Collection of One-Shots

》iā zaldrīzes's prūmia

Promises are not idly spoken and Aemond proves he's a man of his word.

THE DOORS OF your bedchamber creak and groan as they open without ceremony, but you already know who the unannounced and uninvited guest is at this hour —Prince Aemond Targaryen. "A gentleman would have knocked," you tease as he makes his way across the room to where you sit at your vanity, following the trail of your discarded clothing —stockings, petticoat, skirt, bodice, and stays.

Aemond steps behind you, his hands resting at the base of your neck, fingertips lightly pressing into your collarbones. He bends at the waist, pressing his nose into the crown of your hair —still half bound up from the evening's festivities— and inhales the sweet fading scent of rose and honeyed blood orange. "You avoided me tonight, sīmontan," he notes.

"Only to appease my father," you tell him, watching his expression shift from mild ire and annoyance to curiosity in the reflection as you comb through another braid. Lord Wylde thinks himself a perspicacious man, and surely when it comes to the realm's affairs, he is, but he's nigh blind to his daughter's heart and longings. He expects you to take a husband soon —and quell the whispers that entertain the servants of the Red Keep and the court for good. Expectations mean entertaining would-be suitors with pleasant conversation and clumsy dances during feasts instead of gossiping with Princess Helaena and her brother, Aemond. "We're not children anymore," you remind him. He is a prince. You are a lady. Neither you nor he can escape the responsibilities that come with each role.

"No," he agrees. The days of childhood and innocence are long gone —he likes to think his childhood ended when Lucerys Velaryon took his eye. But even if childhood has come and gone, it feels like few things have changed between you and him. And maybe that's what causes people to talk when they see the prince absconding from your chambers early in the morning or when you both return at indecent hours having stolen away on horse or dragon back.

Aemond sits next to you on the vanity bench and plucks one of the silver combs from your hair. Having him so close after the feast and your father's words gnaws at your heart in a new and strange way. You do not wish to be parted from the prince, but you cannot give yourself false hope either. "How much longer can we carry on like this?" You ask, voice wavering, and for maybe the first time, Aemond realizes the toll of his affections —of the life you both lead in private. "Sneaking around whilst my father and your mother try to make suitable matches for us."

"I'll tell mother there's only one match she need make then," he tells you. He called you his princess as a boy, but when Vhagar accepted you, he knew —it should have been enough to make your father and Alicent realize too. Aemond wraps a lock of your hair around his finger and tugs on it gently. "You'll be a Princess of the Realm. What father would not wish that honor upon his daughter?" Then he leans closer and whispers in your ear. "Our sons could be kings."

"Planning to depose your brother already?" That earns you a quiet laugh. He's made it no secret that he is better suited for the throne than his lecherous brother. "It matters not, though." You unwind the last of the braids and glance down at the brush in hand. Aemond's pursed lips fall, his brow furrowing. "In the end, I am but the daughter of a minor house," you remind him, "unfit for such a prestigious match." Queen Alicent Hightower will pursue a union between her second son and a daughter from one of the Great Houses of Westeros —not the daughter of a lesser house from the Stormlands. House Wylde has nothing to offer the Crown save for love and loyalty.

"I don't give a shit about prestige," Aemond bites, his tone sharp and expression harsh. He'll not tolerate hearing you patronize yourself, nor the thought that anyone other than him would get to decide who is worthy of his love. The harsh line of his lips softens, as does the furrow between his brows. He shifts, taking hold of your hands —thumbs running across your knuckles. "Nyke jaelagon ao."