Throne’s firstborn son made for an unusual sight for the courtiers of the Royal Family. But this was not the case with the serving staff, which comprised smallfolk. Your mother was a favored companion by Queen Alicent and Princess Rhaenyra. Despite coming from such humble beginnings, Doreah of Essos became a highly regarded member of the serving staff belonging to the House of Targaryen. All the maids respected your mother, while most stewards who served under knights idolized your father. And as your mother’s daughter, they were very used to the vision of one of their humble sewists’ children playing with the Royal children.

As a result, no one so much as batted an eye when they saw you walking down the halls directly beside Prince Jacaerys. It would have made a much more unusual sight if your presence was absent by either his or his uncle’s side. The older staff bowed their heads in respect to the prince while also flashing a small but kind smile at you. The younger serving girls were still too new in the ways of the court and beamed with broad smiles at the sight of you before acknowledging Jace. You grinned back as you inwardly beamed at the knowledge that Head Septa Marlow was with you.

She would have scolded those girls fiercely if she had caught them greeting an apprentice seamstress before the prince.

You turned your head to glance at your childhood friend, who happened to be second in line for the Iron Throne, as you both made your way to his mother’s chambers. Your eyebrows furrowed as you took in the troubled expression on his face. Just a few minutes ago, he was practically bouncing on his feet as the two of you left Aemond alone in the Godswood. But now it felt as if he was a thousand miles away from you despite being so close. Having been by his side since his birth, you always felt a sense of protectiveness toward the young prince. No matter his station, you were a month past your third name-day when he was brought into this world. It was natural that you were perspective to his shifting moods.

“Jace?” you softly called out to him. You were relieved to have brought him out of his thoughts. “Are you alright?”

Jacaerys stopped in the middle of the stone corridor. Staring at you with those large brown eyes, he looked much older than his actual age. When someone as happy and bright as Jace became somber, it was always a reason to worry. Was Rhaenyra all right? Had he been listening to those awful rumors of his true birth?

“Ashi’,” he began, “what were you and Aemond discussing in the Godswoods’ Heart Tree?”

Ah, so that’s what this is about.

You inwardly grimaced as you realized how foolish you were to worry. With Aemond and Jace, it was always something one did to the other. And almost every time, it was up to you to stop their squabbling by being forced into the middle. You were not as blind as everyone in the castle liked to believe you were. You knew that both boys had an unhealthy attachment to you for whatever reason they conjured in their minds. Reasons that were only encouraged by their mothers.

You were still cross when they interrupted you and your mother’s reunion with your father. The matter was really very stupid. Jace had made fun of Aemond for not having a dragon during their family supper with the King. However, Jace only did so because Aemond and Aegon were snickering to themselves about how fat Princess Rhaenyra had grown due to her third pregnancy.

It didn’t make any difference to you, in all honesty. All you remembered from that time was that your time with your beloved father was forcibly cut short. To make matters worse, the two boys’ outbursts startled your mother, and the stress was so terrible that it nearly caused her to faint.

As a result, you decided not to speak to either boy for nearly two weeks. It had grown to the point where Queen Alicent and Princess Rhaenyra practically begged you to forgive their sons—but even a royal command would not budge you. It did not matter how many blueberry tarts or honey cakes they gave for your forgiveness. You made it very clear that you would resolve never to speak to either boy unless they sincerely apologized to your mother for the awful fright they gave her. You finally resumed your friendship with them after your mother asked you herself to forgive them after Aemond gifted her a lovely bouquet of blue and purple hyacinths, and Jace gifted her a basket full of her favorite honey lemon cakes.

“Jace,” you groaned, “you cannot be serious.”

“Ashi’, you’ve been spending so much time with him lately. I feel like I don’t ever get to see you anymore.”

Rolling your eyes, you walked away from him as you sped up your pace to reach their destination. You only made it a few meters from where you were earlier before Jacaerys caught up to you and firmly grasped your wrist to keep you in place.

“I’m serious, Ashi’!” he insisted. “Unless it’s for fittings or when the Maester seeks your help teaching us High Valyrian, I rarely ever see you anymore!” His eyes had a wet sheen in the light, and his lip quivered slightly. “I miss you. Luke misses you. And so does Mother and Father!”

If the pitiful sight was enough to fill you with guilt, his next question nearly broke your heart.

“Do you – do you still consider me your friend?”

“Oh, Jace-” you pulled your younger friend into your arms “- of course I do. I’ve been so busy with my duties and my mother’s health. She and Princess Rhaenys have been so concerned over Lady Laena’s pregnancy and are trying to convince Prince Daemon to travel to Driftmark for the baby’s arrival.”

Jacaerys wrapped his arms around you, eager to feel your warmth. If the gods were kind, time would stop, and he and you would stay like this forever. But he became sad at the mention of his Aunt Laena. He had heard his father recount hundreds of stories of their time together at Driftmark in their youth. Jace knew his father missed his sister terribly, and he was sure she missed him the same.

You noticed your friend’s change in behavior. You looked at him with concerned eyes, and his heart began to race at your care for him.

“Oh, Jace,” you whispered, “have I upset you somehow? I did not mean to!”

Jace frantically shook his head. “No, Ashi’! I just wondered…do you think I’ll ever meet my Aunt Laena?” he softly asked. “Do you think she’ll like me? Can you tell me more about my cousins?”

You rolled your eyes at his request. He had yet to do so despite your advice for Jace to send a raven or two to his cousins. You hadn’t seen the twins for many years, but the three of you wrote to each other so often that it felt like you would recognize them by how they spoke alone.

“I’m sure she and your cousins will adore you, Jace. Baela is excited about her new sibling. She says she’s close to riding Moondancer! Once she gets big enough, she hopes to ride her with Rhaena!”

Jace wondered how you’d react if you knew he didn’t write to his cousins because he was scared they wouldn’t like him. To be honest, he didn’t really care about them at all. He only cared about the way you smiled at him, and only him, when he asked.

“Mother!”

Still seated at her dark-stained ebony-wood desk, Princess Rhaenyra of House Targaryen scribbled away with her black swan’s feather quill, nearly hidden behind stacks of dusty tomes and piles of scrolls from across the Seven Kingdoms and, despite being heavy with child, remained to be one of the most exquisite beauties across the realm. Hearing her eldest son’s voice, she looked up from her papers and smiled at the two children standing in her chambers' doorway.

“Jace! You made it and brought our little Lady Ashirri with you.”

You looked down at your feet as your cheeks slightly pinkened at the attention brought to you. Princess Rhaenyra was one of your mother’s closest friends and one of the few belonging to the noble houses that approved of your father’s rise in status. But his title was only in name, and so many in the keep look down on him with ill-hidden disdain. And as a result, many in the keep looked down on you with the same contempt and disgust.

The image of Lord Otto Hightower’s cold and judging eyes gazing down at you with arrogance came to mind before you could block it out.

You lifted your skirts and bowed in a deep curtsy in respect for Princess Rhaenyra. “Yes, my princess. Prince Jacaerys told me that you required my assistance with something?”

Princess Rhaenyra warmly smiled and laughed. “Yes. My husband seems at a crossroads in deciding which fabrics best suit his sister. Although, as you can see, he is being unnecessarily picky about it all.”

Her husband, Prince Consort Laenor of House Velaryon, stood beside your mother with his arms spread wide apart. On each arm were textiles of luxurious materials and superb stitching patterns. His close friend and confidant, Ser Qarl Correy, stood close behind him. The crown princess spoke truthfully as the entire room was filled with dozens of fabric bolts, from brilliant orange-marigold Dornish satin to iridescent light-azure Yi Tish silk. Your eyes were filled with excitement and wonder at the magnificent sight. You raced to touch the imported textiles.

“Is this silk truly from Yi Ti?” you softly whispered while carefully stroking the surface with one finger. “It looks almost too pretty to be real. This color would beautifully complement Lady Laena’s complexion and silver curls.”

Your mother and Prince Laenor smiled in agreement. It was softer than anything you’ve ever touched. Yi Tish silk was famous for its textile quality. One bolt was worth double your mother’s monthly wage at the Red Keep. The color alone was mastery at its finest. You knew from personal experience that blue was an incredibly tricky dye to handle. Although it was a primary color, it was rare in nature. You had to devote hours, if not days, to find the correct materials to yield the desired tone and shade properly. But that work is useless if the dye ends up damaging the fabric. Dark blue was one matter – it was still stunning, and many nobles would pay a hefty amount of coin for it. But to own such beauty, you wouldn’t dare imagine the price for a few yards, let alone an entire bolt.

“Fine eye as always, little lady,” Laenor jovially laughed. “Yes, I’m sure at least one of these fabrics will make a suitable dress for my sister before she gifts me another niece or nephew. I’m afraid your mother is very cross with me at the moment. Any delay in choosing the fabric will result in her being unable to finish the dress before the baby is born.”

“Lady Laena will need it to be loose and not so tight around her waist,” you spoke matter-of-factly. “Muña says that most pregnant women have rashes and inflammations after giving birth, so the dress must be made of a fabric that won’t cause irritation. Let’s see…excuse me for a moment?”

 You took out the small leather-bound journal Kepa gave you as a gift from one of his many voyages with Lord Corlys that you kept in your dress pocket, along with a small stick of charcoal. You drew out the image as quickly as possible whenever inspiration struck, regardless of the time or place. It was a habit that could lead to horrible misunderstandings, but being scolded and berated mattered little to you if it meant you could train yourself to be half as talented a seamstress as your mother.

After flipping past all your previous ideas, you finally spotted a blank page. Racing to your mother’s side for help, you excitedly shoved the journal in her face.

You thought aloud and drew out the concept simultaneously. “I think it should be blue. Even if Lady Laena married Prince Daemon, she is still a Velaryon by birth! Maybe if we chose a material that looks like water, it would make her feel closer to Driftmark and Lady Rhaenys!”

Doreah beamed from ear to ear as she crouched down and took you in a tight embrace. It filled her with such joy to know her daughter had developed such a tender and compassionate heart. You were a deeply empathetic girl who always considered the needs of others before your own. Her little pearl had a heart of gold that shone through the darkest storms. She planted a loud kiss on your cheek before letting you go.

“That sounds like a wonderful idea, my little pearl,” her eyes twinkled as she cupped your cheeks. “I have just the fabric in mind for it.”

Lady Doreah Pyke pulled out a large bolt of shimmering azure blue silk velvet. The rippled pattern and texture matched the transcendent and melancholy shores that surrounded High Tide. You gasped in delight at the sight of it. It was exactly the color you imagined! You gently caressed the hand-pleated panels, expecting it to feel crinkly and cheap despite its luster. But the fabric sheen and its soft, velvety texture made you want to wrap yourself with it like a warm blanket.

Your mother thoughtfully inspected the fabric. “Yes, this will be perfect. However, I think instead of a dress, it may be better to be used as a cloak. If the result is as beautiful as my little pearl envisions it to be, it would be a shame to be a dress for one lady. If it is a cloak, it can be passed down from mother to daughter.”

“An heirloom cloak…” you murmured in excitement. Your mother was a genius. “It sounds so romantic…the waves should be hand-painted and glass beads strung and stitched into the fabric. Oh, Lady Laena will look like a sea goddess! Would she like it enough to pass it down to Ladies Baela or Rhaena?”

Doreah chuckled at your delight and booped your nose. “She will love it, my darling – especially because you will be helping me make it.”

“A wonderful idea!” exclaimed Laenor. “Who better than our lovely Doreah and her little pearl to complete the task?”

“Really?” you gasped. To work beside your mother on such a prestigious project…was like a dream too good to be true. “Mother, do you…do you truly think I am ready?”

Jace jumped to his friend’s side to hug her. “Ashirri! This is wonderful! You and Lady Pyke will make the most beautiful cloak in the Seven Kingdoms - I know it!”

Rhaenyra and Laenor glanced knowingly at their son’s support for his dearest childhood companion. Everyone in the Red Keep knew of Jacaerys Velaryon's infatuation with Ashirri Pyke. If only the gods had allowed their stations to be so different. It seemed cruel to let two young souls meet and grow beside one another without the hope or possibility of love being borne.

You beamed at Jace with a brilliant smile that shone with so much radiance that looking at you felt nothing less than sin. You took his hand in yours as you squeezed his hand in silent thanks and appreciation for his words. In the young prince’s eyes, you were more heavenly than the Maiden herself. He hopes to be seen as strong as the Warrior in yours one day.

“Kirimvose, jorrāelagon raqiros,” you said in your mother’s native tongue, softly stroking your thumb on his skin as a rosy hue bloomed on Jace’s cheeks. “Muña, īlon līs jiōragon naejot mirre rȳ istin! Nyke jāhor sagon going ēlī!”

You were about to leave before stopping and tracing back your steps to bow to Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Consort Laenor quickly. Your cheeks were bright red from embarrassment from forgetting such basic etiquette.

“My princess, my prince, forgive me for not remembering to thank you for granting me this opportunity and forgetting to leave before you dismissed me. I was too caught up in my excitement. But, I swear that I will not let you down.”

The adults in the room shared amused expressions at your excitement. Ashirri Pyke’s transparent honesty and sweet nature were so refreshing to not only the Targaryen Princess and her prince consort husband but also the entire Royal Family. She was the perfect combination of her parents’ personalities. From Hotho, you adopted your father’s unwavering honesty and sense of justice. From Doreah, you were your mother’s copy in sweetness and purity. You were a highborn noble in all but birth and title.

Rhaenyra waved off your apology and nodded. “No need for apologies, little pearl. Run along. There is work that needs to be done, and your mother and I still have things to discuss between old friends.”

You pouted to hear that your mother would not be joining you. After all, this was a very important job, and you had hoped this would provide an opportunity to learn more of your mother’s secrets in her trade. But who were you to refuse a princess’ orders? You bowed once more before waving goodbye to Jace and everyone in the room before racing to your chambers. The disappointment you felt moments before was washed away by the jittering and buzz of your creativity rushing through your mind.

The waves would have to be hand-painted – that goes without saying. But should you paint silver instead of ivory for the sea foam? And did you have a steady enough hand to replicate each pattern perfectly? You were going to need a template to trace it.

You were going to need dozens if not hundreds, of beads ranging from violet to turquoise to teal. Were there any artisans in Kings Landing that could make such a large quantity? Were there any skilled enough to ensure the glass and crystals would yield such clarity and durability? You may need to ask Kepa if he made any glassmaker friends from Essos or the Free Cities.

Could you dip into your personal collection of sea crystals and pearls? Mother would be cross with you, but it would look so splendid against the fabric!

While racing down the many halls and past the flurry of chambermaids and squires, you came across Aemond. His trademark frown on his freckled face quickly turned to a kind smile.

“Ashirri! Mother wants to–”

But you did not have time to stop and quickly ran past him. You interrupted him with an apology.

“Usōven, Aemond! Yn issa muña se Dārilaros Laenor teptan mirros hen rōvēgrie import! Nyke emagon naejot jiōragon naejot mirre paktot qrīdrughagon!”

Aemond owlishly blinked before realizing you had spoken to him in High Valyrian. He took a few moments to mentally translate what you said before calling out your name and asking you to explain.

“Umbagon! Skoros gaomagon ao nūmāzma?”

But when he turned, you were nowhere in sight, and he was left alone in the middle of the stone corridor. His shoulders slumped in deep disappointment at seeing you running away from him. But he supposed that such a slight could be forgiven since you were his loveliest and dearest friend. On the plus side, he was gifted with the sight of how the sunshine rays peering through the windows darted your glossy locks and wrapped you in a warm halo that brought out even more of your natural charm and prettiness.

As soon as you reached your room, you shut the door and grabbed every colored charcoal stick you’ve been gifted since you began learning your letters. Grabbing your big sketchbook, you immediately began jotting down your vision. By the time your mother joined you, your entire floor was covered with pages filled with a kaleidoscope of blues, greens, violets, and silver. Doreah was ecstatic of the display of your budding talent and took you in her arms for a tight hug.

The next few weeks were the most thrilling of your young life. You would spend hours on end with your mother, going over and debating which colors would match the tone of the cloak. Your mother found out about your idea to incorporate your pearls in the stitching, and she gave you a lecture that put all her past scoldings to shame. Eventually, you relented. In truth, you were a tad reluctant to part with your pearls. Each pearl was a gift from your beloved kepa for each country he visited. He said it was his way of giving you a tiny part of the world to his little pearl.

Because you were so busy trimming and stitching, you barely had time to read with Aemond under the Heart Tree in the Godswood or watch Jace practice his sword fighting with Ser Harwin Strong. You and your mother could only be removed from the cloak when either Queen Alicent or Princess Rhaenyra ordered your presence. They often expressed their woes at your decreased presence in court. As a result, your mother would take small breaks to share tea with Queen Alicent to discuss your progress as a seamstress, or she would get called by Princess Rhaenyra to her chambers so that they may speak their most private thoughts and troubles in High Valyrian.

You would often escape their orders by spending time with Princess Helaena. She would sneak into your workspace to bring her own embroidery and ask for your guidance with the more intricate patterns. While most of the court found the second princess a bit…odd – you took to her presence like green to pink. The two of you greatly differed in personality, but that made your friendship with her all the more special. You always made sure to treat her with kind words and common courtesy.

The most rude you had been to her was when she showed you a massive spider in her hands, and you loudly shrieked before crawling under your bed as a reflex. It took a few minutes before you could rejoin her. When she asked if you liked to hold Gerald the Spider, you took your father’s thickest riding gloves before you went near the beast.

You only held Gerald in your palms a few moments before you cried and begged Helaena to remove him from your person. But despite the terrors you got from Gerald the Spider that night, it was worth it if Helaena could smile as happily as she had when you agreed. She was so pleased that she didn’t correct you when you called her by the nickname you made for her, ‘Hel.’ In fact, you were almost certain that the nickname made her happier than you holding the spider.

But despite the peace these past few weeks have brought you and your family, such joy was not granted to the rest of your friends. Trouble was brewing in the Red Keep for House Targaryen – a fact you were unaware of until much later. You were returning from the rookery after being notified of receiving a letter from Baela. She was so excited about the arrival of her new sibling. You were reading the letter until you heard soft cries in the library. Searching for the source, you were shocked to find Aemond crying in a secluded section of the Royal Library. Distressed at your friend’s tears, you immediately knelt and hugged him close to you.

Clinging to your arms like you were his anchor, you could only make out the words: ‘pig’ and ‘dread.’ When you voiced your confusion, Aemond explained once more.

“They gave me a pig!” he barked, wiping away the angry tears from his violet eyes. “They said they found a dragon for me, and it was a pig! The ‘Pink Dread’ they called it!”

You lowered his head to the crook of your shoulder. “Aemond, who’s ‘they’?” you softly asked.

“Aegon! Who else?” he exclaimed. Your simple linen frock muffled his yells. “My sister’s bastards were there, too!”

Your blood chilled. He couldn’t mean…Jace wasn’t…

“Aemond, you can’t say such things,” you warned. “It’s considered treason by your father’s laws.”

But Aemond wasn’t listening. “I hate those bastards. They shouldn’t carry the Targaryen name. Their last name should be ‘Waters.’ It’s the name that bastards born in the Crownlands carry. Northern bastards are called ‘Snow,’ ‘Sand’ for Dorne, ‘Flowers’ for the Reach–”

“‘Pyke’ for the Iron Islands,” you snapped and let him go. “Am I a bastard, Aemond? Am I what you hate? Do you hate my father?”

Aemond was shocked at your venomous tone. When he realized what he had done, he quickly tried to make amends.

He shook his head. “My pearl…no, no, no,” he said. “You aren’t a bastard. I wasn’t talking about you. I was talking about–”

You clenched your fists and stood on your feet. “I know who you were talking about! That does not make it right!”

Aemond was getting angry. Why weren’t you taking his side? Had his whore of a sister already poisoned you against him? Had Jace already dirtied you with his filthy, bastard blood? He stood up and stared you down with fury in those beautiful violet eyes that you once so adored. But all you saw was his grandfather.

“Your father is a bastard,” he stated matter-of-factly. “He was a bastard from the Iron Islands that Lord Greyjoy didn’t want! He wasn’t worthy of his noble father’s house name, so he is named ‘Pyke’!”

You shook your head. “There is more to family than names and blood. I am neither a Targaryen nor a Velaryon. I do not carry a speck of your noble house’s blood, but I consider you and Jace my dearest friends! To me, you are my brothers! You and him are my family because I love you, not because of blood! Does that count for anything?”

“I never thought of you as a sister,” he spat out. “Not once did I consider you family.”

Devastation overwhelms your broken heart as tears flood your and Aemond’s eyes. He reaches out to hold your hand, but you step back. Once more, he tries to keep you closer to him, but you turn around and run to the door. When you reach it, he calls out your name and begs you to let him explain. Once more, you turn to face him to see he has not moved an inch. You feel so small and insignificant underneath the massive stone framework, but you summoned the sea of hurt and rage crashing inside your heart.

“I used to wonder how a horrible and mean-spirited man like Otto Hightower could be the grandsire of such a sweet boy,” your voice trembled, but you continued to steel yourself. “I thought…you were smart enough not to listen to such horrible things. I thought you were my friend. But I was wrong. I was so horribly wrong. What your brother, Jace, and Luke had done to you was cruel and unfair. But Aemond…what you had become…I-I don’t even recognize you anymore.”

With that being the final word, you raced to your mother’s chambers. You cried into her skirts and told her what happened – of the Pink Dread, Aemond’s cruel transformation, and the ruin of your friendship with him. You sobbed out your wish to leave the Red Keep and never return.

Doreah Pyke immediately thought of what Princess Rhaenyra had informed her in the afternoon. ‘Nyra told her that she would be moving her family to Dragonstone. Each day since her failed attempt to match Jace with Helaena, the Red Keep feels less safe and more hostile to her and her children. Since Harwin assaulted Ser Cole, tensions between the princess and the queen have reached an all-time high.

“Come with me,” her princess begged Doreah. “Come with my family to Dragonstone.”

“Oh, ‘Nyra,” whispered Doreah, “I don’t know. Dragonstone is so far from King’s Landing. And Ali would never–”

“Alicent is becoming more like her father each day,” Rhaenyra interjected. “She wants to put her son on my father’s throne – both she and her father are conspiring against me.”

Rhaenyra clasped Doreah’s hands in her own. “I know you want to believe she is the same girl from our youth. But Otto Hightower has sunk his poisoned claws in her and will stop at nothing to crown Aegon when my father passes. I need people I can trust by my side. People like you, my sweet Dory, and your husband.”

“…But Ashirri, my pearl,” sighed Doreah. “She will be so devastated. She grew up running in these halls, playing in the Godswoods, exploring this castle’s corners and shadows. This is her home.”

“Your daughter will flourish wherever she goes,” insists Rhaenyra. “She will never be alone – not with Jace, Luke, and Joffery by her side. And forgive me for what I am about to say, my friend, but…King’s Landing no longer agrees with you as it used to.”

Doreah sighed and gazed out the window with slumped shoulders. What her princess said was true but hard to hear. As she grew older, she found the air and noise outside the Red Keep more sour and rancid. It made her miss the clean and fresh sea breeze in Essos. Rhaenyra was not the only one who had noticed Doreah’s melancholy. Hotho, her beloved Iron Knight, has remained in King’s Landing after learning of her despondence. Her husband implores her to care more for her health – if not for herself, but their daughter.

Doreah waved off their concerns, but perhaps…they had a point. Stroking your hair to calm you down, your mother asked if you would be open to the possibility of moving to Dragonstone. She reassured you that she and your father would be there with you and that you would still be around Jace, Luke, and Joffery if you ever felt lonely.

You agreed before she finished and immediately started packing. By the end of the month, you had not spoken another word to Aemond and left with Princess Rhaenyra and her family to Dragonstone. You did not look back. You wanted to leave King’s Landing and Aemond as soon as possible. You wanted to leave this wretched castle and have peace once more.

While others stared at the obsidian castle with trepidation, you felt hope. Unpacking your things from your trunk and knapsack, you were determined to leave behind all the political headaches and focus solely on stitching with your mother and sailing with your father.

If only life could be that simple.

Translations:

Muña - mother

Kepa - father

Kirimvose, jorrāelagon raqiros…Muña, īlon līs jiōragon naejot mirre rȳ istin! Nyke jāhor sagon going ēlī – “Thank you, dear friend…Mother, we must get to work at once! I will bet going first!”

Usōven, Aemond! Yn issa muña se Dārilaros Laenor teptan mirros hen rōvēgrie importance! Nyke emagon naejot jiōragon naejot mirre paktot qrīdrughagon! – “I am sorry, Aemond. But my mother and Prince Laenor gave me something of great importance! I have to get to work right away!”

Umbagon! Skoros gaomagon ao nūmāzma?” – “Wait! What do you mean?”

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Snowfall Serenade [ONESHOT]

SUMMARY: Everyday, he steps into the little cafe for her easy smiles and free laughter - but he can never quite manage to gather the courage to ask her out. Soon enough, a dentist appointment gone wrong and a bit of the festive spirit finally pushes him to finally make a move.

PAIRING: Dentist!Aemond Targaryen x Cafe Owner!Reader [Modern AU]

WARNINGS: None! Tooth rotting fluff, Aemond being a nervous wreck is all I have lmao.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: What's this? A Christmas story from someone who has never celebrated Christmas or seen snow in her entire life? Ah well. This story is wacky and definitely miles different from the intense and sad stuff I'm inclined towards, and it is all thanks to this ask by @coffeeobsessedtrencher. The request was spun for my writing comfort.

I struggle with writing fluff so hard, but there's no better time to attempt a happy story than Christmas I suppose! Also - if I've gotten any of the holiday details wrong, please don't come at me, thanks! That being said, thanks to @sapphire-writes and @oneeyedvisenya for giving me the rundown on all things Christmas! Helped immensely to get me into the vibe.

Thanks to @targaryenrealnessdarling for the photo of Aemond in the moodboard - I looked about for a while but couldn't find anything that fit, so ended up blindly throwing hers in and it worked perfectly.

Also, Aemond drinks espresso because @ewanmitchellcrumbs and I have talked about it so much that it has now found a permanent place in my brain.

Lastly, to @humanpurposes my love, my everything, for giving the last lightest push to complete this by telling me that this is somewhat halfway decent. ily <3

Anyway, Merry Christmas to all of you who celebrate! Here's a little something to make you laugh, I hope!

No beta. This is a first draft. We die like men. GOODBYE.

WORD COUNT: 6.1k

TEXT DIVIDER by @saradika

“SORRY, WE’RE CLOSED!”

He opens the door to the cafe, completely disregarding the little signboard that marks the premises closed. The door is always open for him, he knows - and is eternally thankful for the same. The quaint cafe, just a stone's throw from his dental practice, has slowly grown to become his place of comfort. Now, he cannot go a day without spending time there.

“Even for me?” He murmurs, his voice carrying a playful, questioning manner that is too light for him, yet somehow his own.

The mingling scents of coffee, sweet cinnamon, chocolate and the savory notes of roasted vegetables and baked goods permeate the air as he opens the door. The cafe is adorned with twinkling fairy lights, wreaths, and tinsel, casting a soft and festive glow throughout the space. Tables are topped with red and green checkered cloth, and there's a cozy fireplace adorned with stockings and plush cushions. Winter is Coming to Town, the latest Christmas hit by teen sensation Sara Snow - a guilty pleasure of his - plays in the background, adding to the ambience.

Aemond steps in and takes off his gloves - he drops them into his coat pockets and keeps his hands there for warmth.  She’s cleaning up the counters and has her back to him, and when she turns, she smiles.

“Well, perhaps I can take one more order for my favorite customer.” Her smile is sly and welcoming, and Aemond blushes at her tilted head - he blames it on the cold outside. “Hello doctor! Long day?”

“Festive season means more patients. Usually cousins with broken teeth from scuffles or just… freak accidents.” She lets her hands rest on the counter on either side of her, one of the hands clutching a crumpled cleaning rag. The first thing he picks up about her appearance are the stray hairs falling out of the printed mistletoe scrunchie she wears, and Aemond resists the urge to push them behind her ear. 

She scrunches her face at the thought of children with bloody teeth and wipes off the last of the crumbs. “That sounds nasty.”

“It is.” He clasps his hands together as he waits for her to finish up, keeping himself from fiddling with his nails. He has his mother to thank for the habit. With a hand on her hip, she leans on the counter and asks, “Are you going to give any of my Christmas specials a chance tonight, or will it be the usual?”

He chuckles at her attempt to get him to buy into the spirit of the holiday. Aemond is tempted - his functional eye roves over the little black board that has the season’s specials written in red, white and green chalk, with little Christmas trinkets drawn around. Peppermint Mocha, Gingerbread Latte, Toasty Chestnut Caramel Cappuccino, Spiced Apple Tea -

“Spiced apple tea?”

“You told me about your mum’s spiced apple cake a while ago, so I experimented. I hope you don’t mind. It’s quite nice actually! Will you have a taste? I’ll make it extra special for you!” He lightly smiles, just at the corner of his lip, appreciating how she remembered the details. Then, he chuckles at the speed of her speech and the excitement in her words, leaving her slightly breathless.

“I’ll have the usual, please.” She groans dramatically, whipping her head back and letting hands flay around as she walks over to the espresso machine. He can’t help but laugh ever so slightly at the theatrics as he follows her movements. 

“Triple espresso with seven sugars, coming right up! And may I just say, it is very peculiar that you’re asking your patients to not have much sugar for their teeth while pulling off this seven sugar stunt here with me.”

“I’m allowed my indulgences.” 

“Are they indulgences if you have them everyday?” 

He moves to get up. “Do I have to be harassed each time I want coffee? I hear there’s a new Starbucks nearby…” His words may seem curt and sound low, but his voice carries a playfulness that she recognizes well now.

“Oh sit down,” she playfully waves her hand at him, and he smiles - it’s all he’s capable of doing around her. He doesn’t say much - he never does - so she takes it upon herself to continue. The whirr of the machine is faint as she walks over to the display cases, catching his eye. “Anything to eat?” He does not miss how she’s pointedly looking at her Christmas specials, wiggling her eyebrows. He reads the names of the items off the little nameboards kept right next to them, matching the theme of the specials board.

Snowball almond cookies, Christmas tree brownies, red velvet cupcakes, fruit tart, Christmas quiche, holiday stuffed mushrooms -

“Chicken sandwich, please.” He grunts, but is very aware of the joke that it would become.

She slams her palm into her face at his blatant refusal to get into the spirit, and laughs. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you were being disrespectful, Aemond.”

“I’m a man of habit, love.” He winks, and she is quick to turn away and blush as she assembles his sandwich. 

You’re being so silly, it’s cute that you have a crush, Helaena had said once. That was months ago.

I do not, he had said. Clipped and curt, hoping his sister would stop squealing. He didn’t want to risk drawing her attention from where she stood, smiling at one of her customers.

Not one to let the momentum of the banter be lost, she takes it upon herself to continue the conversation. “Christmas is only a little more than a week away. I thought you’d have gone home by now, Aemond.” He steps closer to the counter and takes his usual seat at the corner, smiling at her. He keeps his lips tightly pursed, trying not to get his excitement at her saying his name seem obvious. “Got a flight for Christmas morning, very early. It’s not a long trip, I’ll be at Oldtown in a few hours.”

“Ugh, Christmas morning flights are stuffy and so chaotic, why would you put yourself through that? Were there no other tickets available for earlier flights?” She huffs a breath as she slices into a loaf of sourdough, the sounds of her knife grating at his ears, making him wince ever so slightly.

Somehow, telling her that there is no chaos or noise on the private family-owned jet that his mother is sending for him seems snobby.

“It’ll be alright. I could ask you the same. You’re still here?”

“Oh, uhm. My parents are coming to visit here, actually! Besides, Christmas is good business, and I’d like to be able to keep the cafe open for the day at least. Close up early and take them out to see the lighting of the tree at the Square. They’ve been wanting to visit King’s Landing for a long time.”

The smell of his obnoxiously sweet and strong coffee hits him as she brings it over along with his plate of food. She slides the mug and ceramic plate across to him, and then goes back to bring her own mug and settle in next to him. Eager to distract himself from the peculiar tingling in his stomach whenever she comes close, he bites into his sandwich.

“It’s good.” The subtly spiced filling is just the way he likes it, and he takes a second bite.

“It has to be if you keep coming back for it,” she says and winks. He freezes for just a moment, debating for a moment as to whether or not he should tell her that it’s her that he keeps coming back for.

Her face flushes red as the heat from her espresso warms her tongue. They drink in silence as he recalls the day he’d first stepped in here, when his assistant had taken the day off and he’d been so angry that he’d chosen to take a walk and get his hot drink on his own. 

It was an instant crush. She’d smiled at him, and he’d felt his tongue failing him as he stumbled through getting the words out for his order. She’d guided him through the menu with the patience of a saint, and by the time he’d left, he was determined to get his own coffee from then on. More than a year later, he’d become good friends with her and spent at least an hour a day with her, making himself at home in what they have now come to recognize as his chair.

In the past year, he’s had the words at the tip of his tongue many times. Can I take you out? It should be easy, so very easy. And yet, somehow, he never manages to say them out loud for her to hear. He’s watched her go on dates and come back not wanting to meet any of them a second time, and each time he breathes a sigh of relief. He couldn't stand the overwhelming jealousy he felt whenever she talked about a planned date. On the flip side, there was a sense of calm when he learned that things hadn't worked out. But how long before she meets someone that she likes?

He wants to. He really wants to, but he simply can’t. Funny how that works.

He swallows and licks his lips to rid himself off the sticky residue and looks at her. Desperate for a distraction from his own flustered thoughts, he sighs. She brings a hand up mid-air, remembering something as she nods and sets her mug on the counter. “Hey! By the way, the appointment with you that I had scheduled for after the holidays…” He sips his coffee and holds onto the mug for warmth before she goes on. “Apparently, one of your patients postponed their appointment so your receptionist asked if I could prepone mine.”

“Did she now?” He’d always been the one coming to her, and the thought of her coming to him has had him flustered ever since she made an appointment with him. Now, the possibility of it being closer than ever dawns on him, and he resists the urge to blush. Using his best unbothered tone, Aemond mutters, “When is it?”

“Day after tomorrow.”

He does not miss the nervous way in which her tongue pokes at the inside of her cheek. “Alright?”

“Yeah, just…” She chuckles, looking away from him. “Don’t laugh at me, but I’ve… I’ve always been scared of going to the doctor. Even if it’s just a consultation.” She giggles in embarrassment and then continues, running a hand over her mouth. “I know this is an elective procedure, so I’m literally asking for it even though there’s no need… but it’s still daunting to think of.”

“Hm… It’s not so bad. You’ll be fine,” he says. His free hand closes around hers in reassurance, and it amazes him how it fits right in his. He catches her eye and she smiles at him, the warmth of her going straight to his heart. “Well, if it’s the best dentist in the city, I suppose I’m in good hands.”

With their proximity, and the way she’s looking at him - all smiles and genuine adoration - it is very easy for him to believe that they’re together. But the truth is that he’s not even bold enough to take her out to dinner, and reality crashes onto him quickly when she stares at their conjoined hands with a red face. He lets go of her hand and clears his throat, suddenly feeling the weight of the moment. She looks down, and he catches her continuing to blush by the corner of his good eye. At a loss for words, Aemond clears his throat once more and gets up to leave, settling his bill. 

There is a moment when he catches her eye as she fetches his change, where he seriously considers blurting out his invitation to take her out. 

It would be simple, so simple. 

Her fingertips graze at his palm as she gives him the money and they stand, completely at a loss as to what to do. If he were a less careful man, he’d have chased after her touch. It’s embarrassing how quickly he melts, worse how despite the freezing temperatures outside, it is the absence of contact that actually makes him feel cold. “So, I… suppose I’ll see you at your appointment then,” he says. His hands clench mid-air before he pushes them into his coat pockets, and then he makes a move.

“Yes, you will!” She smiles just as brightly and widely as she always does, and the yearning in his chest only increases tenfold before it beats itself into oblivion again. She looks at him expectantly, almost as though she’s waiting for him to say something more, but a silent good night is all he can manage as he all but runs out.

THE DAY ARRIVES FASTER THAN AEMOND ANTICIPATES.

As he stands in his pristine dental office, clad in his customary white coat, he can't shake off the unusual nervousness that has gripped him. He glances at the clock, realizing that she should be arriving any moment now. He adjusts his glasses and takes a deep breath, trying to calm the fluttering in his stomach as he taps his foot on the leg rest of his desk, incessantly.

The slow opening of the door announces her entrance, and Aemond looks up to see her step in. She wears a faint smile, but there's a tension in her shoulders that doesn't go unnoticed by him - he’s never seen her look so on edge. He greets her with what he hopes is a warm smile, motioning for her to take a seat in the dental chair.

"Good afternoon. How are you feeling today?" he asks, his usual calm demeanor somewhat shaken by his own nerves. She hesitates for a moment before answering, "A bit nervous, I guess. I've never been a fan of visiting the doctor. Not even if it’s you," she says, the last sentence more playful than the rest.

Aemond nods understandingly, making a mental note to tread carefully. "No need to worry. I assure you it's quick and painless."

She nods, but the tension lingers. Aemond, sensing her discomfort, decides to explain the procedure in more detail, hoping it will ease her nerves. However, as he delves into the technicalities, he notices her fidgeting, her eyes darting around the room.

Realization hits him, and he stops mid-sentence. "You seem a bit more on edge than usual. Is everything okay?" he inquires gently.

She sighs, running a hand through her hair. "I don't know. I guess I just can't shake off the nerves. I hate the thought of someone poking around in my mouth."

Aemond nods sympathetically. "I understand. It's perfectly normal to feel that way. Tell you what, to make this a more comfortable experience for you, how about we use some nitrous oxide? It's commonly known as laughing gas. It'll help you relax during the procedure, and you might even find it a bit amusing."

Her eyes light up with a mix of curiosity and relief. "Really? That sounds... actually, that sounds like it might help."

Aemond prepares the nitrous oxide mask, explaining the process as he goes. As he gently places it over her nose, he can't help but notice her tension fading away, replaced by a subtle tranquility. The corners of her lips twitch into a small smile, and Aemond realizes that maybe this wasn't such a bad idea after all.

"Alright, just take deep breaths through your nose," he instructs as he starts the procedure. As the nitrous oxide takes effect, she begins to giggle softly. Aemond can't help but smile a little, relieved to see her at ease. 

As he works through her teeth, he takes one moment to look into her eye, only to catch her staring at him already. She’s chuckling now, but he knows very well that she’d have turned away in all her bashfulness if she was a bit more aware of what she’s doing. The laughing gas seems to have left her feeling uninhibited, but he’s not complaining. He quite likes it when she’s carefree and laughing, a stark contrast to the tensed girl that walked into the room moments ago.

She continues to stare before sighing after a loud laugh and saying, “You have a really pretty face, Aemond.” Aemond's cheeks flare up in a deep shade of crimson as he processes her unexpected compliment. The dental instruments in his hand momentarily forgotten, he glances down at the floor, unable to meet her gaze. The air in the room is filled with the hum of the equipment and the occasional soft laughter escaping her lips.

She notices his sudden shyness and teases, "Aw, Aemond, don't tell me you're blushing! Do you not get told you’re pretty often? It’s a crime, you should be! I mean, look at you!" Her laughter continues, the effects of the laughing gas making her more candid with each passing moment.

Aemond tries to regain his composure, but her unfiltered praise catches him off guard. "Well, I... I appreciate the compliment. It's just, uh, not something I hear often," he admits, his voice slightly awkward.

It’s a lie. He's well aware of what the magazines and Page Six articles suggest. "Targaryen heir lives a private life away from the boardroom, and he's a sight for sore eyes," one wrote. Despite maintaining a comfortable distance from such papers, he never anticipated being confronted by them today, especially not from her. The fact that she's sharing it with her guard down only amplifies the impact, as it suggests she has likely pondered over it for a while.

She thinks he’s handsome. It makes him blush more than it should.

She grins mischievously, "Well, you should! You're like a real-life prince charming!” Aemond nervously continues with the task at hand, his blush refusing to fade. "I'm just a dentist, really. Nothing special."

She shakes her head, her eyes sparkling with sincerity - he holds her still by the side of her neck to continue the procedure. "No, seriously. You have this whole mysterious thing going on.” She looks at him like he holds up the sun, and Aemond finds that he wants for her to admire him, to think of him as handsome, to like him. He does not want to egg her on, but he certainly is intrigued about seeing himself through her eyes.

She does not disappoint.

As Aemond resumes, he can't shake off the lingering warmth from her earlier compliment. Her giggles persist, and she takes another moment to admire his work, her eyes studying his features. The effects of the laughing gas seem to have turned her into an open book, and she doesn't hold back in expressing her thoughts.

"Your nose is so cute, Aemond. I mean, really. It's like perfectly sculpted or something. Like you were made by a plastic surgeon, rather than God…" she says with a dreamy smile, her fingers reaching up to lightly tap the tip of his nose. Aemond, already blushing from her previous praise, simply nods in resigned acceptance - he’ll never admit to enjoying this.

She giggles, her laughter contagious and beautiful as he struggles to keep his feet on the ground. "It's one of those noses you'd see in those fancy magazines. I bet it makes all the other noses out there so jealous." His cheeks flush deeper, and he focuses on his work, trying to maintain a semblance of professionalism. However, she's not done yet.

"And those cheekbones! Seriously, how do you get them so defined? Do you do facial exercises or something?" she asks, her eyes wide with wonder.

Aemond, flustered by the unexpected attention to his facial structure, manages a modest response, "I... I guess they're just natural."

Her laughter rings out again. "Lucky bastard! You've got the kind of cheekbones people would kill for. I know I would."

As he continues, she shifts her attention to his jawline, her gaze lingering appreciatively. "And your jawline, Aemond, it's like it was chiseled by the gods. Seriously, do you moonlight as a model?"

He chuckles nervously, "No."

Her compliments keep flowing, each one causing Aemond's blush to deepen. "And your teeth! I mean, of course, they're perfect, you're a dentist. But seriously, Aemond, you've got a killer smile, in the rare times that you do smile. It's dazzling. I always think you’re very pretty when you smile."

Aemond, now practically squirming from where he stands, mumbles a shy acknowledgment. "Thanks, I do try to take care of my teeth." She leans back, her eyes flickering mischievously. "And those lips! Ever consider a career in lip modeling? They're so... plump. In a good way, I swear. And soft too!"

Aemond, completely caught off guard, stammers, "I, uh, never thought about it.”

She laughs, "Well, consider it. Your lips deserve a spotlight. Made to be kissed, really. You should kiss me!" The words hit him like a freight train as he struggles to hold onto his professionalism.

She wanted him to kiss her. She wanted him to kiss her. She wanted him to-

“And those eyes…” She trails off, her gaze focusing on his eyes. He shifts uncomfortably, his insecurity about his mismatched pair of prosthetic and natural eyes resurfacing. However, before he can voice any self-doubts, she surprises him. "Your eyes are the prettiest thing about you, Aemond. I mean it. I could look at them all day. Blue and violet… they're like different galaxies or something," she gushes, her words carrying a genuine admiration that resonates with him.

For years, he’s been terribly insecure about his eyes. He wore a patch for a long time until he got his prosthetic eye, and even then, the mismatched pair always reminded him of the bitter night when he lost his eye in a freak scuffle with his nephew. It’s always been a sore subject - until now.

He never quite considered that anyone would think his eyes to be beautiful.

Aemond, taken aback by her heartfelt words, finally meets her gaze. Her eyes, dilated from the laughing gas, hold a warmth that reaches beyond anything he had ever thought capable. 

"Thank you," he whispers, his voice touched with a mix of gratitude and newfound confidence. The fluttering in his stomach grows with each moment as he finds his footing. She grins widely, oblivious to the impact of her words on him. "No need to thank me. Just stating the truth. You should really hear these things more often, Aemond. You're amazing…. Amazingly attractive. Hot, really. Very hot. You must have girls throwing themselves over you… is that why you never ask me out?"

He doesn’t respond at all, the conversation veering from what he deemed appropriate for his workplace. But the wheels in his head turned, turned and turned.

Did she want to go out with him? Was she only waiting for him to make the first move? Had he wasted all this time being held back when he could have been dating her?

The remainder of the dental procedure unfolds with a surreal mix of professional precision and underlying tension. Aemond, still grappling with the revelation that she might have been waiting for him to make a move all along, navigates the delicate balance between his role as her dentist and the unexpected yet definitely welcome personal turn their interaction has taken. As he completes the procedure with expert finesse, the air in the room has undoubtedly shifted. Her laughter rings out and he helps her rise from the dental chair, offering a few reassuring words about aftercare and the success of the procedure.

Still under the influence of laughing gas, she leans into him, a mischievous glint in her eyes as she suggests, "You should kiss me."

Aemond's heart skips a beat in response to her words, his own desire mirroring her invitation. However, the ethical dilemma weighs on his mind. Despite the tempting suggestion, he's aware that she's not sober. While she might desire this moment enough to ask for it while uninhibited, the likelihood of her remembering it later is uncertain.

Just as the moment teeters on the edge of a decision, the opening door heralds the arrival of an unexpected interruption. A familiar waitress from her cafe steps in, her presence accompanied by a burst of laughter and vibrant energy. She rushes over to the girl, sharing a conspiratorial glance with Aemond.

"Hey there! Ready to go?" the waitress chirps, linking arms with her.

Aemond, caught in the whirlwind of conflicting emotions, nods with a polite smile. "Yes, she's all set. Just follow the post-procedure instructions, and if you have any concerns, don't hesitate to call."

The girl, still giggling, nods in agreement. "Absolutely, Doctor… Aemond! Thanks for taking care of me!"

As they exit the dental practice together, the door closes behind them, muffling the sound of her laughter. Aemond rubs a hand over his mouth and jaw, feeling the lingering warmth that she leaves in her wake. The possibilities hang in the air, leaving Aemond with a mix of satisfaction and longing, knowing that the next move rests in his hands.

THE NEXT FEW DAYS ARE A BLUR.

In the days that follow, Aemond finds himself on edge, eagerly anticipating her return to her cafe, yearning for another chance encounter. However, it seems that the universe is completely against him. Each time he goes to get his coffee, she is nowhere to be seen. The staff, usually chatty and eager to talk, evade his questions with vague responses.

His impatience grows with each passing day, and the absence of her presence becomes increasingly unsettling. Aemond's thoughts oscillate between the lingering memory of her asking to kiss him and the frustration of not being able to find her again.

He hears snippets of conversations about her, catching glimpses of her through the cafe window or on the street, but every time he tries to approach, she slips away like a fleeting dream. Aemond begins to question whether their shared moment under the influence of laughing gas was merely a product of her altered state of mind or his hallucinations. With how she’s avoiding him, he is quite open to thinking that he imagined it all.

As he considers the possibility of rejection, self-doubt gnaws at him. The more he reflects on their interaction, the more he convinces himself that she never meant any of those words. Was it all just the effect of the laughing gas, a whimsical fantasy that had no basis in reality?

Aemond's pining intensifies as he misses their conversations, the easy banter that once flowed effortlessly between them. He replays their time together in the dental chair, the compliments that seemed too good to be true. It leaves him wondering if he had missed a window of opportunity - if he had hesitated for too long.

One day, he spots her walking down the street from a distance. Heart pounding, he quickens his pace to catch up. Just as he's about to call out her name, however, she turns a corner and disappears from sight. Aemond is left standing on the bustling sidewalk, a mix of frustration and longing etched on his face.

The next day, he decides to take matters into his own hands. As he enters the cafe, he spots her sitting alone at a table, lost in thought. The place is empty save for them both, and he is thankful for the space they’ll have. Determination replaces his hesitation as he approaches her, ready to face the music.

"Hey," he says, a mixture of nerves and hope in his voice.

She looks up, surprised and something else flickering in her eyes. Aemond takes a deep breath, pushing aside his doubts. It's time to find out if she really liked him after all.

“Haven’t seen you around lately,” he says. He doesn’t want to say too much and scare her, so he takes it light and easy, just as they’ve always been. She looks flustered in his presence, and he wonders for a moment if he is genuinely welcome. But then, she pushes her hair aside from her face and tucks it behind her ear before she offers him a nervous smile, and he knows. She may be hesitant, but she’s certainly open to talk.

"Yeah, I've been busy," she responds, her voice slightly shaky. "We’re nearing Christmas so… bigger crowds. They want to try the specials, unlike someone." Aemond chuckles and then nods, a sympathetic smile on his face. "I get it, but I’ve missed you. You always… brighten up my day."

Her cheeks flush at his words, and she glances away momentarily. Aemond notices the subtle shift in her demeanor, and a quiet confidence begins to grow within him. Maybe, just maybe, she missed their interactions as much as he did. Maybe he wasn’t wrong to assume that she liked him back after all.

“Come sit.”

She gestures to the chair opposite hers, an invitation he gladly accepts. Aemond settles into the seat, their eyes locking for a moment before she breaks the gaze, a hint of vulnerability showing through. They sit in a brief, somewhat awkward silence, both seemingly hesitant to dive into the unspoken tension that hangs in the air. Aemond decides to break the ice, "So, about the other day at the clinic..."

Her eyes widen a fraction, a mix of embarrassment and curiosity flashing across her face. "Oh, that. I'm so sorry. I can't believe I said that. It was the laughing gas, you know? I didn’t mean to put you on the spot or anything." Aemond leans forward, his tone gentle and reassuring, "No need to apologize. No harm done."

She looks down, her fingers playing with the rim of her coffee mug. "I made a complete fool of myself. I must have embarrassed you."

Aemond reaches across the table, placing a comforting hand over hers. "No, not at all. I promise. I'm a dentist; I've seen this many times before. You didn’t embarrass me. In fact, I was more concerned about how you were feeling afterward." She meets his gaze, and a flicker of gratitude crosses her eyes. "You're too kind, Aemond. I should have been more careful."

His thumb gently rubs circles on the back of her hand. "You have nothing to worry about. Besides, it's a funny story. We can laugh about it now, right?"

She manages a small smile, a warmth spreading through the air as their hands rest together on the table. Aemond finds himself caught in the moment, feeling victorious at having made a breakthrough after days of radio silence.

He’s missed her smile, and it warms him up entirely now that it’s back. "Thank you for being so understanding," she says, her eyes meeting his gaze once more. "I thought you wouldn’t want to see me after all I said.” Aemond smirks, “Seven Hells! If anything, I’ve been looking for you everywhere. I missed you."

A genuine smile graces her lips. "Really? I thought you'd find me ridiculous."

He squeezes her hand lightly, "Not in the slightest.” She glances at their entwined hands, a softness in her gaze. "I've been avoiding you, haven't I? I’m sorry about that. I just didn't have it in me to face you just yet."

Aemond chuckles, "Well, things got a bit weird, but not in a bad way. I promise. And if I may be honest, I've been going crazy trying to find you. I was worried you might be upset about what happened."

She bites her lip, "I was upset, but not at you. Just at myself. I let things get out of hand."

“Well. Suppose we’re good now?”

“I’d like that very much.” Her gaze softens, and she finally exhales, as if releasing a weight she'd been carrying. Aemond can't help but feel a surge of contentment. As they continue to talk and laugh, the world around them fades into the background. Despite the initial awkwardness, they are rediscovering the easy bond they share, and they are both grateful. And yet, the persistent question of their feelings for each other continues to rack his brain.

She offers to make him his ridiculously sweet coffee, and everything falls back into place as he shifts to his chair by the counter. She’s humming along the tunes as he watches her, calm and in her element as she reaches for the mug that he likes. She’s never looked prettier to him than when she’s comfortable and doing what she loves.

He could ask her out now, he knows. She made her feelings clear that day at the clinic, even though they never addressed it now. He knows now in his heart that if he were to ask, she’d say yes.

She brings him his coffee, and the chill of the snow makes him drink it as fast as he can, mug warming his hands comfortably. She joins him with her own mug, and when they’re both done with their hot drinks, they sit in a comfortable silence.

The tempo slows, mirroring the gentle descent of snowflakes outside, and he extends his hand towards her. He’s not so good with his words, but the sincerity in his gaze conveys a silent invitation that he hopes she would accept. She meets his touch, a subtle flush warming her cheeks, and with a questioning lift of her eyebrow, she accepts his offered hand, intrigued.

They sway to the slow rhythm of Snowfall Serenade, yet another Sara Snow Christmas hit - the world outside fading into the background as they create their own little world. The cafe's ambient lights cast a soft glow, and the music brings warmth and comfort to the pair that’s been a long time coming. He leads their slow dance with a touch of uncertainty, but with every step, they grow in confidence.

With their bodies so close that neither knows where one ends and the other begins, he finds that he quite likes having her with him, like this. With simply each other and no one else. It’s taken them so many shy encounters and quiet smiles to get here, but neither of them would do it any differently. She takes his breath away as her hands lock around his neck, coming into contact with his spun silver hair. The gooseflesh that arises in the wake of her touch only empower him further, but before he can let the words tumble out of his mouth, she beats him to it.

“I meant every word, you know.” she says, the words confusing Aemond and breaking his reverie. He raises his eyebrows wordlessly as she smiles, before letting her face fall in embarrassment. He is quick to lift her face up by her jaw as they continue to carelessly move around, making her face him.

“About you. Your eyes, your nose …” Now it’s his turn to bashfully turn away, but she holds him in place. She looks at his lips eagerly and smiles softly. The next words are a murmur, holding the weight of the time and effort it took to get them here, finally.

“You should kiss me.” The same words she’d uttered the other day - only this time, they’re both very much in the moment, and light from the happiness of it all.

His hands move to untie her hair and he smiles in amusement as she leans in. He catches her lips in his as his hands curl into her hair at the back of her head, and neither of them have ever been happier.

When they part, she rests her head under his jaw and into his neck as she leans on him, and Aemond continues to move them around. He looks around the place as he registers the holiday decor and the snow outside. Happy couples, families, and friends are milling about outside as they prepare for Christmas, and the song continues as he holds her and moves - utterly precious, and his.

He bends down for a fraction of a second, and the scrunchie that he’d taken off her hair comes into view in his hold. He notices the little mistletoes printed on it, and he smirks.

He's never been much of a holiday man. But perhaps a bit of the holiday cheer is all the push they needed to finally make this happen.

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The Taming of the Dragon, 1 ✷ Aemond Targaryen

PAIRING: Aemond Targaryen / F!OC

SUMMARY: One evening, Aemong, in dire need of clearing his head, catches a Dragonkeeper on the beach tending to Vhagar. The Queen of Dragons doesn't seem bothered by the stranger's presence. Quite the opposite. Aemond is immediately intrigued. Even more so when he discovers that the stranger is a girl who comes from the North and bears the name Snow.

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         Aemond Targaryen was on the verge of going mad. Everyone around him, from his mother to his grandfather and even his failing father, had only one word on their lips: Rhaenyra. His half-sister, who lived in Dragonstone, haunted the Red Keep. Her ghost wandered the corridors and manifested itself on their lips. He no longer wanted to hear that cursed name, which brought with it bad omens and curses.

“She'll do anything to usurp the throne! Even if she knows Aegon is the rightful heir!’ Alicent Hightower shouted.

Her brown curls bounced with every step she took. Her incessant to-ing and fro-ing along the Small Council’s table was making his head spin.

His mother had summoned him—as if Aegon wasn't the first son—to this secret meeting where her, his grandfather Otto, Criston Cole and Larys Strong would discuss stratagems, politics, and manipulations: three things he had started to loath. His love for his mother and his sense of duty had kept him from leaving the minute she made that request.

His expression revealed his true opinion of this ridiculous spectacle which he was watching with a distracted eye. He had stopped listening a long time ago and was waiting patiently—as was expected of him—to be dismissed. These discussions had a way of boring him. They went round in circles, nothing more than paraphrases of a previous meeting. A constant déjà-vu fuelled by obsession and a thirst for power.

“Viserys will come round,” her father reassured her.

The Queen laughed, a mundane, almost inelegant, gesture that was incongruous with her status. Rhaenyra had the gift of unearthing his mother’s inner ugliness. She could turn the most important woman in Westeros into the common little girl full of rage she had once been.

“She has his favour. She is the favourite child! He won't change his mind, not even about his first son!”

And what a son! Unsurprisingly, Aegon was nowhere to be seen today. His brother had never taken to politics. He was probably busy fucking some whore in the Silk Alley or some maid in his rooms, happy to let Aemond take over the responsibilities he left vacant.

Although it pained him to admit it, Aegon was the first son and he belonged on the Iron Throne. Aemond would much rather see his brother sit there than his whore of a half-sister. Aegon wasn't evil, just a misguided soul that his mother and grandfather would set straight. He was sure of that. Leaving the kingdom in Rhaenyra's palms, on the other hand, was tantamount to condemning the inhabitants of the Seven Kingdoms. Her reign would only bring calamity.

He tilted his head back and looked up at the ornate ceiling. His fingernails beat against the wooden table as the minutes ticked by. Slowly. Much too slowly. He held back a yawn.

The tone had been raised, words had been shouted, orders, given, and in the midst of all this racket, Aemond felt like screaming. He couldn't care less about Rhaenyra, his uncle, and her brown-haired bastards.

Aemond didn't want to suffer what his birth had spared him—responsibility. The second son was merely the replacement, the forgotten one. He would only appear on stage if Death came too early.

He wanted to be left in peace until then.

A futile desire for someone bearing the Targaryen name. No ancestor of the blood of the Dragon had known peace and he certainly wouldn't be the first.

The sun had been down for at least three hours when Aemond finally escaped from the clutches of his mother and grandfather. He mourned a wasted day and headed for his rooms.

On the way, he came across Aegon, his eyes reddened, and his eyelashes still stuck with sleep. His fist itched. He felt a visceral need to bring it down on his brother’s face. Why wouldn’t he grow up? What would become of Westeros if his grandfather and mother succeeded in making him king? Aegon was an immature fool and Aemond was expected to pick up the pieces. What did he gain by doing so? No recognition, no respect, and certainly not power. He was asked to do it because it was expected of him. An unspoken rule he learned to obey from an early age.

Aemond Targaryen would forever remain the second son, obscured by the shadow of Aegon’s unworthy glory.

“Brother.”

Aegon nodded, but the sly smile on his lips threw off any semblance of politeness. Aemond remained unmoved. He would not play his game, not tonight, although a few insults came to the tip of his tongue. He clenched his jaw.

“I assume the council was as interesting as usual. I'm sorry I couldn't be there but, you understand... A pretty servant was waiting for me. Couldn’t disappoint her, you know?”

Aemond didn't reply. He had not even deigned to leave the castle, not even his rooms. His hands began to shake, and a stabbing pain seized his sapphire eye, as it did every time he was upset. Lazy bastard.

When Aemond was mastering the art of sword fighting, Aegon was swilling whole jugs of wine. When Aegon was thrusting his cock between the thighs of a whore, Aemond was immersing himself in the histories of Old Valyria.

They couldn't have been more different.

Aemond continued towards his chambers, his face tense. Behind him, his brother burst out laughing and tried to talk to him, but he quickened his pace. Tonight, he had no patience for conversation.

Soon, the large wooden doors of his rooms appeared at the end of the corridor. The relief he felt was dulled by a weight in his chest.

At the last moment, Aemond turned around and hurried back. He felt as if he were suffocating within the gigantic walls of the Red Keep. The vast corridors were no longer so. They closed in on him and whispered hissing words. They slipped into his ear and snaked into his mind to unearth his worries. Stories of legitimacy, inheritance, the throne and responsibility—everywhere he went, his duty followed and plagued him.

Aemond needed to see Vhagar. He usually avoided disturbing her in the evening. His dragon was no longer in her prime and slept more than the others. Tonight, he would allow himself to be selfish. The need was too great. He had to clear his head, or he would go mad like many Targaryens before him.

He continued walking until he came to a darkened alcove. Aemond slid his hand over the cold stones. Eyes closed, he savoured the sensation. Click. He pushed open the wall, revealing a long and abandoned corridor.

The secrets of the Red Keep were no longer unknown for him. Aemond had spent his youth wandering up and down the corridors of the building in search of them. The stories said that Maegor the Cruel had beheaded the architects, the masons, the carpenters... all the brains and hands that built this fortress. They took these secrets to their graves, secrets that only the blood of the Dragon could recognise.

After the loss of his eye—thinking of Lucerys Strong made him cringe—Aemond had redoubled his efforts to find them all. These passages had offered him the ideal refuge to escape from the gaze of others during the most difficult period of his life. This tradition had survived.

Aemond didn't even stop in front of Balerion's skull—not when his own dragon, alive on top of it, was waiting for him—and he rushed through the corridors, down some stairs, up others, turned left and then right, down some stairs again until he finally reached a door which he pushed open.

The fresh air whipped across his face. Immediately, all his worries evaporated, although his hands continued to tremble—a vestige of his wrath. He inhaled the smell of the shore, a delicious mixture of salt and air.

Aemond made his way down the stairs and onto the beach. He relished the sensation of walking on the white sand. It crumbled under his leather boots. Aemond found this instability reassuring. Nature could be unstable too. The wind had picked up and was blowing thousands of grains around. These whirlwinds, small storms of matter, calmed him and the proximity of Vhagar finished off the hurricane rising in his heart.

With a slight smile on his lips, he walked over to the dunes where his dragon had taken refuge since he brought her back from Driftmark, eight years ago. A mountain of green scales stood among the other mounds of sand. It moved with every breath. Aemond could almost feel the warmth of her breath, the hardness of her scales, and could already imagine himself riding her, hair blowing in the wind, free in his mind.

His joy was short-lived. The gods did not like to see him happy.

Aemond stopped dead in his tracks. Next to the gigantic figure of Vhagar, a small silhouette stood out. It was fidgeting and tormenting the dragon’s sleep. The short distance between the two made him clench his fists. They were close, far too close. Aemond had forbidden anyone to approach his mount. He had never had to repeat his request before. Who would be foolish enough to approach a sleeping dragon? Those who had risked it were no longer around to tell the tale. They had been burnt to a crisp and their loved ones had had to mourn an unrecognisable pile of ashes.

The stranger must have been unconscious or just mad.

Aemond stomped over to them.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” he growled rather than asked.

He knew he was protective of Vhagar. Everyone around him had noticed. He had exchanged her for an eye, and this suffering had only redoubled his murderous impulses: Vhagar was his. Anyone who dared touch her would face his rage.

The latter rose in his chest and accelerated his heartbeat. It coursed through his entire being, leaving no part of his body untouched. His nails dug into the palms of his hands. His muscles quivered, waiting for just one thing—for him to attack.

He stepped forward, ready to confront the stranger, who jumped and turned but did not reply. This silence made him even more furious. Who dared ignore their prince?

Moving a little closer, Aemond recognised the gleaming black armour and scaled helmet of the Dragonkeepers.

A breeze of relief blew over his heart, but it didn't completely calm the agitation that had been building up inside. At least this person knew what they were doing.

Worry and anger gave way to curiosity: what were they doing here? Aemond had never come across a Dragonkeeper outside the pit. They lived there to ensure the well-being of the creatures. Like monks, the pit was their sanctuary, and nothing could keep them from their duties.    

Normally, at least.

He couldn't see their face. Vhagar's massive form cast an equally colossal shadow over their body, which was further darkened by the night. It was only when he was close enough to smell the smoke coming from their uniform that he realised it was a girl and, worse still, that he didn't know her.

The last time he had ventured into the dragonpit, he had been only ten years old and had two eyes. Back when he was still Dragonless-Aemond, the place had seemed unreachable yet idyllic—the embodiment of impossible dreams. Eight years ago, he would have easily been able to name the seventy-seven keepers with the time he spent there. He came every day, waiting for the moment when a dragon would accept him as a rider.

The Dragonkeepers’ faces had clouded over with time, reduced to vague memories that the satisfaction of having claimed Vhagar had swept away. Far too large to fit in the pit, his dragon had made her home on the dunes of King's Landing and, in doing so, had made the dragonpit a bygone era of his childhood.

“State your name. Now.”

She dipped into a clumsy curtsy, perhaps the worst he had ever seen. She almost tripped on air and fell face-first into the sand. He winced. This girl was cruelly lacking in grace. No doubt the keeper’s profession had damaged her manners, which already left a lot to be desired.

"Lucella Snow, yer ‘ighness.”

His eye twitched.

A bastard from the North.

The shamelessness made perfect sense now.

These people were nothing but barbarians, made savages by the cold and their proximity with the Wildlings. They prayed to their strange, faceless gods, remnants of a primitive past, and still clung to superstitions dating back thousands of years which bore witness to their backwardness. Too limited for the political intrigues of the South, they retreated into their icy fortresses and only left them to defend themselves.

Northerners were strange and even the Starks, although not the worst of their species, were no exception to the rule.

Add to that the absence of a father to beat her and train her like a lady, which she could have become with a little effort, and you had the bastard in front of him. She was not unpleasant to look at, Aemond decided. Her pale skin, hidden under the ashes smeared on her cheeks, and the few strands of black hair sticking out of her helmet leaped out at him. If she had been born in wedlock, many suitors would have fought for her hand in marriage.

“And what on earth is a Winterfell bastard doing here?”

“I’m sorry, yer ‘ighness, but I’m afraid ‘am just a bastard frum White ‘arbah.”

Her accent struck Aemond's ears and made him wince. Syllables here and there disappeared as the vowels struggled to make themselves heard properly in this gibberish. Her voice was deep, deeper than his mother's or his sister's—the only women of his life—, and dragonfire smoke had taken the evenness out of her tone, leaving it hoarse.

He didn't like the way she avoided his question or her undeniable lack of politeness. She looked at him with jaded eyes as if he were the one who shouldn't be there. He thought he saw a flame dancing in her amber irises. A strange colour for someone from a Northerner. In these lands, eyes were only blue, grey, or black: bland colours for a land saddened by the blizzard.

“Winterfell... White Harbor... Northern towns all look alike.”

“I suppose yeh won't mind if I call you Velaryon, then? Yeh understand... Valyrians… They’re all th’same.”

His indecency irritated her. A mouth like hers belonged in a dilapidated tavern, not in a place like the Red Keep.

Northerners didn't belong here. They weren't like them.

“What is your concern here?” he asked her again.

Why isn’t Vhagar killing you? he thought.

Next to Snow, the Queen of Dragons looked peaceful. His companion was used to the presence of the keeper of the North, Aemond realised. The thought worried him. How long had this stranger been roaming around his dragon without him knowing?

The bastard pointed her gloved fingertips at a sheep carcass, no doubt ready to be charred by Vhagar, judging by the hungry look on her face. Aemond had not seen it until now.

The presence of this woman was upsetting his plans and troubling his senses.

“I’m bringing her food.”

Her 'r's rolled off her tongue.

“I already feed her.”

“Not enough. Obviously,” Snow retorted without hesitation, pointing to Vhagar's visible ribs. “Age tends t’work up their appetite. Ain’t tha’ right, sweetheart?”

She tenderly stroked the dragon’s muzzle, who let herself be petted under Aemond's hallucinated gaze.

His mount, reduced to a common pet.

His nostrils flared. He abruptly grabbed her hand and pulled her away from Vhagar, ignoring the grimace of pain on the Dragonkeeper’s face. Good. Perhaps she would understand that lurking around his dragon was not without consequences.

Vhagar, the Queen of all dragons, ridden by Visenya, had fought and survived Aegon's Conquest. She embodied the glory of House Targaryen and would not be touched by a commoner. A Northern bastard even less so.

Without a glance at her, he climbed the rope ladder and settled into the saddle.

"Sōvēs," he commanded.

Vhagar, lethargic, took her time shaking her wings before flapping them and taking flight. She sent grains of sand and stones flying. Soon, the beach was nothing more than a pale speck drowned in the thick clouds bathing in the twilight’s silver light. The icy air invigorated him, but he couldn't find the comfort he had come for. His thoughts remained stuck on the Dragonkeeper.

When Vhagar lost altitude for a moment, when the two of them broke through the cloud barrier and the beach was visible once again, Aemond saw that she had not moved and that her eyes were riveted on him.

Aemond didn't understand her expression but decided he didn't give a fuck.

The Taming of the Dragon, 2 ✷ Aemond Targaryen

PAIRING: Aemond Targaryen / F!OC

SUMMARY: One evening, Aemong, in dire need of clearing his head, catches a Dragonkeeper on the beach tending to Vhagar. The Queen of Dragons doesn't seem bothered by the stranger's presence. Quite the opposite. Aemond is immediately intrigued. Even more so when he discovers that the stranger is a girl who comes from the North and bears the name Snow.

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            Lucella Snow had done her utmost to avoid the beach in the last days, for fear of finding Vhagar and her rider there. It had only taken one encounter. One encounter to remind Lucella why she had gone to such lengths to avoid Aemond Targaryen for two years.

The rumours that one’s ears picked up on the fly in taverns were true—the man was nothing but condescension and cruelty.

Lucella had taken care to establish a precise and safe routine, only approaching Vhagar when night had fallen and the dragon was enjoying a well-earned rest. Apart from a few rare occasions, the prince only took her flying during daytime. Her age forced him to control his whims. Dragons like Sunfyre or Dreamfyre were bursting with energy and could fly fast and long without tiring but the golden age of Aegon I's conquest was long gone. Centuries had passed and Vhagar had felt the effects.

It took nothing away from her greatness, but this reality—which many preferred to deny—showed that no matter how beautiful and majestic they might be, dragons too had to obey the harsh laws of nature—nothing could last forever.

Knowing this had prompted Lucella to don her armour and boots this morning. Duty had won out over fear. She hadn't even lasted two days and cursed against her lack of backbone.

Vhagar needed her and that outweighed everything else.

The sun blinded Lucella. It had already warmed the sand by the time she reached the yellow dunes. Now that the prince had caught her, Lucella saw no reason to come at night. She just hoped it wouldn't upset Vhagar. An old lady like her didn't react well to big changes.

Mealtimes would remain fixed for the same reason—three hours after sunset. The more thankless tasks, however, would no longer be hidden by the night’s thick and dark cloak but warmed by the gentle rays of the sun. This would be just as pleasant for Vhagar as it would be for Lucella, who, if she was honest, was beginning to feel the chill of the midnight wind. It didn’t take long to grow accustomed to the warm sun of the South, even for someone named Snow.

She finally caught sight of Vhagar. A smile lit up her face. Lucella would never tire of seeing her. The dragon was the last vestige of their history, a relic of war and a living reminder of a past that was no more. As majestic as she was frightening, her roars gave Lucella goosebumps.

The girl was relieved to see that the beast was alone. No princely rider to nag in her ears and complicate her already intense work.

Aemond Targaryen lacked a good education. It was obvious in the way he treated others and the way he held himself—straight, chin up, eyes fixed. Everything about him reeked of smugness. Coming out of a royal vagina—only by marriage, mind you—didn't give him the right to be so detestable.

“Rytsas, Vhagar.”

The greeting rolled naturally off her tongue. The dragon blew a puff of air in response, sending a few strands of Lucella’s hair flying with the hot gust.

Like all the other Dragonkeepers, Lucella had had to learn High Valyrian to communicate with the beasts. While her colleagues were content with only learning the commands needed to control the dragons, Lucella fell in love with the sounds, so different from their Common Tongue, and set out to learn more. The story of Old Valyria was simply fascinating. She understood why, even after its disappearance, families like the Targaryens and the Velaryons prided themselves so much in their origins. They were the heirs to a civilisation whose destruction had only strengthened the mystery surrounding it.

Lucella couldn't read complex books in the language yet, but one day she would, she was sure of it. The girl was nothing if not stubborn.

She let her bag crash to the ground. Vhagar lifted her neck to sniff at it, probably looking for her meal. She had come to associate Lucella with “food”, which worried the keeper, who had no particular desire to end up as dragon food.

Although she and Vhagar had developed a rather symbiotic relationship, the latter was still a wild animal, dictated by her instincts and desires. If she ever decided that Lucella was her enemy, the keeper would end up in her mouth or burnt to a crisp with no remorse.

“Be patient. You'll get to eat tonight.”

Instead of a carcass—which would never have fit in her bag anyway—Lucella pulled a dagger from her bag and advanced towards the dragon, who had gone back to sleep, having found nothing of interest among the leather.

Lucella brushed her fingertips across Vhagar's scales until she was close to her ribs. She brought the dagger close to the hard skin and began to scratch between the scales. All sorts of things piled up there, from crustaceans to piles of dry earth. They soiled her coat and ruined the magnificent green that characterised it—an abominable sight for Lucella, who couldn't imagine the Queen of Dragons being tarnished in any way.

The keepers back in the Dragonpit didn't bother with such elaborate tasks. They had never understood her love for Vhagar. Too weird. Too dangerous. They kept their judgment to themselves, but Lucella wasn't stupid. She could see it in their eyes, that damned scepticism. It was easy enough for her to perceive the question that adorned all their thoughts: why? Why bother when other dragons, much more docile, much calmer, lived and breathed?

Lucella didn't even know if her companions tolerated the dragons they bred and raised. It was not unusual to overhear conversations in which they railed against the Targaryens and their mounts. While she understood the hostility towards the royal family, nothing could explain their animosity towards these beasts.

According to Lucella, this hatred was totally unjustified. Yes, many had fallen victim to the dance of flames spurting from their breath. Yes, their fangs could devour anything, even a human, in just one bite. But dragons were still animals, a fact her colleagues tended to forget.

There existed no justification in the world for cruelty towards them, no matter what they looked like. Every animal deserved to be treated with respect and love, especially a dragon.

Lucella scratched another scale. A hermit crab had taken refuge in the joint of her wing. With the tip of her blade, she dislodged it and placed it on the ground. It fled and disappeared behind the dunes.

Seeing this reminded her why Lucella bent over backwards to make the dragon as comfortable as possible. She couldn't possibly leave Vhagar like that. Just the thought of crustaceans and other small animals with too many legs crawling over her own body made her shiver. Lucella had no scales to protect her, but she thought that even with this natural armour, the sensation must not have been pleasant at all.

Vhagar suddenly tensed. Lucella was trying to scrape off a particularly tough clump of dirt, but the place— between her protruding ribs, right on a fading scar—made it a delicate operation. She rested her hand and cheek against the dragon’s side.

“'s all right,” she said. “Shh... Lykirī... Calm down.”

The dragon didn't do so until Lucella had scratched the last barnacle. Filthy little beasts. They always found a way to cling on. She had lost count of the number she removed each week. Lucella went round the gigantic body, taking care not to turn her back on the beast, and started to scrap the right side. Throughout the operation, she kept reassuring Vhagar, either in High Valyrian or in the Common Tongue. The language didn't really matter. Dragons focused on one’s intentions, not one’s words.

“Are you the only one to come here? Were no others available?”

Lucella gasped when she heard the curt voice. It cracked in the air like a whip.

So preoccupied with her task, she hadn't even heard him arrive. He was staring at her with a blasé eye, his arms crossed, and his leather coat pulled tight. 

Lucella cursed under her breath for paying so little attention to her surroundings. Vhagar had this terrible habit of hypnotising her. The dragon captured all her attention and made her fall into an infinite well of admiration and affection.

“Vhagar killed a keepah three months ago.”

The prince raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by this information. Lucella was as surprised by his reaction. He must have heard about it. He should have. She was his dragon, after all. A rider must know such things.

Lucella knew Vhagar to be dangerous and impulsive, but she did not know her to be cruel. There had been no motive for the keeper’s death. Vhagar had been fed, washed, and hydrated earlier in the day. Nothing could have predicted the attack. The dragon had burnt flesh and bone, leaving nothing but a mountain of black ashes for the sheer pleasure of it. There was no question of instinct or nature. Vhagar had revelled in his screams and would no doubt have feasted on his flesh had other guards not interfered.

Lucella remembered the screams, Vhagar deaf to their orders, the smell of burning flesh, Elder Norbert's face twisted in the ordeal of the flames. She remembered rushing between the dragon and him, standing as a barrier, ready to sacrifice herself to give him a chance to live. She remembered Vhagar sniffing at her curiously, she remembered closing her eyes, her legs wobbling, ready to face death. She remembered the wind whipping her face as the dragon flew away, leaving the guardian for dead but Astrisse intact.

She'd had nightmares about it for months. The human mind was a curious invention. It replayed the worst moments of your life to make you realise how lucky you were. Finding comfort in horror.

But terror had not been able to overcome her fascination for the dragon that had almost killed her. She had gone in search of her in a fit of stupidity and found her in the middle of these very dunes. Hypnotised by her beauty, Lucella had forgotten that she could have devoured her whole.

Beside her, the prince smiled. Lucella thought that perhaps he and Vhagar were meant for each other—two unstable beings who liked to play a bit too much with fire.

The keeper let her gaze drift to his leather eye patch, but quickly turned back to Vhagar, who growled in greeting. She scratched at yet another crustacean, perhaps a little harder than necessary when she felt him approach, but who would know? No one. In any case, Vhagar didn't seem to mind.

Lucella felt his gaze on the side of her face. Her cheek began to itch.

“'m the only one who can get close,” she finally admitted in a weak voice.

Lucella cleared her throat. There was no way she was going to look shy and fragile in front of Aemond Targaryen. He would enjoy seeing her doubt very much. She wouldn't give him any satisfaction.

“A sort o’ appointed guardian, if yeh like,” she continued more confidently.

“If you're her so-called guardian, why haven't I seen you before?”

“’cause Dragonkeepers are taught t’ be as discreet as possible.”

He laughed.

“That doesn't make any sense.”

“And yet that's wha’ we've been taught since t’ order was created.”

“King Jaehaerys I founded the order to prevent dragons from being stolen.”

“Maybe in t’ beginning,” she shrugged, “but things ’ave changed. Kings ’ave died. Others took their place. Dragons ’ave multiplied ’nd they became uncontrollable. T’ order had to adapt ’nd maintain t’illusion.”

“What illusion?”

“That yeh control yer dragons.”

The prince glared at her, but Lucella wouldn't take her words back. It was easy to “tame a dragon,” a feat the Targaryens took great pride in, when seventy-seven other people were literally burning to teach them to obey. Dohaerās. Obey me. The word made them proud. But where was the merit in riding a dragon when some lost flesh and limb to make them docile? Obedience was born in suffering and fire, two things the Targaryens delighted in handing out, godlike, without experiencing them first-hand.

The ‘blood of the dragon’, they called themselves. Lucella had almost laughed when she had heard it. The Targaryens were as much dragons as she was noble.  Their 'gift' was just an illusion. The first riders of the lineage may once have had this talent, but it disappeared when the order of Dragonkeepers was created by Jaehaerys I.

Dragons had grown stronger over the years, their riders, weaker. Imbalance. Dragonkeepers were the ones to keep the harmony from falling altogether.

“How dare you spread such nonsense? In front of your prince!”

“’nd yet ‘am right, yer ‘ighness. D’ yeh honestly think yeh could tame a wild dragon?”

“Of course I can. I claimed the largest one when I was ten.”

And it had cost him an eye. Everyone knew the sob story. Surely a fair price from his point of view. Lucella shook her head, exasperated by the prince's obstinacy. 

“Except tha’ Vhagar is ovah two ’undred years old ’nd ’as four riders already. Yeh really think you could’ve tamed ’er when she was just a babe?”

“If her egg had been placed in my cradle, yes.”

“It helps t’ create a bond ’tween t’ future ridah ’nd their mount, true,” she conceded. “But ’t’s not enough. A dragon might recognise yeh and not burn yeh because o’ it, but there’s no guarantee tha’ it will let yeh ride it, let alone listen to yeh. There's this dragon we're raising right now. Very young. Only six months old. We started training it three months ago. Six keepers wounded. Two others burned to death. It ’as known High Valyrian for ’alf ’ts life 'nd yet refuses t’ listen.”

“Perhaps because you are not a Targaryen.”

She sighed. It was like trying to talk to a deaf man.

“Go on then. In tha’ pit, I mean. T’ last time yeh went in there everythin’ went accordin’ t’ plan, ain’t tha’ right?”

Lucella immediately regretted her words. Elder Galladon, perhaps the oldest keeper, had told her many stories about the royal children. Dragonkeeper passed the time like that and soothed their burns with laughter. The sordid tale of sibling quarrelling, a winged pig and a little prince almost burnt alive had stuck with her.

The prince glared at her. Suddenly, she understood why so many people would talk about him with trembling voices. Lucella felt the colour drain from her face. She gripped her dagger so tightly that her knuckles turned white.

“Careful now, girl. I could have your tongue for that.”

“Wha’ I mean,” she continued, undeterred, “’s tha’ any dragonkeeper could ride a dragon.”

They wouldn't. Of course. The crumpled ego of a Targaryen burned hotter than the fire of the dragons they rode.

“That's not true and you know it.”

“O’ course, ’cause I dunno wha’ ’am talking a’bout, right?”

Her words were laced with sarcasm.

“Exactly.”

She nodded. A forced smile tugged painfully at her cheeks.

“Keep believing tha’. I don't giv’ a fuck what yeh think.”

Lucella turned back to Vhagar and continued to scrape her scales. The back of her neck grew hot under the prince's piercing gaze. For a while, she managed to ignore him. She cracked on the fifth barnacle. Her hand slipped and the dagger fell to the ground. Her shoulders dropped. Lucella sighed.

“Why did yeh come here, anyway? Except to keep me from me work, tha’ is.”

Aemond Targaryen raised his only visible eyebrow and replied that he had nothing to answer for, least of all when it concerned his dragon. He insisted on the ‘his’, anxious to remind Lucella that she had no place here. She rolled her eyes.

If Lucella were honest with herself, she would find his undeniable love for Vhagar almost touching. But the prince annoyed her, and she would never dare to associate anything positive with this awful character. She preferred to let herself fall into a pit of hatred and annoyance. These emotions were familiar to her, far from the beat her heart missed when she let her eyes linger on his harmonious—no, royal—features. 

She looked away with warm cheeks and scraped away the few remaining marine intruders.

Lucella caressed Vhagar's green flank one last time. The dragon shook her head in response. The girl walked over to her leather bag and slung it over her shoulder. Dagger in hand, Lucella left without a glance for the prince.

Her work was done here and he couldn't make her stay, Targaryen or not. Returning to Dragonpit was more important than entertaining a prince who was as mad as he was lonely.

“I did not say you could leave.”

“Well I am. Good’day, yer ’ighness.”

Lucella walked past him and they found themselves side by side. She pulled the thick leather of her trousers as best she could and bowed low in a mocking curtsy. When she straightened up, Aemond was still staring at her. Head held high, she turned and left without a glance for this prince who was seriously starting to piss her off.

✷ THE TAMING OF THE DRAGON ⸺ an Aemond Targaryen fanfiction

PAIRING: Aemond Targaryen / F!OC

SUMMARY: One evening, Aemong, in dire need of clearing his head, catches a Dragonkeeper on the beach tending to Vhagar. The Queen of Dragons doesn't seem bothered by the stranger's presence. Quite the opposite. Aemond is immediately intrigued. Even more so when he discovers that the stranger is a girl who comes from the North and bears the name Snow.

⸻ WORKS / IN PROGRESS:

1. A Bastard from the North

2. Barnacles and Dragons

3. A Matter of Water, Snow and Fire

The Taming of the Dragon, 3 ✷ Aemond Targaryen

PAIRING: Aemond Targaryen / F!OC

SUMMARY: One evening, Aemong, in dire need of clearing his head, catches a Dragonkeeper on the beach tending to Vhagar. The Queen of Dragons doesn't seem bothered by the stranger's presence. Quite the opposite. Aemond is immediately intrigued. Even more so when he discovers that the stranger is a girl who comes from the North and bears the name Snow.

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         How ironic for the House of Fire and Blood to concern itself with Water.

Driftmark and its succession haunted everyone's thoughts. A blue thorn in the back of those who held the kingdom together.

Aemond’s last vision of Driftmark had been one of blood and pain. Crimson waves had washed away his admiration for the endless sea and the sunny horizon. The only cherished memory he held close to his heart was Vhagar. The rest, he preferred to forget. His eye, hidden under his leather patch, seemed to burst into flame. The pain, petty and merciless, reminded him that he would never be able to get rid of this evening.

Lucerys Strong deserved neither Water nor Fire, and certainly not Driftmark.

The blood fever that kept Corlys Valeryon bedridden cured Aemond’s eternal suffering. Boiling water calmed the dragon's fire which, for ten years, had never stopped dancing and burning those who got too close. He was already looking forward to seeing his nephew's shoulders slumping, his chin drooping and his brown eyes glistening. The only sea he would rule would be that of his tears. Aemond had no regard for the succession of the island—the affairs of the Valeryons had long ceased to interest him—but the prospect of seeing the sadness and disappointment painted on his bastard nephew’s childish face would bring him more joy than any present.

For Lucerys Valeryon would not win, not when Otto Hightower sat on the Iron Throne in his father’s stead.

His half-sister, armed with her usual gall, would parade her bastards around shamelessly, proclaiming loud and clear that Driftmark was rightfully theirs. He laughed, alone in his quarters.

Lucerys Valeryon was not a leader and certainly not a lord. He remembered the little boy who always hid behind his older brother, always involved in Aegon's tasteless pranks. Lucerys Valeryon—no, Strong—was just a rag doll with no backbone, given life and the desire to rule by the stupid words his whore of a mother had insisted on pounding into his head.

“Your Highness, your mother the Queen asks that you join her at the gates.”

Aemond dismissed the servant with a nod and took one last look at his mirror. His violet eye lingered on the piece of leather that crossed half his face—the continuation of the scar on his cheek. No. Lucerys Strong didn't deserve Driftmark.

He turned and stomped off towards the entrance, leaving behind him the glimmering shadow of a blade which, that evening ten years ago, had blinded him as much as the blow.

The prince left his chambers. He could already see himself in the throne room, tired of listening to the pleas of people whose blood was supposedly as pure as his own. Vaemond and Rhaenyra would strut into the Red Keep and then into the throne room, chins up, shoulders straight—the very image of pride—to fight for a bloodline that was doomed. The dynasty of Old Valyria, tainted by the vices of a woman and the obsession of a man. The blood in their veins did not bleed red; their wrongs had blackened it.

Like many other houses, the Valeryon dynasty would kill itself, leaving behind only bastards and stagnant water. Aemond would feast on their demise in silence but with a certain jubilation.

“Do you know why I have been summoned?” he asked his sworn protector.

“Your sister the princess has arrived, Your Highness.”

His only eye twitched with anger. Of course she had. He took a deep breath but continued walking. The corridors of the Red Keep flashed by with his hurried steps.

The sooner he greeted them, the sooner he could leave.

Aemond soon reached the great doors. They alone separated him from his past. The swollen skin of his eye throbbed. It seemed to boil. Water had defeated fire once. He clenched his fist. Sometimes he felt like ripping off half his face. The pain had never subsided. It lay dormant, waiting for the right moment to leap up and paralyse him.

The sapphire in his eye socket had done nothing to appease his sorrow nor his pain. It was just a way for his mother to forget her son was now just a crippled. Its colour would always remind him of Driftmark. He carried the sea in his eye and, when he dared to face his reflection in the mirror, was reminded of it daily.

At the sight of him, the soldiers posted on either side of the doors opened them. He held his breath and rushed outside. The cool wind whipped across his face, calming for a few seconds the storm that was growing inside him. A few soldiers were training here and there. Others were making their rounds.

Aemond looked around but didn't see his mother, his grandfather and certainly not his father, confined to bed by illness and old age. This impotence had brought them this far. Vaemond Valeryon would never have dared contradict the King if he could still defend his beloved child.

Viserys was the cause of many things.

A roar made him raise his head. The long body of Caraxes twisted to land in the courtyard. Its red scales reminded Aemond of the flags his mother had had removed and replaced with the symbols of the Seven. His uncle, Daemon Targaryen, as proud as ever, dismounted nonchalantly, Black Sister swinging from his belt. Aemond dreamed of touching, even brushing his fingertips against, the legendary sword.

A relic of the Conquest.

Aemond did not feel the same visceral hatred for his uncle that sometimes paralysed him. Admiration and respect for Daemon mixed with rage to create an intoxicating concoction.

He only felt that way with another person, whom he preferred to leave to the beach and the night.

Syrax's yellow scales sparkled in his field of vision and tore the thin smile that had so far tugged at Aemond's lips. Vermax and Arrax, small as they were, enraged him to no end. One by one, the dragons landed and shook the ground. A dust storm whirled around and reached Aemond at the top of the steps. He rubbed his black tunic with his hand and gloated when he saw that none of their mounts compared to Vhagar, not even the Blood Wyrm. The prince felt a deep sense of satisfaction at this. It ran through his veins and soothed him.

Aemond, in a rare childish whim, refused to pay the slightest attention to Luke. The pain in his eye seemed to intensify at the mere proximity of the boy. He resisted the urge to cup the left side of his face and straightened his shoulders. The rustle of a cloth drew him from his thoughts. His mother stopped beside him and gave him a thin smile. Worry deepened the wrinkles that, over the years, had multiplied around her eyes and her lips, which were always pursed.

Jacaerys dismounted his dragon. His nephew, though still plain-looking, had grown. His build had thickened and reminded him of a certain Harwin Strong. He chuckled. His mother placed a hand on his forearm. A warning. He didn't care. No one could deny that his sister's first three children were bastards. Even a blind man wasn't naive enough to believe the sweet lies that his whore sister's angelic face spouted.

“Embrot.”

“Inkot!”

“Jātās! Jātās I said!”

Orders in High Valyrian rang out.

A horde of dragonkeepers, covered head to toe in their black armour, surrounded the newcomers and busied themselves around the restless beasts.

Dragonstone, carved out of cold stone, was warmed only by the fire of the wild dragons that populated the island. There were no keepers in this fortress. The dragons knew only their riders and would kill anyone who dared approach them. Arrax tried to char one of the guards, completely ignoring Luke's panicked cries.

If he couldn't control his dragon, how could he hope to rule Driftmark? The Blacks’ nerve could not erase reality—they were undeserving.

Aemond's eyes feasted on this spectacle of incompetence, but his smile soon faded when he spotted a female figure, a whirl of pale skin and brown hair, among the guards.

Snow.

He frowned and watched her walk towards Vermax. She raised her arms towards the dragon, palms outstretched, to calm it down. Beside her, Jace, instead of following his family as they gradually drew closer to Aemond and his mother, began to talk to her. Their heads came closer together. Aemond watched Lucella throw her head back and laugh, all under his nephew's satisfied gaze.

The prince clenched his fists. Why was she there? Wasn't she his dragon's appointed keeper? Vhagar needed her more than that miserable Vermax.

As if she could hear his thoughts, Lucella suddenly met his gaze. She frowned and turned back to Jace, who noticed the exchange and raised an eyebrow. An unpleasant sensation lodged in Aemond's chest and made him itch.

Two bastards together. He laughed at the thought, but his hilarity painfully hit his throat. A lump had got stuck there and was choking him. Why did he feel the need to come between them, to pull Lucella away from his nephew? His hands tingled. Thousands of small needles were screaming at him to do something, not to let the snow be contaminated by water. 

The dragon's fire blazed in his chest, burning away any sense of sanity.

He wanted Jacaerys to perish in the flames of his rage.

Aemond hadn't seen her for a week. Yet her face and the contours of her lips had never left him. She haunted him. In the evenings, her accentuated voice echoed in his thoughts.

Since their eventful meeting, Lucella and Aemond had crossed paths several times on the beach. Their shared love for Vhagar prevented them from killing each other, although he often felt like doing so, for Lucella Snow couldn't keep her mouth shut. The few times they spoke, her sharp words, as sharp as a blade, cut into the cage around his chest.

This cordial understanding soothed his senses and prevented him from dreading his visits to the beach. He had given up going out alone at night, for Lucella Snow never left his side, even when she wasn't there. He couldn't ride his dragon without thinking of the keeper.

She kept looking after Vhagar. The carcasses of charred sheep and game piled up on the beach, staining the white sand with their blood. The dragonkeeper avoided him. He didn't know why. Nothing had changed in their exchanges. Their duels of words, the winner of which always varied, had retained the same tenor, the same intelligence.

What had made her run away from him?

Lucella Snow had blended into the background, disappeared into the shadows, and escaped his blind spot. Aemond should have been happy. No more northern bastard with an unpleasant accent raging in his ears and insulting him at every turn. Yet something prevented him from rejoicing at this absence. He felt he was losing control and hated it.

Across from Jacaerys, Lucella burst out laughing.

He had never made her laugh. His insults sometimes drew a smile, though it was always tinged with resentment, and, more rarely, a snort. Lucella Snow didn't laugh. She would glare and insult you.

Lucella Snow was no laughing matter. You had to decipher her Nordic gibberish, which— intermingled with the insults and stubborn retorts to always have the last word—became particularly irritating.

And yet, Lucella Snow was laughing out loud with his nephew. His plain nephew. Aemond railed against the bastard who, like his mother, stole everything that didn't belong to him. Driftmark, the Iron Throne... And now Lucella Snow and her laugh.

That melodious sound, so clear, so different from her hoarse voice, stayed with him all day. He nodded absent-mindedly to his half-sister and her bastards. Neither Vaemond's nor Rhaenyra's plea echoed in his eardrums. All he could hear was her laughter, and all he could see was her face, her pink, stretched lips revealing astonishingly white teeth. Her hair went round and round in his mind.

He closed his only eye and prayed for a moment's respite, but the Gods turned a deaf ear to his plea.

His father burst in, reaffirmed Driftmark's succession to Lucerys, Vaemond dared to say what everyone else was thinking and lost his head in the process. His sister yelped; his brother turned his head; Aemond remained motionless for that damned laughter never left his thoughts and drove him mad.

He clenched his fists as his eye stared blankly at Vaemond's decapitated head.

Lucella Snow was driving him mad, whether she was there or not.

That evening, she still hadn't left his thoughts. He kept seeing the image of her, head back, smiling. Happy. Happy to talk to Jacaerys. Jacaerys, sitting next to Aegon—who was already drowning in wine—and his betrothed, was talking as if nothing had happened. As if he had not encroached on Aemond's territory. This made him furious. He sank into his usual silence but felt flames dancing in his chest. He waited and waited.

It was Luke's sneer when the roast pork was served that made him snap. His hand came down on the table and shook the glasses. Aemond took hold of his, still full, and raised it in the direction of the only two brown-haired boys, yet another example of their difference, their defect.

“Final tribute. To the health of my nephews. Jace… Luke… and Joffrey. Each of them handsome, wise… hm… strong.”

“Aemond.”

“Come... let us drain our cups to these three… Strong boys.”

“I dare you to say that again,” said Jacaerys, whose cheeks had become flushed.

The echo of a laugh resounded in his skull. The ghost of his nephew leaned towards Lucella. Aemond’s eye twitched. His thoughts darkened.

“Why? ‘Twas only a compliment. Do you not think yourself Strong?”

The bastard dared to punch him. Aemond threw one back and was delighted to hear his jaw crack. Their mothers stepped in as Aegon grabbed Luke by the hair and slammed his head against the solid oak table. Aemond could not contain his chuckled. He was reborn in the chaos and the pain of his nephew. His nephew who had dared to speak to Lucella, his dragonkeeper. Who had dared to make her laugh.

His mother dismissed him. He happily complied. Another second in Jacaerys' presence and he would have had to deal with much more than just a punch in the cheek. The fire that was burning every inch of his flesh—and whose first spark had ignited in the remnant of his eye—was not subsiding.

The flames intensified. They would consume him if he didn't get out of here.

Once outside, Aemond automatically headed for the Dragonpit. Fight fire with fire. He would feed off the dragons’ chaos and rejoice in their hot breath.

The prince didn't dare dwell on why. Why hadn't he headed for the beach, where he was sure to find Vhagar? Aemond kept quiet about this question—the answer to which he knew but didn't want to admit—and rushed into the pit.

His heart missed a beat and seemed to speed up at the same time.

Near the stairs where the Pink Dread had appeared years before, Lucella, staff in hand, was leading the dragons of Rhaenyra's clan forward. The eminent departure of the heiress to the throne had been quickly made known. The decision had been taken in haste. Rhaenyra would return to Dragonstone, where she reigned over her vices. King's Landing would no longer be contaminated by bastardy and manipulation. His grandfather and mother had made sure of that.

“Lykirī, Caraxes,” Snow's husky voice drew him from his thoughts. “Calm down. I don't want to use that.”

She shook her long wooden stick. Aemond had never seen Lucella use one. The other guardians never parted with it. They pricked the dragons' sides shamelessly and hit them when the creatures dared to rebel. Lucella did not stoop to such barbaric techniques. Her voice alone was enough to tame the most savage beasts. She had, after all, managed to bond with Vhagar.

Dragonkeepers forgot that the creatures in their care deserved respect and admiration. Only Snow understood this.

She grazed rather than poked Caraxes' rib.

Reluctance to hurt.  

Without being able to explain it, Aemond felt a certain satisfaction in knowing that she didn't need a stick when she was looking after Vhagar. The bond between the Northwoman and his dragon was unique. The first non-Targaryen to be able to touch her without dying.

A Northern girl who could tame dragons. She would inspire the minstrels of Flea Bottom, whose songs would overflow with metaphors about snow and fire. Lucella was a conundrum that Aemond couldn't decipher.

He hated not knowing. He had prided himself on his intelligence ever since he lost his eye. Luke had taken away his beauty, he would shine with his mind. Philosophy, science, nothing held any secrets for him except Lucella Snow, who symbolised everything her native land was not. 

The first time he had seen her, he had put her relationship with Vhagar down to luck. Perhaps his dragon, just as curious as he was, had become attached to this mongrel from the North. The days had passed. They had met again and Aemond had had to admit that the keeper knew what she was doing. He even dared to use the word “gift”, for no other dragon keeper possessed such an ability to tame beasts as she did: with love and respect.

For the first time in the history of Westeros, snow resisted fire. Ever white and strong, it extinguished flames.

Aemond did not move. He remained at the entrance of the pit and watched from a distance as Lucella calmed Caraxes with great gestures. The red dragon twisted in all directions to avoid her hands, but she was not discouraged. Her voice became firmer. He stiffened as he heard her order Daemon's dragon not to move.

“Lucella!”

The woman turned her head. One of the keepers appeared on the staircase. She was reluctant to leave the Blood Wyrm in the hands of one of the Elders. He had to pull her arm away from it. The Elder grabbed her staff and struck a clean blow into Caraxes' side. The dragon roared. A few waves of smoke escaped from his snout. A warning. Lucella clenched her fist and looked as if she wanted to say something to the Elder, but the other keeper called to her again. She joined him, shoulders tense, eyebrows furrowed.

Aemond watched them talk. From here, he couldn't tell what they were saying, but it seemed serious. They whispered urgently and glanced at the staircase. The keeper pointed to it. Lucella nodded. Aemond watched the girl disappear down the stairs. Something urged him to act. He pushed against the unpleasant memories—a winged pig and a dragon ready to char him— and followed.

Aemond could not see a thing. The dragons' only source of light was their fire. The guards armed themselves with torches to navigate this labyrinth of great galleries and endless corridors. Lucella strode with disconcerting ease in the complete darkness. A few torches here and there illuminated their surroundings, but he had to squint to make out Lucella's silhouette walking at a hurried pace.

Seeing that dragons were condemned to darkness, Aemond was glad that Vhagar didn't have to live in there. His gaze remained fixed on Lucella. She walked without hesitation. The pit held no secrets for her. She knew exactly where she was going and why. His guide in the dark.

“I have not seen you on the beach for a long time. Are you not supposed to be tending to Vhagar? The dunes and the fresh air are probably more pleasant than this… rat hole,” he glanced around wearily.

Lucella flinched, as she did every time they met. A small smile stretched Aemond's mouth. She was almost cute, startled out of her wits. He instantly chastised himself. Lucella Snow was not cute: she was an angry and sarcastic woman who constantly made inappropriate remarks.

The keeper rolled her eyes.

“What are yeh doin’ ere? Don't yeh ‘ave princely duties to attend t’?”

She had quickly abandoned all politeness. Had she ever had any? Their first encounters had exuded a certain reserve that annoyance had swept aside with a wave of its hand. The North and its lack of manners had quickly caught up with her. Aemond still couldn't understand why she spoke to him as if he were a commoner and not the prince, son of her king. The North may have worshipped their Warden, the Starks, but the Targaryen monarchy and power did not stop at the Neck.

“Vhagar don’t need me all th’ time,” she finally said when she saw he wouldn't answer. “She ‘as a rider. Would be good if he remembered. ‘ave neither t’ desire or t’ patience to carry dead sheep on me shoulder every day.”

“You are a dragonkeeper. The crown houses you, feeds you and gives you money to look after dragons.”

“Aye! Dragons. Not just one. Vhagar can look aftah ‘erself for a few hours. She survived Aegon's conquest, she'll survive three hours withou’ a pat on t’ ribs. Sunfyre needs me, Dreamfyre too. ‘nd wi’ Rhaenyra... Four more dragons is nah mean feat, let me tell yeh tha’. Not tha’ it matters anymore. People say you've lightened me workload. I thank yeh for tha’. I don't s’ppose dinnah went well? Was the meat not cooked to yer liking, yer ‘ighness?”

Lucella curtsied ungracefully. Her favourite mockery. Each time, she reminded him that she didn't care about his royal title.

“It concerns you not.”

“Hm… Well,” she shrugged. “I guess wine will loosen yer brother's tongue soon enough. Th’ Street of Silk is t’ best place t’ learn royal business. Everyone says so.”

She turned left into a seemingly endless corridor. He didn't know exactly how long they had been walking or the reason for this expedition.

“Just wish I could’ve looked after Vermax a litt’ longer. Tha’ an interesting character right ther’”

He laughed. It sounded bitter.

“His rider as well, I suppose?”

She turned and stared at him but said nothing. Lucella continued to advance into the pit. Aemond followed. An unpleasant feeling weighed down his shoulders. He opened his mouth several times but could not come up with something satisfactory to say. The image of her laughing at Jacaerys flashed in his mind. How had he done it?

“Do you not miss working in the pit?” he finally asked.

“Nay. It's not healthy t’ be so immersed in the dark. Some o’ t’ guards ‘ave gone mad. Even the North ‘s more welcoming. The dark always passes. Not ’ere. I prefer t’ beach, even if it means yeh’re there,” she glanced over her shoulder at him. “Vhagar is happier than any o’ those dragons. It's awful, t’ way they're treated. If I ‘ad me way, they'd be flyin’ free over King's Landing. A dragon is no slave that can be chained up in t’ dark ‘nd taken out when its rider wants t’ get some fresh air. I've always– Look out!”

Lucella pulled him out of the path of the flames. A dragon, illuminated by the blaze, appeared in his field of vision for a few seconds and disappeared into the darkness just as quickly. His heart pounded against his chest. His hands trembled. He saw himself again, ten years earlier, in the same position. He closed his eye.  

“Fuck!”

Lucella screamed in pain. The distinctive smell of charred flesh rose to his nose. Aemond looked down. In the darkness, he could make out the keeper’s burnt arm. She yelped. The sound tore at Aemond's heart.

A rumble sounded, followed by a second. One by one, the dragons awoke. Lucella swore.

Despite her injury, she pulled the prince towards the exit. He followed her like a puppet, with no resistance in his limbs.

She was touching him.

For the first time.

They left the darkness behind them. Aemond's violet eye fell on Lucella's arm. Her armour had taken the brunt of the attack, but leather was no match for the Dracarys of an enraged dragon. Iron, dragonglass, Valyrian steel... The fire nibbled at everything, leaving nothing but ashes. The usually pale flesh of the female keeper was now nothing but a jumble of black and pink. Melted leather had mixed with the raw wound. He grimaced. It would leave a scar. Only now did Aemond notice that, unlike the other guards, Lucella's face and body had not been marred by the flames.

Before him and his careless mistake, a small, petty voice whispered to him. He did not try to quiet it. It was right. Because of his stupidity, she was suffering. A lump caught in Aemond's throat.

They went out of the pit, onto the open arena. Lucella grumbled under her breath. She berated him for having followed her and distracted her.

“Princes ‘ave no business in the pit! Yeh always want t’ play great lords… saviours… Whatevah! And yeh expect people t’ pick up the pieces yer idiocy caused! The nerve of yeh!”

Hatred took over and soothed her suffering. He let her scream. Perhaps that was the best remedy, for, no doubt, the adrenalin would soon evaporate and leave her weak and feverish.

“We must treat the wound as quickly as possible. I will summon Maestre Mullynn. He'll know what to do. He's the one who stitched up my eye, so he'll probably be able to–”

“Leave me be. Yeh’ve done enough. Go do what princes do. Fuck a whore, play knight, whatevah... I don’t give no fuck. Go.”

For once, he didn't comment on her vulgarity and simply repeated what he had just said. If she didn't see a Maester and treat her burns immediately, she risked much more than a simple scar. Aemond dared to put a hand on her shoulder.

The feel of her skin against his made him lose his train of thought. In his heart, a flame different from the others ignited. He leaned into this pleasant, softer, warmth.

Lucella jerked away from his grasp and stomped on the flame, leaving him cold as stone. She held back a cry of pain through clenched teeth and pressed her arm against her chest. One eye wasn't enough to hide the tremors that shook her arm. He clenched his fist. He would carry her all the way to Maestre Mullynn if he had to. Lucella had to treat that arm.

“I must insist... He–”

“Get lost, for fuck’s sake!”

Aemond stood still, surprised by the explosion. He was not facing a Northern bastard, but a dragon. A dragon ready to destroy everything in its path. In her amber eyes burned the flame of resentment. She had become the Stranger and promised death to anyone who dared stand in her way. Aemond had come close to Death many times. It had never looked so frightening.

He watched her walk away helplessly, her hand trembling on her fragile arm.

His eye itched. He didn't understand why.

As he passed through the gates of the Red Keep, Ser Criston Cole summoned him to the Small Council Chamber. His mother told him that his father, the King, had died and that Aegon was to be crowned.

A tear rolled down his cheek. He was not sad.

Princess Lucerys Velaryon

Aemond literally melts when you touch him.

He is devoted to your caresses and your touch, no matter how small. A simple brush of your hands, a caress on his injured cheek, a loving kiss on his forehead, any token of affection, no matter how small, means the world to him.

He grew up deprived of that kind of affection, his mother being the only one who held him in her arms in an embrace, although aemond never felt them as true as yours.

There is something about you that gets him, something that compels him to stay in constant contact with you, even when you are in public and surrounded by people, his hand always lingers on some part of your body; holding your hand under the table, squeezing your thigh or caressing your lower back. Whatever makes him feel your warmth is enough.

In public try to be more reserved, not as demonstrative as when it's just the two of you in your bedroom.

Inside those four walls where it's just the two of you, aemond feels free. Free from that cold and disinterested facade he usually shows to his surroundings, free from that uncomfortable patch covering his injured eye, free from his title of prince.

In his bedroom, hugged tightly against your chest while his arms are wrapped around your waist, with your legs intertwined and your hands stroking his hair to relax him; in that exact moment, it's just him. He is not the one-eyed prince, he is not the king-killer, he is not that frightened boy who lived in the shadow of a dragon that did not exist. He was simply aemond.

Your aemond.

Your husband, that same man who shows himself indifferent and cold to everyone, is the same man who cuddles every night with you, who fills you with kisses and caresses, the one who melts every time you flatter him and whisper sweet words like a prayer, the one who every time you kiss his scar his eyes shine and he blushes.

That same man you could call your own, was totally different in the safety of your arms. He loved when your hands played in his hair making braids or just stroking it, when you unknowingly played with his hands, caressing every roughness caused by training or by Vhagar's reins, when you gently caressed his back to make him sleep peacefully or when he enjoyed a relaxing bath with you in his arms splashing soft kisses on your bare neck.

Aemond felt at home every time you were with him, by his side.

Muse Food

I firmly believe in feeding one’s muse, whenever I get an idea for a fic that I know will never do I like to share it and see if anyone else’s muse finds it appetizing!

Free Muse Food:

Heard this and the lyrics immediately made me think of Aemond Targaryen but it could easily be applied to a TON of characters.

Enjoy!

Hey there, tumblr!

I'm looking for a specific fic. Pairing: aemond x reader. Setting Hunger Games AU.

Plot: Reader is from District 12, Aemond is from District 2. Daemon is a Reader's mentor who gave has given her a mockingjay pin which helps Aemond to recognise her and they form partnership.

SPOILERS! In the end the only survivors are Aemond, Alys, and Reader. In the final fight Aemond and Reader overpower Alys. Since they cannot stay both alive due to the gamemakers' conditions, Aemond and Reader almost commit suicide but are stoped by the gamemakers.

Has anybody seen it here? I lost access to my previous account with all the subscriptions and cannot recover it...