#if my high valyrian is wack im sorry

[author-morgan]

Title: Iā Zaldrīzes's Prūmia  Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!Reader Rating: T Summary: Promises are not idly spoken and Aemond proves he's a man of his word.  Warnings: typical Westerosi shenanigans

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.”

Freeing one of your hands, you reach around him, undoing the clasp of his eyepatch. He catches the leather piece and places it next to one of your hair combs on the vanity. The blue of his stone-eye glimmers in the firelight —you’ve never loved that shade of deep blue as much as you do now. Aemond closes his eye when your fingertips meet the start of his scar, tracing downward, over where his eye should be, and across his cheek. He conceals his sapphire eye while at court so as not to frighten the ladies. But you had been among the first to see him after his return from Driftmark —the wound fresh and stitches swollen. Aemond hadn’t wanted you to look upon him, not after hearing whispers from others, but true friends did not abandon one another so readily.

You tilt your chin up and lean closer to him, heart racing. There’ll be no going back after tonight, one way or another. “Then make good on your promise and take me,” you breathe. It’s a promise made a lifetime ago and one you nor he has ever forgotten. 

Aemond inhales before he seizes your face within his hands and lurches forward, lips seeking yours —hungry and zealous and loving. You sigh into his mouth, fingers twisting into his silver-white hair. He tastes of smoke and wine and everything you could ever dream of in this life.

THE SPACE NEXT to you in bed is empty and cold when your lady’s maid, Lyra, comes to wake and prepare you for the day. She says nothing about the state of your undress —only offers a meek smile when she realizes you wear Prince Aemond’s tunic. People in the Red Keep like to speculate about your and the prince’s relationship, but only Lyra knows the truth, having stumbled upon you and Aemond in bed, wrapped up in one another. It had been innocent enough then, but now without the high neck of your linen shift beneath a blue-green dress, the world would be able to see the scattering of dark lovebites on your neck —and speculation would turn to scandal.

A posted guard announces your arrival, and Helaena looks up from her embroidery and offers a faint and fleeting smile. “Good morrow, Lady Wylde,” the princess greets. You arrive later than usual, and Helaena’s already broken her fast with her brothers, sorely missing the pleasant conversation which often quells Aemond and Aegon’s tempers.

“Good morrow to you, princess,” you reply, dipping down into a quick curtsey before taking a seat across from her. Your unfinished embroidery is left on the low table, a poor attempt to create the sigil of House Wylde —a blue-green maelstrom on a golden field. The curves and lines are not straight, and instead of neat swirls, it looks more like a patchwork of yellow and blue thread. “We’ve apple tarts still from breakfast,” Helaena notes to break the looming quiet. “Made sure my brothers did not eat them all.”

You thank Helaena for her thoughtfulness, then turn your attention to little Jaehaerys and Jaehaera, swaddled in pale linens and still fast asleep in their bassinet. Helaena often reprimands you for spoiling them, just as she does their uncle. It’s astounding such pure little beings had come from Aegon’s loins. “Aemond was looking for you,” she says, suddenly —knowing something was off with him this morning. “He’s gone to train now.”

“Did he say why?” But Helaena does not answer, only offering another quick smile. 

Ser Criston Cole glimpses you as you descend the stairs to join the others watching the prince’s training session. “You have an audience,” the kingsguard knight says, pushing away from a stalemate. Aemond always garners an audience when he trains —it makes for a bout of good entertainment on droll days, especially when his opponent is Ser Criston. But now the one person Prince Aemond always looks for arrives —and it’s the only audience that matters to the young prince. He spins the hilt of his training sword, then drives the blunted sword into the ground and turns on heel.

You step to Aemond, hands clasped behind your back and head tilted to the side —appraising his disheveled appearance and the sheen of sweat on his pale brow. “Helaena said you wished to see me, my prince?”

Mindlessly, he reaches for a lock of your hair, twisting it around his finger. “I always wish to see you,” Aemond replies, softly and hushed.

“Flattery will get you everywhere and nowhere, Aemond.” You grip his wrist lest he forgets himself and the others watching with eagle eyes and loose lips.

“Mm” —his lips quirk upward, and his gaze dips downward, tracing the line of your jaw and neck— “let’s hope for the former then, my lady,” he breathes, a heady lilt to the words. You like to think yourself immune to his tricks and sweet words, but the flush of warmth painting your cheeks says otherwise. Aemond smiles in earnest and glimpses his waiting opponent over his shoulder. “May I ask your favor whilst I best this old knight?” He asks, just loud enough for those closest to hear.

“I’ve no favor to give,” you tell him, amused —you have no crown of flowers, ribbon, or handkerchief to present the prince this day, only yourself.

But that’s more than enough. “A kiss then,” Aemond muses, already leaning closer and expecting you to acquiesce his request, “from my fairest lady.”

You press a hand to his chest, fingers toying with one of the buckles of his gambeson. “Only if you win.” A kiss is a precious thing, and you dare not give one away so freely before your titled peers. Aemond steps back and recovers his training sword, then turns to face Ser Criston.

Three more rounds come to pass. One ends in a draw, the other with Aemond knocking the kingsguard knight’s sword from hand, but in the final contest, Criston claims victory.

The gathered lords and ladies clap and cheer, slowly filtering from the training yard now that the spectacle is over. You lean against a training dummy, watching as the two combatants and their page boys come to rerack the training weapons. “It’s good of you to knock him on his arse from time to time, Ser Criston,” you remark, making your way toward the knight and prince. 

Aemond glares across the training yard, but you only smile sweetly for him. In truth, it soothes your heart and mind to know the prince is trained by one of the finest knights in the Seven Kingdoms —and one of the few battle-hardened warriors who resided in the city at that. “Even princes must be humbled, my lady,” Ser Criston replies. “A duty I take no pleasure in.”

You reach for Aemond’s arm. “Walk with me,” you say, smiling up at him. He obliges, knowing your company will be the sweetest balm for his wounded pride. You mean to steal him away to the godswood of the Keep but passing members of the court all seek to stop you and the prince for polite conversation —a question about King Viserys’s health, an offhand remark about the unusually warm weather. 

Many in the court believe you to be a good match for the prince regardless of birth status, though they’d never dare speak such improper opinions aloud. And all the while, Aemond presses his hand against the small of your back, his thumb rubbing circles, mindlessly, through the linen and silk of your summer dress —always touching you somehow, as he is wont to do, and uncaring of whoever may see.

It takes time to converse with everyone so as not to be seen as impolite, but the halls of the Red Keep give way to the godswood. Aemond stops beneath the weirwood tree and peers up at the red leaves, suddenly lost in thought and memory. “If you could go anywhere” —his gaze flits down to you— “where would you go?” He isn’t sure what he wants to hear you say. 

“Se hūra,” you answer, needing little time to ponder an answer. You’ve everything you want here in King’s Landing —family, friends, the love of a prince— you needn't go anywhere else save the impossible. 

“You’d have to fly to the moon,” he muses.  

You step in front of Aemond and reach for his hands —twining your fingers with his. “But you have a dragon.” You could take me. If any dragon could reach the moon and stars, it would be Vhagar, and Aemond would take you without question or hesitation. He does not say anything, but there’s a glimmer in his eye, and then he frees one of his hands, the backs of his fingers skimming across your cheek. Aemond exhales softly, leaning in as you tilt your chin up, standing a little taller. It’s a small kiss, just at the corner of your mouth, nothing more, nothing less —for propriety’s sake. But before he can part, you turn your head, noses brushing together just before your lips do. 

It’s a risky decision to display your feelings for one another so openly, but the prince is long past caring, and you’re nigh to that point too. A cool tingle crawls up your arms when his hand cradles the back of your head —fingers lacing into your hair. Aemond nudges your nose with his own, and on instinct, you both tilt your heads, finding a better angle for him to kiss you slowly, lazily. And then he grabs your waist with his free hand and pulls you closer to him, breathing in your little gasp. “Ñuha sīmontan,” he whispers upon parting. Then he releases you from his gentle hold and steps back.

You cannot keep him to yourself this day, he’s promised to tend to his mother before continuing his studies with the maester, and you must return to Helaena’s company as her favored lady-in-waiting.

AEMOND KNEELS BEDSIDE and wakes you with the cool brush of his fingertips against your cheek. “Come to bed, jorrāelagon,” you murmur, catching his mismatched gaze of lilac and sapphire in the dim firelight of the dwindling sconces. But he makes no move to join you; instead, he offers his hand —and his heart. 

Rousing, you don a dressing gown and cloak and follow your rogue prince through the hidden passageways of the Red Keep and into a courtyard below, where Ser Criston waits with a saddled black destrier. The kingsguard knight passes the reins to Aemond with a curt nod before taking his leave to return to his post at the Queen’s door. Aemond helps you up into the saddle, then mounts behind you and takes the reins, turning westward. It’s common for the two of you to steal away for the night, but seldom do such trysts occur without prior thought. You glance over your shoulder. “Where are we going at this hour?”

His arm wraps around your waist, pulling you back flush against his chest. “Se hūra,” Aemond replies, a gentle whisper in your ear. 

King’s Landing fades on the horizon as you ride to the south and towards the Kingswood. He slows the horse to a halt at the edge of a clearing surrounding one of the largest oak trees in the swath of forest. Burning lanterns hang from the lowest branches, and an altar bearing miniature stone likenesses of the Seven stands before the great trunk.

Aemond eases you from the saddle, then dismounts himself and offers the crook of his arm. You glance around and to the stars and moon above —the clouds from earlier have parted to a clear night sky— before looking up at the prince. A flutter starts in your belly, and your heart begins beating faster. It isn’t, you tell yourself. He wouldn’t break tradition so easily. “Is this where you disappeared to earlier?” You query, wondering how many days and nights he’s spent planning this moment, but he does not offer an answer.

When you reach the altar, he steps before you and takes your hands. “I like to think I am a man of my word,” Aemond starts, and you can see the nervous twinkle in his eye. “I would make you mine tonight,” he tells you. “Now and forever.” He promised when you were only children that you’d be his princess one day, and again when you were both of age and realized simple friendship could not account for the way you loved one another. The tears pricking at your eyes are ones of joy, and you smile for Aemond before embracing him, face tucked into the crook of his neck.

From the shadows, Septon Eustace emerges, a marriage cape draped over his arm and a lantern held aloft in the other. Part of you refuses to believe this is happing —you’ve scarcely dreamt of something so sweet as this moment. Eustace bows his head. There is no need for ceremony or rambling to appease the masses. Tonight it is only two young lovers, desperate and eager to speak the sacred vows before it is too late.

“We are here to join these two as man and wife in the sight of the Seven,” he begins, looking between you and the prince and the carved figurines of the Seven on the altar. You grip Aemond’s hand, fingertips pressing into his wrist. “One flesh, one heart” —his heart is racing, just as yours is, almost in sync— “one soul, now and forever.” And forever shall come too soon.

“Cloak the bride, my prince.” The septon extends his arm, offering the black cape emblazoned with the sigil of House Targaryen, embroidered with silver thread and shining ruby eyes. “Bring her under your protection.” Aemond takes the cloak and steps behind you —his uneven breaths fan across the nape of your neck— draping the heavy fabric over your shoulders. The new weight makes you stand taller, as a princess of the realm should.

Septon Eustace lowers his head as Aemond returns to your side and reaches for your shaking hand, but his touch nigh instantly soothes your nerves and heart. “In the name of the Seven, I seal these two souls” —the septon wraps a red silk ribbon around your joined hands— “binding them as one for eternity,” he states, taking a step back. “Now look upon one another and say the words.”

You glimpse Aemond, gaze following the sharp line of his jaw, before shifting to face him. “Father. Smith. Warrior. Mother. Maiden. Crone. Stranger,” you and Aemond say in unison, gazes locked and unfaltering —his cold gaze softens, reflecting the lanterns and stars. You take a slow breath before reciting the vows you’ve only ever dreamt of speaking. “I am his, and he is mine, from this day, until the end of my days,” you proclaim. I am hers, and she is mine, from this day, until the end of my days, Aemond echoes. 

“It is done then,” the septon says, bowing his head as he unbinds the silk ribbon. “I wish you both happiness and good health.” Eustace looks to Aemond. “My prince” —then his gaze flits over to you— “princess.” A flutter of wings stirs in your belly hearing your new title, another promise Aemond had made good on. And then Septon Eustace takes his leave.

Alone, you reach for him and rise on your toes to bestow a kiss just below his sapphire eye, along the scar cutting across his cheek. “Husband,” you call him, giddy with the thought and what it means for the future. 

Aemond rests his forehead against yours, lips curved into a smile. “Say it again,” he breathes, the words a soft caress against your lips and cheek. He doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of hearing his name and titles in your soft, lilted voice. 

“Valzȳrys,” you whisper, remembering the Valyrian word for ‘husband’ —you came across it while reading a book about the traditions of Old Valyria with him in the library. 

“Ābrazȳrys,” he calls you. Another title added to an ever-growing list of endearments: Wife. Princess. My love. Rose. Aemond cups your face in his hands and brings your lips together. The kiss is sweet and soft, not lesser, or more than any other you’d shared in secret, only now, he is more than your dear prince.  

IT’S NOT DIFFICULT to keep your marriage to Aemond a secret. You both carry on as you always have in the eyes of the court, but your husband takes to the secret passageways of the Red Keep to spend the evening and night hours with his new wife —always gone by morning, though. No one, save for Lyra and perhaps Helaena, suspects a thing.

And so your father continues his search for a suitable man to marry his daughter. He calls upon you to take lunch in the gardens with him and hear the good news. “You’re to meet Humfrey Swyft in a week's time,” Lord Wylde announces. House Swyft is a knightly house of the Westerlands, sworn to House Lannister. A good name. A good house. A good match. But as your father speaks, your heart begins to race —pounding in your ears like the war drums of the Giants. “He has asked to seek your hand in courtship.” And marriage. 

“I cannot accept this match, father,” you tell him, eyes downcast and gaze focused on your hands —folded in your lap. Lord Wylde’s brows settle into a deep furrow. He raised you as a proper lady of the court, talented in womanly affairs and always dutiful. Despite your newfound happiness, it is still painful to be a disappointment to your father and house.

“I am wed to another.” Your voice trembles as you speak the truth, and your father’s face turns red with anger. But you go on. Lord Wylde is a devout follower of the Seven, and perhaps it will ease his heart and curb his temper to know you had not done something so reckless on a whim. “Septon Eustace and the Seven will attest to my vows.”

“To whom are you married, daughter?” He knows the answer already, deep down —and knows the whispers which entertain the servants and other members of the court about his daughter and the prince are true. You look up from your glass of sweet wine, seeing Aemond approach through the hedges —a prince come to rescue his lady wife— and give a quiet sigh of relief.

“Me,” Aemond says before you can speak his name. “And we did so with the Queen’s blessing.” You look to your husband, just as surprised as your father upon hearing it. Though, at least it soothes your heart to know Good Queen Alicent looked upon your union with her son favorably.

“You need not worry for her happiness or prosperity, my Lord Wylde.” Aemond rounds the table and reaches for your hand to kiss your knuckles, his lips pulling into a smile against your flesh. “I will honor her as all good husbands honor their wives.” His cool gaze flits from your father back to you, a new, unspoken promise shining in his eye. Now, always, and forever. 

High Valyrian Translation: Iā Zaldrīzes's Prūmia - A Dragon’s Heart Sīmontan. - Rose. Nyke jaelagon ao. - I want you. Se hūra. - The moon. Ñuha sīmontan. - My rose. Jorrāelagon. - Love. Valzȳrys. - Husband. Ābrazȳrys. - Wife.

[House of the Dragon taglist: @batmomphd / @beelanie / @certifiedlittleshit / @crispmarshmallow / @crvshnburnn / @dollvi3e / @erzsebetrosztoczy / @fictionaldistraction / @gallimaufrea / @hc-geralt-23 / @holysmokesblog / @idkjj04 / @instabull / @javisjeanjacket / @katie007123 / @ksziggy / @lady-stark-winter-rose / @lillianastras / @lostingoogletranslate / @lucyhotchner / @midnightmuze / @mikariell95 / @misskatiewrites / @moonlightsspirit / @moshpot24x / @mrsragnarlodbrok / @m1ndbrand / @nenelysian / @nerdy4itall / @newtsniffles / @notbrookie / @paprikabadger / @purestxblood / @qhbr2013 / @safe-within-the-stars / @sandronebabyy / @sapphirehearteyes / @savagemickey03 / @schniiipsel / @singular-itae / @thewintersnoozer / @watercolorskyy / @xcallmetaniax / @xinyourdreamsx / @xxgarden / @23victoria ] if your name is italicized, tumblr would not let me tag you. if you’d like to be added to my House of the Dragon taglist, or any other taglist, just let me know with this Google Form!