Aemond - Tumblr Posts

Everyone wants to talk about Aemonds 1000+ day Duolingo streak and Aegons 1 day streak, but no one wants to talk about Sunfyre and his 2000+ day streak

Sunfyre:

An Act of Service

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x reader

Summary: Your father has loyally served the Iron Throne and royal family for many years. No one would ever assume the Grand Maester wanted more for his family's name until he has the opportunity to send his daughter to help treat the pain that's plagued Prince Aemond since the childhood injury that cost him his eye.

Warnings/info: canon deviations (maesters are vowed to celibacy and not allowed to have families bc of the exact political reasons this fic follows, but i really wanted to write this, so we're going to pretend that they can have kids), thinly veiled implications of reader's father wanting to "sell" his daughter out to a prince to aid his family's position

A/n I hate to be the part 2 girl but the ending set up a part 2 so well i may have to

----

It's systemic, the proportioning of herbs so familiar you barely need to glance away from the bronze mortar.

Your arm reaches forward, your eyes briefly darting away from the metal bowl and towards the neatly organized botanicals at your father's work station. You reach for dried petals, the remnants of a rose's remains crumbling slightly beneath your touch.

"Very well," the words are earnest, a rarity when it comes to your father's praise. "But do not get so comfortable you forget your measurements. These remedies may be creations that we feel, but they are also exact."

You nod once, allowing the petals to fall into the mortar before setting your hand against the work table. Your father's unofficial lessons are precarious, often based on his mood and defined by his meticulous nature. He did not achieve his position within the Red Keep through careless work.

Today, he seems content, his peace evident in the lightheartedness of his corrections. Days like this keep your world on its axis, the time with your father making you ever grateful for his position as well as your own. It is rare for a Maester's child to be allowed to stay near their father, let alone work within the same home as him. His place within the Red Keep allowed him the privilege of bringing you and your younger sister to work as royal maids after your mother's passing.

"Of course."

He plucks another petal from the jar, dropping it into the bowl with no sense of malice. You're glad for his patience, but in all honesty, you're grateful for his attention and lessons no matter his disposition.

As a woman, you may never be able to become a Maester or dedicate your life to the work that fascinates you, but his lessons still hold great value. You help your father heal others between your domestic labors within the Red Keep, and at times, you aid sick or injured members of the royal staff.

He nods approvingly, giving you the confidence to reach for the pestle. You begin to grind the combined herbs sitting inside the mortar.

Hurried footsteps echo from somewhere beyond your father's door. You hesitate, eyes darting towards the entrance. You are not barred from assisting your father with his labors, but many frown on the idea of a woman so close to such an important Maester's work.

The door is pushed open with a protesting groan from its tired hinges. The individual turns, revealing a too familiar uniform. A guard.

You blink, immediately turning your attention towards the unfinished herbal remedy in front of you.

"Grand Maester," the man's greeting is curt, uncertain as he glances in your direction. You busy yourself with blending your herbs. "It is the prince, once again pained by his missing eye."

That alone tells you all you need to know about the guard's hesitation to speak in front of you. You've never once spoken to Prince Aemond, but everyone knows of the childhood injury that cost him his eye. Some maids even claim that a great deal of current political turmoil stems from the mistake that occurred during youth driven roughhousing.

The recurring pain that has afflicted the prince since is a lesser known ailment. Over the years, your father has often been called to the prince's apartments at odd hours to clean and treat the prince's permanent injury, late at night or during the early hours of the morning, when the halls of the Red Keep are most empty.

Your father moves away from the work table and towards the shelf of prepared medications. "Did the prince describe the pain? An ache, soreness..."

"It is a burning pain," the guard begins, "The prince did not go into detail, but he did say his skin felt warm."

Your father stills. "That is not his usual ailment." He turns to face the guard. "I will need to cleanse the eye before the pain can be treated."

The guard is silent for such a long moment you find it in you to look away from the safety of the work table. "His highness...The prince has mandated that no Maesters be brought to him. He only wishes for me to bring him the salve you offered him last."

The Grand Maester begins to pace forward. "May I send his highness the girl?"

Your hand stalls too suddenly, the pestle striking the mortar's side. Surely, your father is referencing some--some other girl. A prince's maid that he is familiar with, or--

"My daughter has witnessed and aided me in my practices her entire life. She is well versed in the process of cleaning injuries and applying remedies in a way that avoids contamination." The guard is silent as his attention shifts onto you.

The guard finishes regarding you with no real flourish. He looks over at your father. "The prince's desires were clear, he does not want more people aware of the situation than necessary."

"You would have a prince of the realm apply a salve himself to an already agitated wound without first having it properly cleansed?" He begins to walk forward, approaching the guard with a confidence you've seen him wear before. "I am more than willing to serve him at a later hour, but his ailments do concern me, and time is a significant factor."

The guard says nothing as your father continues to take measured steps towards him. "She offers the prince the discretion of a maid and the skill of a Maester."

Warmth begins to burn its way up your neck. You had never been put into the position to work closely with the royal family, only ever seeing them from a distance. That does not mean you have not heard stories.

You're not a particularly shy or nervous maid, you understand your place and the importance of keeping silent. But the princes...gossip about them often permeates the maids' quarters. Prince Aegon and his entitlement, Prince Aemond and his anger. Why is your father attempting to throw you to the dragon's? Is he--is he that concerned about the prince's current state?

The guard's eyes briefly find yours. "She can't tell anyone."

Your lips part, unsure if the statement is meant for you or your father. Before you can think of anything to say, your father agrees on your behalf, "She is loyal to the crown and instruction. Rumors will not spread from my daughter's lips." There's a beat of silence, and then the guard's careful nod. "Very well. I will gather the necessary materials."

"I must return to my post, a maid will be sent to take her to the prince's apartments." With those final words, the guard begins to approach the door, glad to be done with his involvement on a change that may upset the prince.

Once the door shuts, and you are finally offered the privacy of your father's company alone, the dread you had been warding off burrows itself in your chest. "Father, why--why would you ask to send--"

"I have treated the prince for many years, more than other Maesters within the Red Keep because of his desire for privacy, discretion." Your father's attention returns to the already prepared remedies. He steals a small jar from its place, setting it on the work table. "You are well trained, and no one will assume you are there to treat the prince."

He opens a drawer of bandages. "You also have a kind disposition, and a patience with the injured that even the most experienced Maester would envy. The prince's exterior may be hardened, but I remember him as a sensitive child."

The reminder of his childhood wedges itself into your chest, distracting you from your own fears long enough for you to feel something akin to compassion. Forever suffering due to an injury inflicted by the brashness of childhood anger.

Your father sets the bandages next to the salve. He then reaches for a cleaning ointment you are familiar with, placing it on the work table as well. Now satisfied with his collected materials, his attention finally finds you.

He approaches you slowly, a fondness not often seen pooling in his eyes. If this is a way of bringing your father pride, perhaps this task will not be as dreadful as it seems. "You have matured before my very eyes, growing into your mother's heart and beauty."

Your father extends an arm, his palm coming to brush against your cheek. The gesture is easing, a display of affection he has rarely offered you since your mother's passing. His fingers settle against your hairline, his nails carefully combing a stray piece of hair behind your ear.

"If you are to walk through the halls of the Red Keep, your hair should not flow as freely as a child's." The comment digs at you in a way you do not comprehend. When no worthy reaction comes to mind, you nod.

He steps back, attention returning to the supplies laid out on the work table. "Be careful, take your time checking the prince for infection and other sources of irritation. See to his needs, you are a good, kind girl. I am sure you will find a way to offer the prince comfort."

You swallow, unease settling in your stomach once again. With that, your father turns away from you.

----

The residential halls of the red keep are vast, with never ending turns and stairwells that come together to form a sort of labyrinth. Despite your lack of familiarity with the prince's maid that came to find you, you are grateful for her guidance.

She eyed you and the laundry basket disguising your medical supplies skeptically, but made no attempts to question you as she led you through the castle. Maids that are tasked with the direct care of the royal family tend to be familiar with the other staff members that work closely with the nobles. This woman has already recognized you as an oddity, a stray in routine.

If she had seemed less hesitant to be around you, you would have liked to ask her for her name, and to perhaps find a sense of normalcy through common ground. Her rejection and pointed distance has forced you to try to find a sense of peace through your surroundings.

You've rarely found reasons to wander through this part of the castle, the beauty of it serving as a way of distracting your racing thoughts.

Your guide stalls in front of a large set of doors. "These are the prince's apartments." She pushes open the doors, allowing you to enter before her. "The prince is resting in the room behind the seating area."

Your eyes land on the wooden door behind the small couch. One misstep in that room and things could very well be over for you and your family.

"Will you be able to find your way back?" The question is small, almost hesitant. You're sure she was tasked with getting you to and from the prince's apartments, but there's something about her stance that feels flighty. She does not want to enter the room the prince is resting in.

You have no way of knowing how Aemond reacts to treatments or his own pain, but if he fears the court gossiping about ailments enough to refuse a visit from a Maester, you doubt he takes well to maids witnessing his vulnerability.

"Yes," an act of mercy for you both, "Thank you for bringing me here, but I am certain I can make it back on my own."

She lets out a breath, nodding once. "Then I will return to my usual duties."

Considering that her usual duties revolve around Aemond, there's a good chance she's simply accepting the opportunity to excuse herself. You don't mind, glad for the excuse to not draw attention to what you're here for. She leaves you without another word.

You approach the door pointed out to you, firmly rapping your knuckles against the wooden surface once. A flat, "enter" provides you the strength to push open the door.

The details of the room are more intriguing than you can afford them to be, the intricate patterns on his walls and the ornate carvings etched into his bed frame so enticing a part of you nearly forgets of the prince.

You blink, forcing yourself to focus in an attempt to project the maturity your father had seen in you when he recommended you for this task.

You step further into the room, your eyes landing on the bed. There he is, head resting against the pillow, majority of his body covered by plush bedding.

Your father has only ever felt honored to care for members of the royal family, no matter Prince Aemond's sentiments, you're sure you'll feel something similar. "My prince?"

His head turns, the movement sluggish. "You...Who are you?" The words are more labored than they are defensive. That is not enough to ease the dread in your chest.

You exhale carefully, "The Maester--the Grand Maester sent me." You remain near the doorway, your hold on the laundry basket tightening. "I have a salve for your ailments."

He lifts his head further, his forearm pressing into the mattress. This new angle allows you to see the entirety of his features, the sharp slope of his jaw, the set of his lips...the jagged scar that cuts across porcelain skin. He regards you with an openness that leaves you without words.

The scar that marks him does not dull the beauty of his well sculpted features. Seeing him like this, studying him and what the loss of his eye has taken from him leaves your face warm, as if you've been caught searching for something not meant for you. You've never heard of a maid that's seen him without his sapphire eye.

"Alright." The response feels significantly less hostile than he was a moment before. "Leave it at my bedside table."

You walk forward carefully, mind begging you to think of a way to bring up why your father sent you here. "My pri--"

"You did not answer my question." The authority in his statement doesn't feel like an accusation. When you remain silent, he continues. "You are not my usual maid, the one who is sent to retrieve items from the Maester."

"No," you agree, "The Maester suggested that I bring you your remedy because he found the description of your pain slightly worrisome. He wanted to abide by your wishes to not be visited by a Maester while also assuring that your injury was properly cleansed before being treated." After a beat of no response, unease burrows itself further into your chest. "I can leave you, if you'd pref--"

He turns his head to better look at you, strands of silver hair falling past his shoulder. "What could possibly qualify you to cleanse a wound?"

The question, though delivered sharply, is a fair one. "The Grand Maester, my father..." If the revelation intrigues him in any way, he gives no indication of it. "Has had me assist him with his duties nearly my entire life. I have been trained in basic care and am confident in my ability to properly cleanse a wound."

Prince Aemond is silent for a moment, watching you with an all consuming focus. You've heard stories of his intensity, of his seriousness. The prince pushes himself to sit up fully. "Very well. The maid before you left clean water and rags at my bedside."

Your attention shifts to his nightstand, a small bucket and wash cloth waiting on the hardwood surface. You nod, digging through the clean sheets of your basket until you find the remedies and bandages your father had picked out for you. You lay out your supplies before looking over at the prince.

He has always seemed tall to you, but with him sitting in his bed, you cannot think of a proper way to lean over him to reach his eye while standing. You turn your head, eyes landing on a small desk and chair tucked into a corner. "My lord, would you mind if I..." You gesture towards the chair.

"Do as you need."

You nod in acknowledgement of his permission before moving the chair to his bedside. You dip the soft rag into the water before sitting. The proximity of your new position is oddly disorientating. Small Folk may not be held to the same pious standards as noble born women, but your father has raised you with certain expectations and regulations. With the exception of family, you doubt you've ever been this close to a man.

You lift the rag, but you cannot bring yourself to press it against his skin. "May I?"

He straightens. "Yes."

Even with that, you cannot will yourself to begin the cleaning process. Your father has always been careful when it comes to treating others, following every rule no matter how minor the injury. "My father has taught me to feel the area bordering the wound before cleaning it to make sure the extent of the injury is understood. However, I know this is an older wound, so if you'd prefer for me to only clea--"

"You may do as your father instructed. I am accustomed to the prodding." Sympathy briefly jabs at you. This is something he's experienced for over half his life.

You nod before lifting your free hand, fingertips gently brushing against his cheek. His skin is warm, perhaps a little warmer than a person should be. Your fingers shift forward gingerly, following the path of his scar. The closer you get to his eye, the warmer his skin feels.

"You don't look like him."

The comment pulls you out of your analysis. "Pardon me?"

"Your father," he tries again, "You don't look like him."

If his tone had been any less soft, you might have interpreted the observation as an accusation. "Oh, no." Your touch continues its path across his features. "Actually, I've often been told I take after my mother."

The skin around his eyebrow feels different than the rest of his injury, puffier, as if beginning to swell. Odd. "Does she work in the Red Keep as well?"

His curiosity is jarring, but not unwelcome. Having an excuse to speak makes focusing on such a personal task seem less invasive. "She did..." You blink in an attempt to reduce the impact of thoughts of what happened to your mother. You're doing well, you cannot allow an old grief to ruin everything. "Before she passed."

Prince Aemond hums once, the sound giving no indication of anything. Pleased with your preliminary analysis, you let your hand fall away from him. You turn to once again dampen the cloth held between your fingers.

"What happened?" The question is void of both empathy and brutal curiosity.

You bring the cloth to the side of the Prince's face. "She died..." Your only defense against his gaze is to focus on the irritated skin near his eyelid. Such swelling on such an old wound cannot be typical. "Bringing my sister into the world."

He falls silent again, allowing you to concentrate on dabbing the washcloth against his cheek. "I'm sorry."

Heat begins to burn its way up your chest, the way it always does when your mind dwells on the loss of your mother for too long. "I appreciate your sympathies, my prince."

Water beads against his skin, a single droplet beginning to drip downwards. Your hand stretches forward on instinct, thumb dragging against the hollow of his cheek to wipe away the water.

You do not realize your error until it is much too late. While wiping away the excess water dripping down the skin of an equal is expected, to do so to a prince without so much as asking first implies a familiarness that you are not entitled to.

"My lord, I apologize--there was water--" You stumble through your explanation while pulling your hand back.

Aemond extends his arm, long fingers latching themselves onto your wrist. His touch, though sudden, is far from harsh. You cannot manage to take in a full breath. "There is no need for apologies." He does not release you until you nod.

You return to cleaning his wound, this time making sure to be aware of your instinctual movements. The flesh above what once was his eyelid is jarringly hot. What would your father do? He'd--he'd examine the irritated area.

You shift towards him, so close you can make out individual strands of his silver hair. Your mind works at keeping your breaths even. There is a small area of his skin that's more swollen than the rest. At the center of the swelling, there's a thin line that seems to extend beneath his brow bone and into the space once occupied by his eye. As gently as you can manage, you lift the cloth to the space above his eyelid. He winces.

"I'm sorry." You're immediately pulling back, your spine pressing against your seat. "Are you hurt?"

Aemond's eye flits away from the wall in front of him and onto you. His lips are pressed together, his expression incredibly stoic. "No." The lie is a fragile thing that cannot matter. You saw him flinch. "If anything, you have been more thoughtful than most."

There's a tentative softness laced through the syllables, a hesitance that does not suit him. His careful assurance feels heavy, the pressure of it grounding you. In certain contexts, you can see how the strength of his personality could be perceived as violence, but there's something else to this quality...an intensity that can also apply to good things.

"I'm glad you feel that way." The nail of your thumb digs into the wash cloth. "I--I think I know why your eye has been troubling you, my prince."

His eyebrows draw together, expression coming dangerously close to displaying curiosity. "Why?"

"The skin just above your eye is slightly swollen and more irritated than the rest of your injury. When I examined the swelling more closely, I noticed a scratch." You pause, thinking through your wording. "It's small, but seems to be irritating the scarring around your original injury. You should have an ointment applied with your usual salve to ward off infection for the next few days."

You can't interpret the silence that follows. His expression morphs into something heavy. "A scratch?"

"It is nothing to be concerned about, my prince." The source of his pain is small, if he is careful, there should be no risk of infection or long term consequence. "Truly, the scrape is no wider than..." You glance around the room, looking for something to estimate the size of his injury. Your eyes fall to the hand on your lap. You lift your arm, holding your palm out between the two of you. "The width of my smallest finger."

Aemond lifts his own hand, his fingers bending around around yours. You let him move your arm forward. He studies your pinky before dragging his thumb against your knuckles. The gesture is so comfortable you have to work at not pulling away. He lets out a quiet breath.

"My prince?"

Aemond's hold on you tightens. "Such a dismissible ailment, and I am left defenseless."

Oh--had he taken your attempts at easing him as an insult? His current wound may be small, but skin so marred is easily agitated, easily made sick. "I did not mean it that way." The earnestness of your own voice should startle you. "Your pain is no dismissible thing, the extent of your original injury is brutal enough, I cannot imagine how it feels for it to be agitated."

The words tumble past your lips so quickly, you are not given a chance to think through them. It is never a good idea to express opinions in front of the nobles. "I apologize for over stepping, my lord."

"I told you," his thumb moves against your knuckles once more, "There is no need to apologize."

You nod, still not feeling completely certain. "You should feel much better after the remedies take. The swelling will likely begin to go down before day's end."

His focus remains on your hand. Aemond releases you slowly, his fingers dragging against your skin as he lets go. A part of you is glad for the excuse to return to the familiarity of your tasks.

You open the ointment, fingers gathering a generous amount before returning to Aemond's wound. "Where do you usually work?"

"Often with my father, preparing remedies and organizing herbs and other supplies." You spread the product onto his skin carefully, your touch as light as you can manage. "When I'm not doing that, I assist the other maids, usually with the laundry and in the kitchen."

He nods absentmindedly. You straighten as you finish applying the salve. You wipe your hands onto the discarded washcloth before unscrewing the jar containing the salve.

Aemond is still as you apply the salve onto irritated skin. This time, as your fingers trail against his skin, you can feel Aemond's gaze focusing on you. You work quickly, focusing your distribution of the product onto the cut beneath his brow bone.

Finishing is more bittersweet than you expected it to be. You're glad to know that you've done what's been asked of you, to know that you've done nothing to offend the prince. However, some small part of you is reluctant to leave.

You reach for the cloth, dampening the fabric before wiping your hands clean once more. "The medications should begin to alleviate your pain soon." You twist the rag between your fingers. "Is there anything else you need, my prince?"

He watches you for a moment. "Only your name."

Unease lunges at your chest, nearly making your heart skin a beat. It is quite rare for a noble to ask for a servant's name, especially if the servant does not regularly see to their needs. When Aemond continues to watch you expectantly, you offer him your name.

He tries your name on his own lips, repeating it slowly. Unsure of what the proper response would be, you briefly dip your chin downwards in a subtle nod.

His lips part. You straighten, preparing for the appropriate dismissal. "Sit with me a little longer." The phrasing is gentle, but it feels far from a question. "Conversation would be a decent distraction."

You wring the washcloth further. Cautionary tales of low borns who found themselves overly comfortable spending time with the royal family have been recited to you as often as traditional bedtime stories. However, there is nothing inherently wrong with making polite conversation if it is asked of you. Either way, the dangers do not matter. It'd be a fool's error to directly deny the prince.

"Of course, my prince."

The immediate silence that follows tangles your stomach. Aemond has asked you for conversation as a way to distract himself from his pain and you have nothing worth saying to a prince. You lift your head, glancing around the room. Your observations are in vain, what common ground could you both possibly have?

Your eyes land on his desk. There are a few books stacked neatly on the wooden surface, one with a familiar title written on its spine. "Are you reading The History of the Conquerors?" The question feels too abrupt without a clarification, "I finished the final volume less than a fortnight ago, my lord."

Aemond studies you so openly you almost convince yourself you've misspoken. "You read?"

Despite the politeness of his tone, his true question is easy to assume. A majority of maids and other royal attendants can only read certain words, being taught just enough to get through their day to day lives. Your father had gone out of his way to teach you to read fully. He originally taught you to read to make it easier for you to understand texts detailing remedies and health conditions, but you quickly developed a passion for any text he could bring you.

"Yes, my father taught me." You smooth the washcloth over your lap. "Originally, he wanted me to be able to read about treatments and diseases, and now he is forever cursed to find me new reading material." As soon as the words are out, you're immediately mentally cursing yourself for your casualness. "I apologize, my prince, that was a...joke."

He shifts, his hands coming to rest on his lap. "I told you not to apologize." The correction leaves an uncomfortable heat clawing its way up your chest. Your nails dig into the rag. Aemond lets out a breath. "And you do not have to trouble yourself with proper addresses."

That's--You know for a fact that no maids in the Red Keep have ever spoken of a noble dismissing the need for formal addresses. If it happens, it's something kept secret. Not even your father, who has known and treated the prince since he was child, addresses him casually.

You squeeze the wash cloth, the fabric dampening your palm. "Alright." The word sits there, floating aimlessly without his title to guide it.

Aemond nods before allowing his attention to shift towards the books on his desk. "Did you enjoy the book?"

"Yes." At least this is a topic you feel capable of speaking on. "The descriptions of the seven kingdoms before they were united together were interesting, I haven't found many historical accounts that go that far back."

He takes a moment to digest your response. "It is a detailed account, but at times the writing seems to overly rely on the author's perspective."

"To me, that felt intentional." The excuse to debate narration is more welcomed than it should be. "The author is only taking the time to recount these events because of his personal investments in the conflict. The constant references to his own position felt like an attempt to get ahead of any accusations of bias."

Aemond sits up a little straighter, one of his hands coming to rest on the side of his bed. "That's a fair interpretation, though if that's the assumption we're reading under, it is a poor attempt at denoting political bias when compared to The Recounting of the Dornish Wars."

The Recounting of the Dornish Wars is a relatively popular account, your father had no trouble finding you the first and third volume. The second volume seems to be more of a rarity, something no one in your world has been able to track down yet.

"That's a good point, but the author of that account was in a completely different situation." You fold the towel in half. "It's one of my favorite accounts, even without the context of the second volume, the depiction of the conflict is so thorough one can still understand all the dynamics that came into play."

Aemond taps his fingers against the comforter, the rhythm slow but steady. "Without the second volume?"

"I've yet to track it down, but I've read the first and final installments." The admission feels small, almost uncertain. You move past it quickly, hands fidgeting with the wash cloth on your lap as you continue, "What did you think of the final act? I liked the sharpness of the ending, but I can also see how the suddenness could come off as inconclusive."

His hands move back to his lap. "I enjoyed it. I found the ending's sharpness an accurate depiction of a dragon's strength."

Right. To him, the historical accounts and enthralling tales are more than just stories. They're a part of him, familial legacies he is expected to continue.

A part of working within the Red Keep is dismissing any curiosities you may have regarding what is left of Old Valyria. The Small Folk may think of the dragons, may even discuss them in private, but they do not ask their riders about them.

This is the danger of losing certain formalities, lines begin to blur. You squeeze your hands together before asking, "Really?"

The corner of his mouth pulls itself upwards. Aemond presses the heel of his palm into the mattress as he shifts. "Even the smallest dragons are more fearsome than you can imagine." He angles himself towards you, morphing the remaining distance between the two of you into something inconsequential. "Each of them capable of a destruction that could devastate entire armies."

You're more drawn in than you should be. There's very little you can offer in return. To the Small Folk, the dragons are closer to an ideology than something to be known. Your curiosity combines uneasily with the acute awareness of his proximity. You rest your chin against your elbow. "Your dragon is...Vhagar? The same one from the History of the Conquerors?"

His chin dips forward, making the gentle curve of his mouth impossible to ignore. The prince's sole eye remains on you as it is dragged downwards, the pace of his analysis so unhurried you can feel each moment of it. Bearing the weight of Aemond's full focus is no small feat.

"Vhagar was once ridden by Queen Visenya, who used her size and strength to help unite Westeros." His voice is low, giving the reminder of what is connected to him through blood the reverence it deserves. He shifts even closer, the warmth of his breath now a tangible force against your skin. "And now she is mine."

Heat claws at your skin. You feel your lips part, but there is no waiting response. Before you can string together a coherent set of words, the familiar echoing of footsteps brings you back to the world outside of Prince Aemond.

Your spine straightens on its own accord, the entirety of your back pressing against the seat. Your fingers find the wash cloth again, nails digging into the fabric as if attempting to make up for the time the fabric spent abandoned on your lap.

There's a soft knock agaisnt his door, one Aemond only halfheartedly acknowledges with a blank "enter". He does not move until the door begins to creak open, and even then his new positioning is subtle, more of a turn of his head than an actual attempt to create distance between the two of you.

A maid, the same woman who first led you through the twisting halls of the Red Keep, is standing in the doorway. Her gaze briefly finds you before settling onto the prince. "My Prince, the Queen wishes to meet with you in the great hall before supper."

Aemond is quiet for a moment. You cannot will yourself to look away from the doorway to read his expression in an attempt to understand the silence. "Alright, tell my mother I will be there in a moment."

The maid nods. "Of course, my prince." Her eyes fall to you once more, the corners of her mouth tugging downwards before she shuts the door.

You maintain your posture as silence falls over the two of you. He studies you with the same openness that's characterized most of this interaction. An odd pang of some somber feeling you can't quite place strikes at somewhere deep inside your bones. "Do you need anything else before you meet with the queen?"

He presses his lips together before responding, "There is a book at the end of my desk that I've been meaning to return to the library."

You nod, a part of you relieved to be given such an understandable task. You stand, arms reaching for the abandoned laundry basket before you've fully straightened. "Of course." You adjust the basket onto your hip before letting your attention fall to the supplies still on his nightstand. "I'll leave the supplies here so that you can reapply the ointment and salve before bed."

You step back, eyes falling to the desk chair. One arm falls away from the basket, fingers coming to grasp the seat's wooden spine. "You may leave it."

The instruction is strange, but you don't think much about releasing the chair. "Of course." You move a few paces back before looking over at him again. Much to your dismay, the newfound distance does not rid your mind of the warmth of his breath against your skin. "If you'd like, I can tell my father that you'd like him to visit you tonight to check on your eye."

"No," his tone is decisive, "I trust your work." An unexpected pride swells in your chest at his certainty. Aemond sits fully, his legs moving out from under his bedding and onto the floor. "In fact, I'd like you to return tonight to check on my recovery."

Tonight. Your mind leaves you with no response. It is one thing to be sent to treat the prince when you are the only option for him to maintain the privacy he desires, but to come to his apartments at the hours you've heard of your father being called during, when the world is quiet and all the well behaved are already in bed.

You force those thoughts to stall. Aemond is a prince, and this is only an act of service. This is not a source of impropriety. "Of course, I'll be here when you call."

His acceptance of your compliance serves as a dismissal. You turn towards his desk, your eyes scanning the neatly organized items before finding the sole book waiting at the surface's edge. A copy of the second volume of The Recounting of the Dornish Wars.

This cannot be more than mere coincidence. You blink, throat a little drier than it was a moment ago. You're careful as you pick the novel, your hand supporting the book's spine. "This--"

"The library is not expecting it back for some time, but I believe it is best to keep things orderly." His voice remains neutral, but the set of his mouth, the upturn of his lips is much too knowing to not imply more.

He has directed you to a copy of the book you've been searching for that no one will think to look for for some time. The gesture settles against you, squeezing your chest in a way that makes it difficult to keep breathing. You allow yourself to grin openly as your gaze shifts between the prince and the book in your hand. "I agree, my prince."

The title falls from your lips before you can prevent it. You had been doing so well at disregarding titles...Perhaps it had been an act of fate, or some desperate attempt of your subconscious to remind you that any imaginary kinship your mind has created while treating him needs to be forever abandoned at his apartment's threshold.

His expression morphs into something unreadable. Instead of reminding you of what he had told you about titles, he says, "Aemond." The suddenness of his name throws you. "When we are alone, I'd prefer it if you called me Aemond."

Warmth burrows itself in your chest. If you thought any of the casualness the prince had shown you throughout your time here was dismissible, this is the opposite of that. A nail in a coffin you do not understand.

Still, you nod, fingers tightening around the book as you respond, "Then...I agree, Aemond."

A sharp nervousness digs into your chest, taking control of your limbs as you turn away. You leave his room without another word, a maid's basket on your hip and the prince's book in your hand.

----

a/n if you want to see the reader come back to aemond's room later pls lmk bc i think a part 2 would be fun :)

So true.

It's also like the opposite version of that image. The prostitute and the kinslayer.

General reflections:

Although I am dissatisfied with the fact that we see so little of Aemond and that we are deprived of so many important scenes (not only of him, but of many other characters, for example Jace and the North), those two scenes in which he appears in the episode 2x02 they put such a sadness on me that I can't get out of it.

It's as if death is breathing down his neck with every step. In the scene where he returns to his chambers, death was there, it had come for him, it did not find him but left him a clear message: I will return, and I will also tell you where and when, and on that occasion you will not escape me. Then we see Aemond again at the brothel in a pose reminiscent of Michelangelo's Pieta, where Aemond is essentially the Dead Christ. I can't help but think about all this...

me and my mad bitches

The Green Council

I just appreciate this beautiful shot.

This makes me so mad, they were nothing but horrible to him and he still tried. Only to end up maimed by the end of the day…

"Aemond was evil all along"

“he always hated the Strong boys"

Also Aemond:

he has no right to look that fine

PRINCE AEMOND TARGARYEN House of the Dragon — The Black Queen

modern Aemond headcanons

I HAD A VISION

this one is born to succeed

his either into fencing or calisthenic, possibly even both

listening to classical music while studying

and he’s studying a lot, may I add

also, he’s reading a lot too, is a slut for Dostoyevsky

Crime and Punishment has a special place in his heart…

enjoys self-help books for personal development

something like atomic habits, 48 laws of power etc.

wakes up early, follows a productive morning routine

admires Machiavelli and Johan Liebert

has led lights in his room

and as we are talking about his room let me say it’s immaculate

Aemond's a history buff

enjoys discussing politics and philosophy especially

the Borgia family intrigues him deeply

perfectionist in various aspects, well organised

not a fan of going to the cinema

either avoids social media entirely or has accounts but rarely use it

has his !emo boy! moments here and there

likes to play knife game

speaks more than one language for sure

write from time to time, usually some thoughtful essays

listens to $uicideboy$ and phonk when he feels super edgy

is stargazing in secret

actually he’s quite sweet if you get to know him more

but it’s hard to get to know him more… :(

he wishes for someone who would understand

his day is incomplete without unhealthy amounts of coffee

helping Aegon do his homework even though he’s younger

genuinely likes spending time with his mother, they talk a lot and go on coffee dates

frenemies with Luke...

has soft spot for Helaena, would do anything for his sis

drives Helaena to her therapy sessions, always, without fail and never complains about it

likes the idea of stoicism but lack the patience, gets a little bit to silly sometimes…

wearing black (well, isn’t that obvious?)

is rocking that adidas black set look

or dark leather jacket with straight pants…

his hair is his crown, he puts much effort into it even though he denies it

Aegon teases him about it without no end

favours Calvin Klein boxers, wears them on a daily basis

plus points if wearing cool rings

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

you can find more of my works about aemond ♡here♡

i mean if i saw vhagar about to fry me up i too would scream cry shake throw up

Aemond Targaryen

CD:PRINCELUCERYS

Aemond killing off House Strong like:

If that's Aemond's chambers were fucking everywhere.

no lube, no protection, all night, all day, from the kitchen floor to the toilet seat, from the dining table to the bedroom, from the bathroom sink to the shower, from the front porch to the balcony, vertically, horizontally, quadratic, exponential, logarithmic, while I gasp for air, scream and see the light, missionary, cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, doggy, backwards, sideways, upside down, on the floor, in the bed, on the couch, on a chair, being carried against the wall, outside, in a train, on a plane, in the car, on a motorcycle, the the bed of a truck, on a trampoline, in a bounce house, in the pool, bent over, in the basement, against the window, have the most toe curling, back arching, leg shaking, dick throbbing, fist clenching, ear ringing, mouth drooling, ass clenching, nose sniffling, eye watering, eye rolling, hip thrusting, earthquaking, sheet gripping, knuckles cracking, jaw dropping, hair pulling, teeth jitterbug, mind blogging, soul snatching, overstimulating, vile, sloppy, moan inducing, heart wrenching, spine tingling, back breaking, atrocious, gushy, creamy, beastly, lip biting, gravity defying, nail biting, sweaty, feet kicking, mind blowing, body shivering, orgasmic, bone breaking, world ending, black hole creating, universe destroying, devious, scrumptious, amazing, delightful, delectable, unbelievable, body numbing, bark worthy, can't walk, head nodding, soul evaporating, volcano erupting, sweat rolling, voice cracking, trembling, sheets soaked, hair drenched, flabbergasting, lip locking, skin peeling, eyelash removing, eye widening, pussy popping, nail scratching, back cuts, spectacular, brain cell dissolving, hair ripping, show stopping, magnificent, unique, extraordinary, splendid, phenomenal, mouth foaming, heavenly, awakening, devils tango ever bro could cause a nuclear bomb inside me , make my ovaries implode , fill me to brim , make my eyes roll back , and I'd still be going at it.

Criston and Aemond!

I’m so pissed of that showrunners trying to make Aemond a total evil. He’s actually not in the books he didn’t try to kill his brother. They are doing dirty to our boy :(

Exactly , fucking exactly. I had to rewatch the scene and ask myself why'd they do that. They massacred our man's potential to be a badass anime villain to the blacks but, now we got a medieval school shooter whose out to get everyone.

Clown to Clown communication , Toxic fans and their idiocy is the nation.

Imagine bodyshaming this man. 🤡

x

𝔓𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔠𝔢 ℜ𝔢𝔤𝔢𝔫𝔱 𝔄𝔢𝔪𝔬𝔫𝔡

CD:DRAC6RYS @tiktok

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.

MASTERLIST

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aemond hates viserys’ ass so much as soon as he left the room he said lemme make sure my “father’s” dying wish of one united, happy family never comes true 

aemond hates viserys’ ass so much as soon as he left the room he said lemme make sure my “father’s” dying wish of one united, happy family never comes true 

aemond hates viserys’ ass so much as soon as he left the room he said lemme make sure my “father’s” dying wish of one united, happy family never comes true