#╭ out of character ♕ the fall of king's landing. ╯ | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hiatuswhore · 2 years

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♕ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʀɪɴᴄᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ʇɐᴚ ʇǝǝɹʇS ǝɥ⊥—ᴀ ɢᴀᴍᴇ ᴏꜰ sɥʇnɹ⊥

♕ A/N: Hey all! Thank you so much for all the feedback it is a great motivator and always makes me smile. I am really enjoying writing this and I already have a vague idea of where I want it to go. Keep in mind we only have season one of HOTD and will not being getting season two for a while so I am going to try to incorporate the plot of the book with my own ideas. I do not have a set number of parts for this mini series yet. If you cannot make out the title it says The Prince and The Street Rat—A Game of Truths. I introduced a new character, I am picturing Daniel Sharman but that’s because I am in love with that man. Also who are your favorite characters, I LOVE older Rhaenyra (young her was cool but I feel like older Rhaenyra is such a mood. Anyhow enjoy, and tell me what you think!

♕ SUMMARY: The world works in mysterious ways and so does the residents of Kings Landing. One never knows what they find in the alleyways and rooftops. Whores, drunks, knights, thieves, sometimes even Princes.

♕ WORD COUNT: 4.5K

♕ WARNING: Cursing, Violence, Sexually Suggestive. HOTD Spoilers.

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Aemond did not return the next day or the day after that. You busy yourself with work from Mysaria, listening to the whispers of the King’s failing health. Viserys the Peaceful, what a joke. Everyone but seemingly the royal family prepares for the pending war.

You sit at your window, staring mindlessly at the rain that falls from the sky. The darkness looms over the city, the annoyingly bright torches of the castle teasing all who reside outside of it. Yet, where the darkness meets, the light lies in the perfect view of your window. An almost mercurial design.

The door opening does not phase you. The silver-haired Prince slowly enters his steps across your room, filling the silence.

“Quite a long conversation with your mother,” You scoff, ignoring his stare as he stands to your right.

“Much came up. I’—“ Aemond's nonchalant tone makes your jaw clench.

“Too busy to at least pass a message of assurance?” You narrow your eyes at the sight of him, near seething as a grimace holds your features.

“(Y/n) you are overreacting,” He says. You stumble back as your eyebrows furrow. His demeanor contradicts the previous conversation. “There is no war coming.”

“Dammit, Aemond, you let her do it again! So what, your mother said all would be well, and you just believed that?” You gawk, shaking your head as you watch him sigh.

“(Y/n)—“He sighs, rising to your feet as you pace, cracking the muscles in your knuckles.

“Aemond, your life is the last thing I have ever desired,” You whine. His hands capture your own with a patient stare. Neither of you says a word as you squirm beneath his gaze.

“I’ve come with your gift,” He says, revealing a forearm-length box. The top’s identical to the one from his mother. A stillness captures the room as you eye the box wearily before accepting it from his hands. You open slowly, gaping at the lustrous glow of the metallic. The handle carved skillfully into river-like ripples, paying homage to your bastard status.

“I—this is beautiful, but we must discuss—” You huff. Aemond merely takes your arm, disregarding your words. He guides you to the fireplace, careful to not reach too forward.

“Heat it up,” His tone’s commanding as he studies your face. You frown, chewing on your bottom lip as you turn toward the fire. The blade reveals fiery red lines forming intricate patterns. “Do you like it?”

“Aemond, you’re dodging my questions,” You suck your teeth, dropping your shoulders as he drops his gaze. His silence makes your stomach churn as you fail to blanket your despondency.

“(Y/n) it is only a dinner,” He says, his eyebrows furrowing as you run your hands down your gown.

“In what world do I agree to this willingly, Aemond?” You say, leaning down to capture his gaze. Despite the scowl that paints your features, Aemond says nothing. A pregnant pause follows; pulling away from him, you place the dagger on your desk. Back at your window, you sit, your legs bouncing incessantly.

“I really tried, but mother insisted. She expects you present in a week’s time—in the gown, she gifted you,” His shoulders fall at his wide with a doleful look in his eyes. He watches as you visibly sink, your mind stuck in an endless loop of the Red Keep corridors.

“You promised. No royal drama,” You swat away his hands, your eyebrows knit together.

“You’re impulsive and an over-thinker. A painfully dramatic combination. This dinner shall be easy for you—smile and drink,” He reasons. You scold yourself for knowing better than to befriend a Targaryen.

“Dramatic is an exaggeration. You are protected by your title. I am merely a bastard. So my worries are reasonable,” You push at his arms, frowning. “I have nothing that protects me.”

“I’ll protect you,” He says, squeezing your hand.

“Aemond,” You say, tilting your head, and he mirrors you. A dry chuckle leaves him as he says you worry far too much. “You worry too little. If I’m doing this, I want something in return.”

“A comfortable room, coin, perhaps safety and security?” Rolling your eyes at his jest, he chuckles before asking you to name your price. Biting the inside of your cheek, the high possibility of war unnerves you more than you dare to share with Aemond. Nevertheless, you mutter, you will get back to him on the topic as you inspect your new dagger. The weight’s unlike your cooking knife you keep handy.

“I could kill you, you know?” You say, inspecting it closely—a tired smile taking your lips. He pulls your other chair by the window, scooting closer as his finger lazily traces your knee.

“You could try,” He says. Leaning back, you turn your gaze to the fire. His eye stays on you, the soft hum of the fire giving you an ethereal glow.

“A bastard dining with the royal family. That’s something you don’t see every day,” You chuckle dryly, but a hearty laugh booms from Aemond.

“There was a time when I saw it every day,” He says, and you meet his eye rolling your own. You swing the dagger between your fingers easily, wearing a blank stare as Aemond watches you. The rest of the night continues in a quiet hum. You are uncertain when Aemond left or when you even climbed into bed. The following day drags without a word from the one-eyed Prince.

You stop by Daltis’ stand to find his son, Cayde. A smirk tugs at your lips, seeing the large metal crate in his hands.

“Lift me next? “You say, leaning on the wooden stand. Cayde chuckles, shaking his head, placing the crate down. “Just you today?”

“Yeah,” You nod, grinning ear to ear. Cayde unloads the crate behind the stand carefully. Amusement dances in his eyes at your mischievous smile.

“Where’s your royal shadow?” He asks, crossing his arms. He towers well above you.

“Why, jealous?” Then, tilting your head, you wet your lips.

“Of a Targaryen? Never. I like my simple life,” He scoffs. His eye travels from your tunic to the dagger on your hip. Shaking his head, another chuckle leaves him, “What can I do for you (Y/n)?”

“I need to talk to your Dad about traveling to Pentos,” You say, casually earning a frown.

“Does your shadow know about that?” He asks. You scoff, placing the usual rate for the travel arrangements on the table.

“Does it matter? I’m coming back. I’m looking to leave in two fortnights,” Cayde grabs the coins from the table, raising an eyebrow. He nods his head, pursing his lips. You pull back from leaning on the stand, bouncing on the balls of your feet. “Are you coming to Goran’s tonight?”

“Yeah. First round on you?” You walk away before he can continue. Despite your departure, he calls out, “First round on your Prince!”

Back in your room, you stare at the box beneath your bed. Aemond’s absence and a long time before meeting with Cayde leave you with your thoughts. Removing the gown from the box, the room proceeds to flip as you foolishly put it on. The front detailing’s meticulous, revealing a sliver of your chest. Clover-like patterns bind the slit, almost hiding it from view as the sleeves reach your wrists, and extra cloth hangs beautifully from your elbows. A walking message to Rhaenyra and her family—a pawn.

You nearly rip the dress as you struggle to remove it. Hastily fumbling with the clasp as though it burns your skin. Then, back in your tunic and pants, you abandon your room to the best seamstress you know. Daltis’s wife. Taliya welcomes you warmly into her home. You mirror her expression seeing many of Cayde’s features from his mother.

“Mother, I’m going to meet—“Cayde trails off at the sight of you. His mother stands holding a piece of thread around your midsection.

“Alright, dear. I will have it ready, I assure you,” Taliya says, taking your hands with her own. The corner of her eye crinkles as she smiles at you.

“You ready?” Cayde says, grinning ear to ear. He waits to follow you out. The night sky greets you both with a soft hum of nightlife chatter. People drink, laugh, and fuck unapologetically through the streets. You both navigate the crowd with an unflinching calm. “Hey, should we be worried about the succession? I don’t know how much your friend tells you.”

“Honestly, I am uncertain. Aemond blindly listens to his mother, who stays blissfully ignorant of all that is to likely come,” Cayde matches your pace perfectly. The torches set an orange glow beneath the night sky.

“I do not believe he likes me very much,” Cayde says, raising an eyebrow as a laugh leaves your lips.

“That is just Aemond. Ignore him,” You say, turning down an alley. The sound of loud music fills the dirt passage. Cayde knocks three times before Aryn’s face appears at the door. He gives you both a once-over before opening the door.

Cayde orders the first pitchers of ale as you both settle at a table. You listen intently as he explains his concern for the safety of King's Landing. You both speak over the music, just enough to hear the other.

“You are not alone in your fears,” You confess, placing your hand on his. He sips his drink, eyeing your hand. Your eyes scan the room—a woman laughs obnoxiously on a man’s lap as they speak with others sitting around them. A couple dances lovingly by the musicians, and the bartender moves at the speed of light to keep up with the growing crowd.

“What’s in Pentos?” He asks, raising an eyebrow. You pull back, taking a long sip of your ale.

“You know the rules of this business. No questions outside of the necessary,” You say. Taking another sip, Cayde rolls his eyes. “Shall we play our game?”

“I’ve known you most of my life. What more could we possibly not know about each other?” Cayde questions, a grin growing on his lips as mischief dances in your eyes.

You sit up on your knees and narrow your eyes at his nod. Your gaze softens as your lips part, “You fear taking over your father's business.”

“I told you this; that’s cheating!” He says, shaking your head; you remind him he told you his father's intentions, not his own feelings.

“Drink,” Your smile widens in delight as Cayden begrudgingly brings his cup to his lips. You lean forward again, your ‘focusing’ stare pulling a chuckle from Cayde’s lips. “You—“

Trailing off after a few seconds, Cayde grins victoriously, “Too long, drink.”

You roll your eyes, raising your cup. He backs you into a corner with his first two questions, leaving you to drink for both. You both ping pong for a while, others within the room virtually disappearing. A mop of messy white hair pulls you both back into the room. Wearing a grin, he lazily blows a strand of hair from his face. The heavy bags blend seamlessly with the bloodshot of his eyes.

“What’s a place like this doing with a girl like you?” Aegon’s question earns an eye roll as he fills your pitcher with the contents of his own.

“You likely put the poets to shame your grace,�� You raise an eyebrow as he closes his eyes, near shuddering.

“Say it again,” He coos, grimacing as you bring the pitcher to your lips and meet Cayde’s gaze. His knuckles turn white around his cup. Aegon opens his eyes, grinning near maniacally. He turns to Cayde, lifting his cup and bumping Cayde’s. “Come on, you two, I wanna play your little game. I’ll start—you two fucked.”

Neither of you moves as the Prince’s gaze bounces between you both. He chuckles darkly, reminding you both of the rules. After several seconds you bring the cup to your lips. Cayde hesitates before doing the same, an obnoxious laugh leaving Aegon.

He tauntingly mimics your tactic, narrowing his eyes at Cayde. The two lock in a silent stare before Aegon looks forward. He lets out a laugh as if he remembers something, “Mhmmmm. You’re in love with her.”

“I’m done playing,” Cayde’s baritone voice fills the silence as he slams his cup, rising to his feet. Your eyes flicker to Cayde, who glares at the unfazed Prince. The music stops as all around you watches. You lay your hand on your dagger as your heart pounds. Cayde heads for the door, halting as Aegon’s voice fills the silence.

His deviant smile gone, now wearing a chillingly calm demeanor, “Finish the game. You’re in love with her.”

Cayde’s back faces the both of you, and you glare at Aegon, who ignores you. He grabs Cayde’s cup holding it out as he turns back. Cayde snatches it from his hands, eliciting a quiet gasp as you watch him lift it to his lips.

“And you’re afraid my stiff—rather taciturn little brother will find out and rip you out, root and stem,” You rise to your feet before a word can leave your lips; he roughly grabs your face. He turns to you, his eyes boring into your own as he reveals nothing beneath his surface. “I am giddy with the news of your presence at court. No longer Aemond’s little discretion.”

“Enough,” You swat his hand away, tilting your head as he eyes you. Cayde storms out as Aegon sits back down. You stand gobsmacked as the entire room watches you. Swallowing thickly, you follow after Cayde, abandoning the tavern. The passageway to the streets reveals a blur of faces, but none of them are who you are searching for. You opt to return to the Inn Keep, uncertain what to say to Cayde after the night’s events.

You are sure Cayde avoids you avidly, the days following without seeing him. If Aemond knows of your time in the tavern with Aegon, he says nothing. The day of the supper arrives like a looming storm cloud.

You lay on your back, fiddling mindlessly with your coin pouch. The green gown sits beneath your bed, still in its box, awaiting the hour the Queens summons begins.

Sitting by the fireplace, Aemond pauses on his page. Re-reading the same section for the fourth time, his eye lands on you. Still fiddling with the coin pouch with an absent focus. Your nose crinkles, the skin crawling sensations pulling your gaze to the wayward Prince. His aloof expression and clenched jaw meet your furrowed eyebrows. Snickering at the face, he bares for the public.

“Your dramatic smolder-glare thing may work on others. But how can one expect me to be afraid of you when I know you cry like a blubbering baby,” You chuckle. He tilts his head, raising his eyebrow and sighing as you roll your eyes. “I’m rather nervous.”

“Are you? I never would have noticed,” Aemond hums, and you scoff, rising to your feet. You pull your riding pants off, rubbing your skin in mint oil. As the hour draws near, you know you must begin preparing. The crackling of the fire fills the silence. You sloppily unlace the tunic turning to Aemond, who almost stealthily averts his gaze.

“Certainly not Aemond the Honorable,” You tease, slipping on your nightgown. He fails to hide his sheepish pout while avoiding your gaze. Finally, he mutters sorry, earning a chuckle. “You wonder why I giggle when you intimidate people. If they only knew. Now you must go. I need to get ready. Do not start. Ser Barlo will escort me.”

Aemond chews his bottom lip in silent contemplation before rising to his feet. He stares at you, and you raise your eyebrows as he appears ready to speak; his lips part for a second before shutting.

“I will see you at supper,” You nod your head, grinning to yourself. At the window, you wait until his silver strands shine in the sun outside your window. Then, deftly abandoning the widow, you retrieve the Targaryen box beneath your bed. Supplanting the dress with a satiny blue gown from the crown's coin.

Your advent to the hall disseminates a silence as an orator announces your late arrival. The clench of Aemond’s jaw and the droll of his eye leaves you smirking at your machinations.

“My apologies for my tardiness, your grace. This invitation is a very high honor. I put much effort into an appropriate appearance to offer reverence to your statures,” You curtsy with perfect precision ignoring all the eyes on you while holding the Queen’s gaze. Her frayed smile contradicts her warm tone. She has you sit between Helaena and Aemond.

“That is a very lovely dress,” Helaena breaks the silence with a giddy smile. You return her fervor by mirroring her expression before taking a sip from your chalice. Across from you, Otto Hightower eyes you unabashed as you match his stare. His cold look matches his stern features—akin to Aemond’s observant nature. Helaena closely inspects the neckline of your gown, “The ripple detailing is quite beautiful.”

“Thank you, Princess. I thought it would pay great homage to my upbringing in such a foreign setting,” Your eyes cut to Alicent, who freezes down at her food. You turn back to Helaena, entertaining her inquisitive nature of your life beyond the Keep’s walls.

The room fills with steady chatter as you find yourself, much to Alicent’s chagrin, exchanging stories with Helaena. The Princess covers her lips as she struggles to contain her giggles as you describe Aemond’s struggle to climb your rooftop home. A frown captures you as her giggles immediately dissolve. Helaena stares forward in a sudden stupor. Beneath the table, her hand grabs your own, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“For only water can withstand the beast. Pride will drain it dry,” Your eyebrows furrow as she releases your hand, turning forward with an airy smile as if the last few seconds never came to pass. Whether the others ignore it or do not notice, you shrug off their ignorance.

“Princess—“Your whisper drowns away as the King rises from his chair. He removes his mask, revealing the decaying beneath, pleading for his family to come together. You find yourself fiddling beneath the table; glancing at Aemond, you avert your gaze as he watches you. Princess Rhaenyra rises to her feet, raising her cup. The King reattaches his mask with the help of his wife as his oldest child toasts to the Queen. While studying each of their faces, your gaze cuts back to Aemond. This time unrelenting at his commandeering stare. A common thread linking them, all of them fractured beyond repair. The King, wreaking glue that binds the lot of them. You cover your sigh with a sip of wine at the Queen’s toast, a meaningless gesture.

A dry chuckle leaves your lips, blanketing it with the clearing of your throat as Prince Jacaerys slams his hands against the table. Aegon returns to his seat while Aemond rises from his own, and a stillness accompanies the tension. You bite at your potatoes, meeting Otto’s easygoing gaze—no longer cold and calculating. He offers you a half nod, neither of your reacting to the brewing hostility. It’s almost as if you are the only two who understand the inevitability on the horizon. The Prince offers a tribute, uncertainty lingering as all resume sitting. You glance at Helaena with a frown as she whispers about beasts beneath boards. Once again, no one around the table acknowledges her.

“I would like to toast, first, to our guest (Y/n). You are as lovely and kind as my brother detailed. I desire more of your presence at court,” Helaena beams down at you as the table watches you. Offering a wry smile, you glare at Aemond’s amusement as all sip their cups. Helaena turns with a smile, “Also, to Baela and Rhaena. They’ll be married soon. It isn’t so bad he mostly just ignores you—except sometimes when he’s drunk.”

The King calls for music as you finish your wine. Prince Jacaerys offers his hand to Helaena, and the two abandon the table to dance. You nearly flinch as the younger Velaryon holds his hand at your side. He smiles sweetly, and you ignore how Aemond grits his teeth at the sight.

“My aunt is right. Your dress is lovely, my lady,” Prince Lucerys says as he guides you comfortably from his brother and aunt. You tower him by several inches, chuckling softly at his words.

“Thank you, Prince Lucerys, but I am no lady,” You say, falling in sync; you both jump opposite each other twice before locking arms.

“While that may be true, that does not incline me to treat you any less than,” His smile almost infectious as his genuineness shines. He misses how your own smile falters. How is this the same boy who took Aemond’s eye? The Velaryon Princes grin as they skillfully switch without disrupting the pace.

“My lady,” Jacaerys says, spinning you carefully as he pulls you an appropriate distance back. His hand ghosts cautiously near the small of your back. “Is this alright?”

“Of course, Prince Jacaerys,” You force a smile on your lips as your mind tries to make sense of your juxtaposed understanding. Jacaerys chuckles, insisting outside the ears of formality to only utilize his name. Chuckling softly, everything said beyond his request fails to reach you. How are they the monsters of Aemond’s youth? Jacaerys spins, returning you to his brother, who greets you gleefully. You cannot fight the giggle that bubbles in your throat.

“May I?” Princess Rhaenyra appears at your side, ruffling her son’s hair as he steps back, bowing respectfully.

“It has been a pleasure, Lady (Y/n). You are an excellent dance partner. I hope to find you at the next,” You curtsy, glancing at his mother, who beams at her son the same way Taliya does at Cayden. Disregarding the twist in your chest, you clasp your hands in front of you.

“We shall, Prince Lucerys. I am many things. Never an oath breaker,” Lucerys returns to his seat as his mother leads you further from the table, “You honor me, Princess. I deeply admire the prospect of a woman on the Iron Throne.”

“Thank you, my dear. Your support, as well as others, mean everything to my claim, but I come to you not of politics but regarding Ser Harwin Strong,” Your smile falters as her words as she locks your arms, and the two of you circle each other. Her resolve softens as she manages to keep you both on tempo, “He cared for you deeply, and I fear I have failed in maintaining his desires for your well-being. If you ever need for anything, dear girl, know you will always have a place with my family and me.”

Before you can process her words, the music halts at the King's pained groans. Guards carry home back to his chambers as you and Rhaenyra return to the table. At your seat, Aemond sits with his body turned toward you—his gaze bouncing from his eldest sister to you. Silence sits between you, and neither of you moves to break it.

The kitchen servants appear around you, carrying a giant roast pig in front of you. You stare at the roast fighting the urge to glance at Aemond, who willfully ignores its presence. Beneath the table, you reach out in search of his hand, but instead finding his knee, you awkwardly rest it there. You look up, meeting his gaze, and despite the music, the room almost silences around the two of you. The moment's brief, snickering rips you both from the calm. Lucerys’s laugh reaches across the table as he deliberately glances at his uncle. It’s nothing short of child-like stupidity—cruelty. You squeeze Aemond’s knee as he stares at his nephew, failing to draw him back to you.

“Final tribute. To the health of my nephews. Jace, Luke, and Joffrey. Each of them handsome, wise…” He trails off as if he imagines the fire he will light, his condescending tone sending an eeriness across the room. The Queen calls out Aemond’s name in a warning tone, but it does nothing to stop her son from playing with unspoken tensions, “Strong. Come, let us drain our cups to these Strong boys.”

You gaze at the guards that line the walls, their hands ghosting on the hilts of their swords. Then, at Jacaerys’ challenging tone, you slip a dinner knife beneath the table cloth, casually sipping your glass, “Why? It was only a compliment. Do you not think yourself strong?”

The sound of Jacaerys’s fist against Aemond’s face sets off many moving parts. Prince Daemon grabs Lucerys, who rises to his feet as you shift right, stopping Aegon from lunging for his nephew. Unfortunately, you cannot see all that occurs behind you as Aemond lets out a dry chuckle. Aegon glances down at the knife that halts his movements dangerously close to his crotch. A smirk takes his lips as you raise an eyebrow at his amusement.

“You only grow more interesting with time, lady (Y/n). But, if I may, your presence only grows the hunger for what some call my salaciousness,” He whispers, grimacing; you retract the knife and your close proximity as the guards defuse the tension.

“I do hope you are prepared to starve, your grace,” You grit your teeth as Aegon grabs your wrist, pulling you back in. The others blindly focus on the Velaryon Princes, who struggle against the guards holding them back. Aegon chuckles, tormenting you right beneath Aemond’s nose.

“Make no mistake (Y/n). I will have you. This game of cat and mouse only makes it more exciting, wouldn’t you say?” He wets his lips, scanning over your features with a heady stare. You rip your arm away, watching as he drinks in your lack of subservience. His dark machinations for your body reflect in his eyes as he studies every inch of you. Finally, you rise to your feet, grimacing at the Prince, garnering the attention of the Queen. She frowns, her eyes watching her eldest son with wistfulness.

“(Y/n),” Ser Barlo appears at your right, holding out his arm to escort you home. Aemond’s no longer in sight, and you do not look for him. Ser Barlo says nothing as you grip his arm tightly through the corridors, your head nearly spinning as you do your best to hold your composure. Only back in your room do you allow the quiet sobs to rattle your entire being. Ripping the dress from your body fervently, gripping yourself as you watch the gown burn in the fire. Silently cursing yourself for ever wearing it—for allowing yourself to fall in the clutches of the dragons.

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