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dosxxy · 12 days ago

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The Serving Girl: One shot

Aemond Targaryen X Reader

Note: This is my first time writing fan fiction, so there may be some grammatical mistakes. English is not my first language.

You are a serving girl within the walls of the Red Keep, a place where power pulses through the very stones, and the air is thick with intrigue. House Targaryen, with its legendary dragons and tempestuous bloodlines, rules from the Iron Throne, and as a servant, your position is a humble one. Beneath the glistening nobility, beneath the lords and ladies, you carry out the menial tasks that keep the keep running smoothly or at least, make sure no one notices when things fall apart.

Your days are filled with cleaning the grand halls, sweeping away the ashes of long-forgotten conversations, and ensuring the great stone corridors gleam with a superficial shine. You fetch water from the deep wells, hauling it to distant chambers where the fires of Targaryen ambition always burn bright. You attend to the kitchens, helping with the preparation of feasts for noble guests and family alike, never able to sample a single morsel but always on your feet, waiting on those whose bellies are full and whose eyes are filled with secrets. Your responsibilities extend far beyond the simple. You help with the delicate preparations for the royal feasts, where the plates of golden filigree and goblets of wine flow freely for those who can afford them. You assist with the fires that warm the many rooms of the Red Keep, keeping the flames alive, even in the coldest of nights. In the high chambers of the royals, where the echoes of dragons’ wings still linger, you stand ready to serve, ever silent, ever watchful.

But the true danger of your role is not in the heavy lifting or endless chores—it’s the treacherous game of politics you are forced to witness with no means of escape. You deliver letters between highborn lords and ladies, careful never to glance at the words scrawled upon them, though you can often guess at their contents. You assist with dressing the royals, lifting the fine silks over their heads, pulling laces tight, adjusting the delicate jewelry that denotes power, wealth, and status. You are always near, yet never seen, a ghost amidst the living, with ears that catch whispered conversations too dangerous to overhear and eyes that see more than they should. You are a servant in a house of dragons, and as you carry out your tasks, you are forced to remember one unshakable truth: In this lair, the game is deadly, and it is one you can never truly escape.

The palace is filled with dangers hidden in the shadows of corridors and behind closed doors. A well-placed glance, a hidden alliance, a whispered word in the wrong ear could turn your life into a trap, and though your role is one of service, you can never forget that you are a pawn in a game far greater than yourself. The Targaryens have always played with fire, and sometimes, it’s the servants who get burned. Every day, you follow instructions to the letter, no question, no protest. Yet, there’s a voice deep inside that wonders, if only for a moment, if you might ever be more than just a servant. But such thoughts are dangerous here, and the cost of curiosity could be your very life.

⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

You step back once you’ve finished brushing Prince Aemond’s silver hair, carefully setting the comb aside. With a small bow, you ask, “Is there anything else you require, your highness?”

Aemond turns his head, his sharp, piercing gaze locking onto yours. That single eye, cold yet simmering with something unreadable, sends a shiver down your spine. He doesn’t answer immediately, allowing the silence to stretch between you like a taut string. Slowly, he runs a hand through his freshly brushed hair, deliberately mussing the meticulous work you had just completed. The deliberate ruin of your effort feels almost like a taunt, and your heart skips a beat. You can’t decide if the subtle smirk curling at his lips is meant to unsettle or entice you.

“For now, that will suffice,” he says finally, his voice smooth and deliberate, a tone laced with amusement that somehow feels sharper than anger. “But tell me…” He leans forward slightly, his long fingers curling around the armrest of his chair. “Do you always avert your eyes so easily, or is it only in my presence?” Your breath hitches, but you keep your composure. “I mean no disrespect, my prince,” you reply, your voice steady despite the thrum of your pulse. “It is merely proper to—”

“Proper,” he interrupts, the word a low purr that sends an involuntary shiver down your spine. “An interesting excuse. Do you think me so delicate that I might take offense from a glance?” You falter, unsure if this is a test or a trap. His good mood is disarming, but there’s something unnervingly calculating about the way he watches you, like a predator toying with its prey.

“I would never presume, my prince,” you manage, keeping your tone even.

“Presume,” he echoes, tasting the word like it’s a fine wine. He stands suddenly, the movement so fluid and silent it startles you. He approaches, the space between you shrinking with every deliberate step.

Instinctively, you bow your head, but his voice cuts through the air like a blade. “Look at me.” Your eyes snap to his, your breath catching as you meet his gaze. The intensity there is a storm, wild and controlled all at once, and it leaves you feeling exposed in a way you can’t explain.

“Better,” he murmurs, his tone softer but no less commanding. His lips curl into a faint smirk as he tilts his head, studying you with a mix of amusement and something darker. “I’d hate to think my mere presence frightens you.”

“It does not, my prince,” you lie, though your racing heart betrays you.

His smirk deepens as if he can hear the unspoken truth in your words. “Good,” he says, stepping closer, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from him, smell the faint, clean scent of leather and spice that clings to him. “I would hate to think you fear me.” There’s a pause, heavy and charged. His eye drops briefly to your lips before returning to your face, the shift so subtle you might have imagined it.

“Do not stray too far,” he says, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “I may require your… assistance again later.”

Your throat tightens, but you manage to bow your head. “As you wish, my prince,” you say, your voice soft but steady, before turning on your heel. The rustle of your skirts follows you as you leave his chambers, your every step measured, your pulse racing. Behind you, you can feel his gaze lingering, the weight of it almost tangible, and you wonder if you will ever feel steady again in his presence.

Once outside, the air feels lighter, though the tension lingers faintly in your chest. You make your way to the kitchens, where the scent of roasted meats and baking bread fills the air, a stark contrast to the austere elegance of Aemond’s chamber. As you step into the bustling kitchen, the familiar chaos greets you like an old companion. The air is rich with the mingling scents of roasting meat, herbs, and freshly baked bread, while the rhythmic clatter of knives and pots creates a symphony of preparation. Servants move swiftly, each focused on their assigned task, their faces calm but their hands hurried. You roll up your sleeves, ready to fall back into the rhythm of work. The head cook, Catelyn, a stern yet motherly figure with a sharp eye for detail catches sight of you as you make your way to the peeling station. She pauses her chopping to give you a nod of acknowledgment.

“Back already, are we?” she asks, her tone laced with mild curiosity.

“Yes, Prince Aemond seemed to be in a good mood this afternoon,” you say slowly, your tone laced with quiet uncertainty. The words feel strange even as you speak them, like trying to fit together pieces of a puzzle that shouldn’t belong. Aemond’s good moods are rare enough to leave you unsettled, more an anomaly than a reprieve.

You pause, the knife in your hand hesitating against the potato’s rough skin. “I still don’t know what to make of it,” you admit, almost to yourself. Your fingers resume their steady work, peeling with practiced ease, but your mind lingers on the peculiar warmth in his tone, the faint amusement in his gaze. It doesn’t fit the man you’ve served for years, a man whose moods are as sharp and cold as a winter’s wind.

“After all this time…” you murmur, shaking your head slightly as if to dispel the thought. But the memory lingers, and so does the feeling, a strange unease curling in the pit of your stomach. How does someone like him manage to make even kindness feel like a warning?

Catelyn chuckles, the sound warm but laced with a knowing sharpness. “Aemond’s moods are a mystery even the gods would struggle to unravel,” she says, her knife slicing through a pile of carrots with precise, steady movements. “Most of the time, he broods like some dark shadow lurking in the corners of the keep, barely speaking a word to anyone.”

Her gaze flicks to you, a glimmer of mischief in her eyes. “But with you? Hmm, he’s civil enough. That’s not something just anyone can claim.” She tilts her head, her smile sly and teasing. “Perhaps you’ve got the magic touch, girl.”

You shake your head quickly, brushing off her words with a nervous laugh, though your fingers tighten their grip on the potato in your hands. “I wouldn’t say that,” you reply, trying to sound indifferent, but even you can hear the uncertainty in your voice. “I just do my job. That’s all.”

Catelyn hums knowingly, her smile widening. “If you say so. But the way he watches you sometimes…” She trails off, leaving the sentence unfinished, her words hanging heavy in the air. Your stomach twists, and you force yourself to focus on the task at hand, ignoring the sudden heat crawling up your neck. The way he watches me? What does she mean by that?

Prince Aemond is beautiful to look at, mesmerizing in his intensity, but you’ve learned that one wrong step, one careless word, and the burn will be swift and unforgiving. You lower your voice, careful not to let your words drift too far. “To be honest, it’s exhausting,” you confess, your hands moving mechanically as you peel the potato. “Every night, Prince Aemond has me brush or braid his hair.” The words slip out before you can stop them, but once they do, it feels oddly freeing to say them aloud, even if only to Catelyn.

She lets out a soft chuckle, a knowing edge to her voice that sends a chill down your spine. “Ah, poor thing,” she says, her knife moving in practiced rhythm through the carrots. “He’s always been particular, Aemond. Ever since he was a boy, he couldn’t stand the smallest imperfection. His hair was always the first thing on his mind, just like everything else.”

You nod slightly, biting back the exhaustion that’s threatening to surface. “Particular,” you repeat under your breath. It’s the safest way to describe him, but it doesn’t begin to cover the weight of his presence. You recall how his sharp gaze had lingered on your every movement earlier, his scrutiny more oppressive than any physical labor. Does he notice every flaw? Or is it just me imagining things?

Catelyn’s eyes flick to you, and there’s something unreadable in her expression, like she knows far more than she’s letting on. “Aemond’s not like other lords, you know,” she murmurs, her voice low enough to keep the words from carrying too far. “He’s got an… understanding of people. A part of him sees things others don’t, can feel the weight of every small movement. It’s not just a talent; it’s a way he’s had to live, from when he was little.”

You glance up at her, unsure of where she’s going with this, but there’s an intensity in her gaze that makes your chest tighten. “What do you mean?”

She pauses for a moment, her expression softening as if weighing how much to say. “I’ve known him since he was a child. And while he doesn’t show it, Aemond understands things about people, more than he lets on. He’s… perceptive. And a bit dangerous, too. But there’s a part of him that recognizes survival, understands the balance of power in every glance and every word. That’s why he’s so demanding, so precise. It’s how he controls everything around him.”

Your hands still for a moment, the weight of her words sinking in. “So you think he’s…” You struggle to find the right word.

“Not cruel, no,” she interrupts, her tone firm. “But he won’t tolerate weakness. He sees it, and it unsettles him. He’d never admit it, but he needs things to stay sharp, to remain in his control. And that includes you.” You swallow, the knot in your stomach tightening further. I’m not sure if that’s comforting

Catelyn looks at you with a knowing expression, almost like she’s seen this dance before. “I don’t doubt it. But just remember, girl, survival in his world means staying two steps ahead. And Aemond? He’s always watching.”

Catelyn continues slicing carrots, her sharp blade moving with practiced ease. Her voice softens slightly, though her tone remains firm. “And one thing, my dear,” a lady and a serving girl live by different rules. Don’t get too friendly with the princes.” The thought settles uneasily in your chest, but the kitchen’s lively bustle provides a welcome distraction. The scent of herbs and fresh bread fills the air, grounding you in the present, reminding you that there’s work to be done. Still, a small, nagging part of you can’t shake the feeling that, no matter how carefully you tread, danger is never far behind.

The hours pass in a blur of activity. The clatter of pots and pans echoes through the stone chamber, sharp and rhythmic as servants move with practiced precision, each executing their tasks with silent efficiency. The air is thick with the rich smells of roasted meats and fragrant herbs, mingling with the faint, acrid scent of smoke from the roaring hearth that crackles in the corner. The head cook’s watchful eyes move over the chaos, her voice barking instructions to keep everything in line, making sure no one falters in the frenzy of preparation.

Finally, Catelyn straightens, wiping her hands on her apron with a decisive gesture. “All right!” Her voice cuts through the noise like a whip, snapping the room to attention. “The meal is ready. Grab the platters, and let’s get moving!”

You set down your knife with a sigh, your fingers aching from the constant motion. Reaching for one of the silver platters, you feel the warmth of the food still sizzling on its surface. The metal gleams faintly in the dim light, and you join the line of other serving girls, picking up your pace to match theirs. Each step is measured, careful to avoid any misstep that might result in a spill or, worse, a reprimand.

As you leave the kitchen, the long hallways of the Red Keep stretch before you, their high stone walls looming with an ancient weight. The flickering glow of sconces casts uneven shadows, the flames’ dance creating strange, shifting shapes that seem to pulse and twist, adding an unsettling life to the otherwise cold corridors. You tighten your grip on the platter, trying to ignore the strange feeling that crawls up your spine as the shadows seem to follow you. This place feels like a maze sometimes, you think, each turn and hallway another puzzle to be solved.

The faint sound of your footsteps echoes in the stillness, swallowed by the dark, but still, a sense of tension hangs in the air. The night presses in close, and you can’t shake the feeling that someone is watching—always watching. You force your mind to focus on the task at hand, the weight of the platter steady in your hands, but the unease lingers in the back of your thoughts. One misstep in these halls, and everything could change.

Finally, the group reaches the grand dining hall. The heavy doors are pulled open, and a wave of warmth and low, muted conversation spills out to greet you. Inside, the room is nothing short of breathtaking. The high, vaulted ceiling is adorned with the banners of House Targaryen, the three-headed dragon gleaming in the soft glow of the great chandeliers. The long dining table is surrounded by nobles, their elaborate finery a stark contrast to the simplicity of your own dress. Their conversations hum in the air, the sounds of laughter and clinking goblets mixing with the soft rustle of silk and velvet. It’s a world so different from the one you know, you think, eyes scanning the room as you move with the others. You step carefully, your movements as precise and practiced as they’ve always been. Each footfall is measured, every step deliberate. In a place like this, you know that even the slightest mistake would be noticed, and not by the guests alone. Keep your head down, stay invisible. You silently remind yourself, just as you’ve done so many times before. In a room full of dragons, it’s the only way to survive.

The nobles are immersed in their conversations, the low hum of polite discourse echoing off the stone walls of the dining hall. At the head of the table sits King Viserys, his aging form draped in rich, heavy robes, the crown upon his head catching the light from the grand chandeliers above. Despite the weariness in his expression, his presence commands the kind of respect that shapes the room’s atmosphere, subtly shifting the air as if the room itself recognizes the weight of his authority. Beside him, Queen Alicent exudes a quiet, effortless elegance. Her regal composure is softened with age, yet she still commands the room’s attention, her presence as undeniable as her husband’s. Her green gown shimmers faintly in the dim candlelight, and her golden hair falls in soft waves, an image of grace that contrasts with the harsher energy that seems to pulse through the room.

Further down the table, Prince Aegon lounges in his chair, a goblet of wine carelessly held in one hand. His expression is one of lazy amusement, his laughter bubbling easily at some jest, clearly uninterested in much beyond his immediate pleasure. Across from him, Princess Helaena sits quietly, her voice barely rising above a whisper as she speaks to a lady beside her. Her gaze, however, remains distant, her eyes unfocused, as though her mind drifts far away from the conversation at hand. And then, there is Prince Aemond. Always composed, he sits straight-backed at his place, his singular sharp eye scanning the room with quiet intensity. His gaze sharpens as a nobleman addresses him, listening with such rapt attention that it seems he takes in every word, every nuance. His features are unreadable, set in that familiar stoic calm, the kind you’ve come to associate with him. He speaks little, but when he does, his words carry a weight that causes the nobles around him to lean in, as if earning his approval is something that must be worked for, something to be savored. His very presence feels like a challenge, the air around him thick with unspoken authority, and you can’t help but wonder just how much he truly sees.

As the meal is served, the hall grows quieter, the soft clink of silverware and the rustling of silk filling the space. The air, heavy with the scent of roasted meats and rich wine, settles into a calm, measured rhythm. The servants, yourself included, move through the room like shadows, gliding between chairs with practiced grace. You keep your head low, focused on your task—pouring wine, placing plates, clearing empty ones—all done with silent precision. No words, no eye contact. Your only goal is simple: to remain invisible. Here, in the heart of the Red Keep, attention from the wrong person can be dangerous, even lethal. Keep your head down. Keep moving.

You remind yourself as you carry another platter, your steps steady and deliberate, a practiced dance that keeps you out of the way of the nobles. They are unaware, consumed with their conversations. As you approach a table, placing a fresh goblet beside one of the nobles, you feel a peculiar prickling sensation at the back of your neck. It’s the same feeling one gets when they know they are being watched. Almost involuntarily, your eyes flicker upward, and you meet his gaze—Aemond. His single eye is locked onto yours, steady and piercing, as though he sees through you entirely. For a heartbeat, the world around you seems to fade, the ambient noise of the hall dimming into an almost oppressive silence.

What does he see when he looks at me? The thought strikes you, sharp and unexpected. The intensity of his gaze, the weight of it, makes your pulse quicken, a flicker of heat spreading through your chest. It feels almost like a physical touch, a subtle pull, as if his attention alone could unravel you. Your heart skips a beat. Before you can gather your thoughts, Aemond’s gaze shifts, the moment gone as quickly as it arrived. His expression remains unchanged, his attention returning to the nobleman beside him as though nothing had happened. Had you imagined it? You blink, confusion settling in. But the flutter in your stomach lingers. You lower your gaze quickly, your hands trembling slightly as you reach for another empty plate, the weight of his stare still burning against your skin. The air between you and him seems charged, crackling with something unspoken, and you can’t shake the feeling that the brief exchange was more than just a passing glance.

The meal continues, and as the wine flows more freely, the atmosphere in the hall grows louder, the nobles’ laughter becoming increasingly boisterous. Their conversations loosen, and the air is thick with a blend of mirth and tension. Passing by their tables, you catch snippets of words—debates over trade routes, whispered gossip about potential alliances, veiled barbs disguised as wit. This world, so foreign to you, feels distant and untouchable. It’s another life entirely, you think as your hands move in the repetitive motions of clearing and serving.

But despite their finery, despite the elegance they drape themselves in, you see it—the same hunger for power, the same cruelty that lurks beneath polished smiles. It’s all just a mask, a performance, and they play it well. As you pause in the corner of the room, shifting your weight to ease the ache in your legs, you can’t help but feel the weight of it all. The glitz and glamour, the wealth and power—it all feels like a lie. Suddenly, a sharp voice cuts through the noise, pulling you back to reality.

“Keep moving, girl. Don’t let them catch you slacking off.”

You snap to attention, almost dropping the plate you’re holding. “Oh! R-right, sorry.” Catelyn’s eyes lock onto you with a sharpness that makes you wince. Her stern gaze narrows, and she steps closer, lowering her voice just enough for only you to hear.

“We all get tired, but don’t let it show. A serving girl’s business is to serve, not to daydream.” Her words are clipped, unyielding. She doesn’t need to raise her voice to make her point. “Now, head to the wine room and fetch a refill. Quickly now.”

“Yes, of course,” you mumble, bowing your head in apology, the heat rising to your cheeks. You can’t help but feel the sting of her reprimand, though you know she’s right. There’s no room for error here. Not in the Red Keep.

Catelyn barely spares you another glance, already turning back to her task, her attention shifting away. You swallow, trying to steady your breathing, and hurry out of the hall, your footsteps quick against the cold stone floor. The corridor ahead is dimly lit, offering a brief respite from the noise and chaos of the banquet. For a moment, the relative silence of the passage is a welcome relief, a fleeting sense of peace in the whirlwind of royal life. But even as you walk, your mind drifts back to Aemond’s gaze—the weight of it, the way it lingered on you like a secret he wasn’t willing to share. You shiver despite the warmth of the castle, and the uneasy flutter in your chest refuses to subside.

Was it curiosity? Displeasure? Or something else entirely? You shake your head, trying to banish the thought before it takes root. It’s better not to dwell on it. In a castle full of dragons, the safest place to be is unnoticed, like a shadow in the corner.

You straighten your posture, pushing the unease aside, and make your way down the dimly lit corridor toward the wine room. The soft light from the sconces flickers against the stone walls, casting long shadows as you walk. The cold air greets you when you step inside, a sharp contrast to the heat of the dining hall. The door swings shut behind you, sealing you in the silence of the small, quiet room. Rows of bottles, neatly arranged and gleaming in the dim light, line the shelves. You move among them, your fingers tracing the cool glass as you select bottles, checking them for fullness. The steady, repetitive task is almost soothing, but your thoughts keep drifting back to Aemond. That gaze, like a weight on your chest, refuses to leave your mind.

The faint rustle of your skirts and the occasional clink of glass are the only sounds, a rhythm that does little to ease the tension creeping up your spine. What did it mean? The way he looked at you—was it disdain, curiosity, or something deeper? You don’t have time to unravel that mystery. The faintest noise, a sudden creak of the door, cuts through the stillness, and your heart jumps into your throat. You spin around, expecting to see one of the other servants, but instead, you freeze. There, in the doorway, stands Prince Aemond. His tall figure fills the frame, his presence commanding the room with a silent intensity. The door clicks shut behind him, and the sound lingers in the heavy silence that fills the room.

You grip the neck of a wine bottle instinctively, your hands trembling slightly, and manage to stammer, “P-prince Aemond…” Your heart races, a tight knot forming in your chest. “Do you need something?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. The room feels impossibly still as Aemond steps further into the space, his single eye fixed on you with a chilling calm. His presence seems to fill the room, a tangible weight that presses against your skin. The air feels thick, suffocating, and for a moment, you can’t move, frozen in place under his gaze.

“No, nothing specific,” Aemond replies at last, his voice smooth and deliberate, each word a slow rumble that seems to fill every inch of the small room. His presence is like a physical force, pushing against you, suffocating in its intensity. “I just thought I’d take a break from the tedious chatter of the dining hall.” His eye, sharp and unreadable, remains locked on you, as though he’s searching for something—something buried deep within you that only he can see. The silence stretches, heavy and thick, and the air between you seems to vibrate with unspoken tension. The space feels too small, too intimate. You can’t breathe properly, the weight of his gaze pressing on your chest.

“I—I see,” you manage, your voice a whisper, though you can feel the tremor beneath the words. You lower your eyes, your grip tightening on the bottle, as though it’s the only thing anchoring you to reality. His proximity, the sheer force of his presence, is almost unbearable. Every movement he makes seems amplified, the click of his boots on the stone floor sending ripples through the air.

Aemond takes another step forward, closing the distance between you, and it feels like the room itself is shrinking. The space left between you is negligible now, and your heartbeat picks up its pace, racing in your chest. You dare a fleeting glance up, locking eyes with him for a brief, electrifying moment. Then, just as quickly, you look away, your pulse quickening, skin flushed with something that both frightens and thrills you.

“Tell me,” Aemond’s voice drops, a whisper of menace in its quiet command, “do you find it dull, this endless routine of serving? Always working, always unnoticed.” The question catches you off guard, and for a moment, you falter. What does he mean by that? Is it a genuine question, or is he toying with you? You hesitate, unsure of what he’s really asking. The tension hangs between you like a storm waiting to break.

“I… I do what’s required of me, your highness,” you answer carefully, your words a whisper, but they feel like a lie. Is that truly all it is? You try to steady your breathing, your hands clammy around the wine bottle, but nothing about the situation feels normal.

His eye doesn’t leave your face, tracing over your features with the precision of someone who’s seen it all before. And then, it lingers. The intensity of his gaze sends a flush to your skin, every nerve in your body alive with awareness of him, the dangerous proximity, the unsettling weight of his attention. It feels like a game, but you’re not sure who the player is, or what the stakes are.

“And yet,” he says, his voice dropping lower, “I notice you.” The words send a jolt through you, leaving you frozen in place. Your grip tightens on the bottle in your hand, the cool glass grounding you as you struggle to steady your breathing. “I—” you start, but the words catch in your throat, tangled in the weight of his attention.

Before you can react further, his lips crash against yours, forceful and unexpected. His hand moves to the back of your neck, holding you in place as his kiss deepens, his dominance taking over. Your hands instinctively push against his chest, but he doesn’t relent. His grip tightens, pulling you closer, his lips leaving no room for protest. The heat of his kiss consumes you, and you’re trapped in the storm of it. As he pulls away briefly, you gasp for air, trying to push him back, but his hand moves from your neck to your side, pinning you in place. He leans in again, this time trailing his lips down your jaw to your neck. The sensation sends a shiver down your spine, and before you can fully process it, he bites down sharply, marking you with an intensity that leaves no doubt of his claim. His other hand slips beneath your dress, a touch that causes your breath to catch in your throat, igniting a spark of desire that you struggle to ignore. The heat of his touch lingers as his fingers press gently against your skin, teasing and exploring, sending a wave of electricity through you. You feel your heart racing, and your body betrays you, responding to the undeniable pull between you. His lips remain on your neck, soft but urgent, as though he can't get enough of you. Your breath comes in shallow gasps, your body betraying your confusion—caught between wanting him to stop and craving more. A soft whimper escapes your lips before you can stop it, the sound betraying the storm of emotions building inside you. His lips pause at the crook of your neck, a low chuckle escaping him as if he knows the effect he has on you.

“You’re enjoying,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice a mix of arrogance and desire. His breath fans over you, leaving you more vulnerable than ever. Your body tenses as you fight the sensations overwhelming you, but it’s futile—the fire he’s ignited burns too brightly to be extinguished. His lips find yours again, capturing every protest and turning it into a breathless surrender. His hand, now exploring with unrelenting precision, draws reactions from you that you didn’t think possible. Your body arches instinctively, giving in to the sensations he elicits with every movement.

The world around you fades, leaving only the heat of his touch and the unyielding intensity in his gaze. He presses closer, his breath mingling with yours as your body quivers under his command. A wave of pleasure crashes over you, leaving you gasping, your thoughts a haze of disbelief and surrender. As you collapse into the wall, your heart still pounding, he brushes his lips against your ear, his voice low and possessive. “You’re mine now.” He pulls back once more, his gaze dark and unwavering, as though savoring the effect he’s had on you.

He licked his fingers where they had just touched you, his gaze never wavering. His eyes locked onto yours, intense and unrelenting, as his tongue moved slowly, savoring every moment until he was satisfied. Then, with deliberate gentleness, he leaned in and pressed a final, lingering kiss to your lips.

Aemond adjusts himself, he straightened himself, smoothing out his clothes and running a hand through his hair, ensuring he appeared composed and unruffled, his posture cooling into its usual controlled demeanor as if nothing had happened. “The wine,” he says, his voice suddenly smooth and detached, “needs to be served.”

His words are as icy as his gaze, leaving no room for any further response. You feel a mixture of humiliation and confusion, your pulse still racing from the intensity of the moment. With that, Aemond turns on his heel, his boots clicking against the stone floor as he walks out of the wine room, leaving you in stunned silence. The door clicks shut softly behind him, and you’re left with nothing but the lingering heat of his touch and the echo of his presence in the small room.

You stand frozen for a moment, your heart still hammering in your chest, your breath shallow as you try to process what just happened. Aemond’s kiss still burns on your lips and his touch, a lingering heat that makes your pulse race. What the hell was that? Was it just some cruel game to him? Or… was there something more? You couldn’t make sense of it. You press a hand to your lips, almost as if to erase the feel of him, but his touch is still there, deep in your skin. You can feel the weight of the moment pressing on your chest, suffocating you. What if someone finds out? What if they notices the mark on your neck? You swallow hard, panic rising at the thought of being exposed. You need to fix yourself, now.

Your fingers tremble as you adjust your skirt, pulling it down quickly, trying to smooth out the wrinkles where it had ridden up during that moment of heated madness. Your skin feels too hot, too alive under your fingers, as though every part of you is still marked by him, his touch searing through your clothes, through your very being. You fight to calm your breath, telling yourself it was just a momentary lapse, a fleeting indulgence. But your body doesn’t listen. Your mind doesn’t listen. You spot the wine bottle on the floor, forgotten in the chaos, and you quickly bend down to retrieve it. As you stand again, your fingers still unsteady, the door suddenly creaks open, making you flinch. You turn quickly, your heart leaping into your throat, only to see another servant standing there. She eyes you, her gaze moving from your face to your disheveled appearance. There’s a moment of silence as she watches you, her brow furrowing slightly. “Are you alright?” she asks, voice soft but tinged with concern. “You look… shaken.”

Shaken. That was an understatement. You’re not sure if you can even trust your own body to respond properly. You force a smile, though it feels brittle, fragile. “I’m fine,” you say quickly, trying to sound more composed than you feel. “Just… startled by the noise. Nothing more.”

Her eyes narrow just slightly as she studies you, clearly not buying it, but she doesn’t press. Instead, she shifts her attention to the task at hand, though she gives the red mark on your neck one last glance before moving on. It’s a mark Aemond left, and you can’t help but feel the burn of it—like his touch is still there, still claiming you.

You can’t get out of the room fast enough. With a glance back at the servant, you grab the two bottles of wine, holding them tight, needing something solid to ground you. You step out into the hallway, every step heavy, like the weight of the moment is following you. When you finally reach the dining hall, you take a deep breath, steeling yourself for the inevitable. By the time you reach the dining hall, your thoughts are a whirlwind. You walk in, head down, trying to focus on the simple task of refilling the glasses. But the weight of the room presses on you—everyone chatting, laughing, but it feels like a distant noise. The eyes of the lords and ladies on you feel almost suffocating.

As you reach Aemond’s, your hand trembles slightly as you pour the wine. His presence is undeniable, like a heavy storm hanging in the air, and you can’t resist the pull of his gaze. Your pulse spikes again as you glance at him, only to find him already watching you, his expression unreadable, though there’s a glimmer in his single eye. It’s a sharp look, one that seems to pierce through you, a challenge almost. His lips curve into a small, knowing smirk.

Is he mocking me? you wonder, heart fluttering in your chest. But then, his gaze flickers lower, and your stomach drops as you realize exactly where his attention is. My neck. The spot where he’d marked you. You feel the heat rising in your cheeks, but you quickly look away, focusing on the task at hand, even though your hands now feel numb. The wine flows, but it’s like you’re moving in slow motion. Your breath comes faster as your mind races with a thousand thoughts, all swirling back to Aemond’s touch.

When you finally finish, you retreat back to your spot by the wall, then, Catelyn’s voice pulls you from your thoughts. “What’s that mark on your neck?” she asks, her tone a mix of concern and curiosity. “Are you sure you’re alright?” No. You panic. Don’t let anyone know. Don’t let her know. You press your hand to your neck, as if that will make the mark disappear. “Oh, it’s nothing,” you say quickly, a smile tugging at your lips, though it feels stiff and strained. “Just a mosquito bite. Really, it’s nothing.” Catelyn doesn’t seem entirely convinced, but she doesn’t push. She simply nods, returning to her task, though you can see the hint of doubt still in her eyes.

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸

The final plates are cleared, the last of the wine glasses filled, and the sounds of clinking utensils and chatter slowly fade as the noble guests begin to stagger from their seats, their faces flushed with the effects of wine and rich food. The once lively hall is now quieter, the guests growing more sluggish as they lean on their attendants for support, a few stumbling toward the exits. Their laughter fades as the door closes behind them, leaving behind only the echoes of the night’s revelry. You stand at the far end of the hall, your duties nearly complete, and allow yourself a brief moment to breathe. The chaos is finally over, and you can almost feel the weight lifting from your shoulders. The tension that had been building throughout the night slowly unwinds, though there’s a lingering unease that you can’t shake. It’s in the air..heavy, suffocating. It’s a feeling you can’t quite place, but it’s as if something fundamental has shifted. Something between you and the prince.

You can't deny it. Aemond’s presence is still etched into your skin. The mark on your neck, still faint, seems to burn whenever you think of him, the way his gaze lingered, the way his lips had pressed so fiercely against yours and his touch. That moment in the wine room keeps replaying in your mind, making your heart race despite the exhaustion that weighs down on you.

As the last of the guests depart, you make your way to the door, your body already aching for rest, when you feel a sudden grip on your arm. The touch is firm, unyielding, pulling you to a halt. You glance up, startled, and find Aemond standing before you, his single eye fixed on you with that same intense, unreadable expression. His hand tightens just slightly on your arm, and your breath catches in your throat.

“I hope you haven’t forgotten,” he says, his voice low and smooth, sending a shiver down your spine. “Your nightly task.”

Your stomach drops, heart thumping in your chest. “The... the hair brushing?” you stammer, trying to pull your thoughts together. It feels as though everything has been leading up to this moment, his presence like a shadow, always close, always watching. Aemond’s lips curl into a small, almost imperceptible smile. His eye flickers down to your neck for a moment, and you can’t help but feel exposed, as if he sees everything, the mark, your fear, your desire, the confusion swirling in your mind.

“Yes,” he murmurs, his voice taking on a deeper, darker edge. “But there will be a change tonight.”

A feeling of unease washes over you, and your breath hitches. You try to pull your arm free, but he only tightens his grip, his fingers like steel. There’s something in his tone, something that sends a thrill through you, but it’s not excitement—it’s dread. You can sense it, feel it in the way his gaze burns into you, in the way his voice softens with the promise of something that isn’t entirely innocent.

“What kind of....change?” you whisper, your throat dry, barely able to get the words out.

Aemond leans closer, his breath brushing against your ear. “You’ll see,” he says, his voice low and almost too soft to hear, laced with something dangerous, something predatory. Your pulse races as you try to comprehend his meaning, but before you can say anything more, he releases his grip on your arm. His eyes, dark and unreadable, lock onto yours for a lingering moment.

“Now, go,” he says simply, his voice cold again, as though nothing happened. He steps back, watching you with an inscrutable expression.

You stumble, your mind racing, but you manage to nod and step back into the hall, your heart still pounding. What has he planned? You take a slow, shaky breath, your heart still pounding. The night has ended, but you’re certain that what happens next will be anything but peaceful.

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