#watercress aemond fic | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

asumofwords · 7 months ago

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Watercress

Warnings: She/her pronouns. Smallfolk OC, mentions of death and war, descriptions of injury and blood, slowburn. Tags will be added as the fic goes along.

Pairings: Aemond x She/Her

Summary: Raised in the Riverlands, near the shadow of Harrenhal, her life was one of endless toil and quiet resilience. Every day was the same—scraping together food, tending to the ill, and surviving the harsh realities of a land marked by struggle. But when war came, it brought horrors beyond anything she could have imagined. The skies blazed with fury, the waters of the Gods Eye churned with the echoes of battle, and then—just as suddenly as it began—the world grew eerily quiet. She believed the worst was over. That was, until a fateful discovery in the woods shattered her fragile peace and set her on a path she never could have foreseen.

Notes: Hello there my sweet angels! Thank you so much for your patience in me writing this. It has been such a long time since I have written anything and I am so excited to finally have a burst of energy (and the inspiration) to do it! As I'm writing this I'm like, is this similar to Lighthouse? And you know what, potentially? Lmaoooo. I'm not sure how many chapters this bad boy is going to be, but it will be a miniseries hehe. If you want to be tagged in the taglist, let me know, otherwise I hope you enjoy! <3

Chapter 1: Broken

Still and brittle air. A body of water that had rippled with anger, now calm and without falsely made tides. In the woods beside the ever stretching lake, there was food to be found, herbs to be foraged, and animals to be hunted. What she hadn’t accounted for was the discovery of a man.

As she moved through the nearby woodlands, her eyes diligently scanned the forest floor for edible plants to gather and bring home. She followed a slender stream that wound its way like a vein through the lush greenery. Below her, she spotted some watercress and knelt down to collect it.

The plant was easy to identify, its round, dark green leaves gleaming with a healthy shine, growing in plump clusters that resembled clover. A common enough find, watercress was versatile—its peppery flavour could be enjoyed raw or cooked, adding a subtle kick to various dishes.

With gentle precision, she cut the stems at their base using her blade, then placed the watercress into the small basket she held at her hip. The air filled with a faint peppery scent as her fingers began to feel the familiar tackiness from the leaves. She took care not to harvest too much, arranging the watercress atop the rest of her foraged goods before continuing along the well-worn path toward the lake. Beneath the cloth in her basket lay a worn net, neatly folded, its ends weighted by sinkers like the delicate strands of a spider's web.

A lot of trouble the lake had seen in the few days past. Troubles from highborn nobles who cared naught about the smallfolk who outnumber them. But now that it was still, it was almost eerie from how so much chaos can suddenly halt in its tracks from the actions of just two; how much destruction just even one could make.

The soft chirping of birds echoed through the gaps between the trees, mingling with the gentle creaking of branches swaying in the breeze. As she neared the shore, the bushes and trees grew sparser, revealing the familiar lake’s edge. Stones of varying sizes scattered the bank, and the water lay calm, a deep shade of blue.

Her cottage was tucked behind her, deeper within the woods from where she had come. It was close enough to the village—a few hours walk—but far enough that few ventured to this secluded corner of the lake. There was an unspoken respect for the boundaries each had claimed, and everyone faithfully followed their familiar, ancestral paths.

Though autumn rapidly approached, and the nipping of the cold chilled her through her skirts, the woman still stripped her feet of her shoes and stockings, pulling up her skirts and apron to knot at the side, leaving her legs bare to the open air.

With a swift flourish, she pulled the net from the basket and waded into the lake until the water reached her knees, disregarding the cold that bit at her skin. In the frigid depths, her feet slid over and between the rocks beneath, occasionally unsettling her balance and sending small ripples across the surface.

She stood motionless for a time, waiting for the disturbed fish to be lulled back into a false sense of safety. Once the water had settled, she cast her net, its pointed corners spreading like the limbs of an octopus before sinking below the surface. She gripped the long rope attached to the center and began to drag the net back toward her.

At first, the net yielded only a few stray leaves and a couple of twigs. Undeterred, she carefully ensured that the net was untangled before tossing it back into the water. Again, she pulled it in quickly, only to find the same meager catch. She repeated the process until her toes had grown numb and a dull ache crept up her shins from the cold.

Moving to a new spot, she threw the net once more, watching the weights sink swiftly as she pulled it in. This time, there was resistance.

The water rippled and splashed as she hauled the net up, revealing three small fish trapped inside. Their silvery bodies thrashed side to side, desperately trying to escape. With swift, steady steps, she walked back to the shore and dropped the net onto the dirt bank, watching the fish flop and struggle. Taking out her hunting knife, she carefully avoided cutting the rope as she held each fish down, driving the blade into their heads. The frantic thrashing slowed to a dull twitch, and then ceased altogether. She slit their bellies open, removed the guts, and flung them into the water, hoping to attract more fish—or perhaps even larger ones.

She placed them in the basket, but their sizes were nothing extraordinary. She thought that she could dry some for later, store them to eat dried or to soak in a stew with a thick bread. And though the coldness was beginning to get to her, she continued, walking straight back into the water to throw her net back in.

Casting the net out far and pulling it back in, she managed to get four more fish which she killed, gutted and placed in the basket beside the other. Though not greedy, she knew that the winter months would soon be upon her and it was best to be prepared with an ample store of dried fish and foods, even more-so now after the war had ravaged so much of the Seven Kingdoms. She decided that if she was to have ten, she would be able to eat well that evening as well as have a fair stash to have ready whenever needed.

Once more she stepped out into the water, though this time daring to wade deeper, the water coming to her mid thigh, the bottoms of her skirts and apron slowly became saturated, the weight pulling her body down.

Another cast of the net, she watched as the weights sunk into the dark depths, the sun bleached rope disappearing into the lake before she began to pull at the rope, only this time the tension of the rope pulled taught and the net became stuck.

With a huff, she blew a stray strand of hair from her face and yanked on the net, trying to dislodge it from whatever it had snagged on—a branch or perhaps a rock. But the net wouldn’t budge, and her frustration grew. She pulled harder, and the net finally came free, but the force sent her stumbling backward, her foot slipping into a small dip in the lakebed. Her hips plunged into the cold water.

"Fuck." she hissed as the icy water soaked her gown up to her waist.

In a surge of anger, she wrenched the net toward her, only to find her frustration deepening when she saw a rip in the netting. The frayed rope left a gaping hole, one that would take considerable time to mend—or perhaps force her to start anew.

“Fucking cunt.” She flung the net back to shore, the weights making a wet thud on the soil, as she looked to where the her net had got caught.

With her dress already soaked, she made no quarrels with walking deeper, the icy lake now coming up to her chest as she tried to peer down into the dark depths to see what her net had gotten snagged on. Why she looked, she did not know. Perhaps to curse out whatever rock or object had ruined her perfectly fine net. At the very least she had caught enough fish to last her until she could mend the torn net, or start anew. Gods forbid she had to walk to a nearby town to buy one.

With careful feet she waded in the water, reaching her toes out first in search of the sunken object. Hands balancing her atop the waters surface, she reached further forward in search. Her toes touched small rocks, their broken edges skating against the sides or sole of her foot-- but still it was not what had ruined her net. There were many rocks in the lake, she knew this, the fishermen who had boats on the lake and drew trade knew this, but she frequented this spot enough to know that there was something new there that shouldn’t be.

Rough and smooth all at once she felt it, something before her nestled between boulders. As her toe searched the foreign object, a sharp sting radiated up from them. She hissed, pulling her foot backwards, wondering if there was something new within the lake that could swallow her whole. Her curiosity took over. Tentatively, she pushed her foot out again, finding the smooth yet bumpy object that seemed to be colder than the water itself. The more she touched it, the more she realised that it was not what she had thought at all. In fact, she was surprised to come to the conclusion that it was manmade.

With her dress already soaked, she dipped her arm into the water, shoulder and breast dipping beneath the surface halting her breath as her fingers sought out what her toes had found. Cool metal met her hand, her digits wrapping around a cylinder shape, the feeling of spirals beneath. With all her might she pulled it, the weight of what she held making her strain, but as she lifted it she was able to see the glinting of steel beneath the water as it got closer to the surface.

The sword hilt was black and gold, a sort of spiral shape at the top, its cross guards gold and in the shape of a head, a bird perhaps? Or a dragon? It was long and heavy, and just when she thought the rest of it would come to the surface, she was wrong. It was far too large and too heavy for her to pull it up out of the water. Stepping back carefully with the new found object in hand, she dragged it behind her, the point dragging over rocks and sediment alike until finally she was back on the shore.

The make of the sword told her that it was worth its weight in gold, and even had gold upon it to prove her observations further. It would have belonged to a nobleman, or perhaps even a knight, though the closer the looked at it, the more features she could see that resembled symbolism of House Targaryen.

So it was one of theirs, then.

She let the sword drop to the sand, hands on her hips as she looked at both her basket full of food and fish, the broken net, and finally to the sword. The sword would be worth much, but she would have to travel far to sell it to anyone with the coin to buy it. But then comes the trouble of travelling with such a large, and if she was correct in what she thought it was, recognisable item. It would risk raiders, or worse, some overzealous loyalist who deigned her a thief and cut off her hands.

Eyes drifting behind her towards the lake, she wondered what had happened those days past.

She remembered the sound, the ear piercing shrieks from the sky, heat of fire, the smell of smoke and crashing of water. But she had run as fast as she would once she saw the great green beast fly overhead.

Nothing good ever came to the Riverlands when She was near.

Eventually though, having nowhere else to go, the woman had returned in the night, hidden amongst the forest and trees, listening for the sounds of roaring and flame which had ceased quickly as it echoed around the lake. And when she arrived back to the lake, it was quiet once more.

The dance of the two dragons above Gods Eye was no more, and she could finally go back to living her life; uninterrupted.

She scanned the shoreline surrounding, eyes narrowing in the distance to see if she saw any signs of the dragons. Perhaps they had crawled out from the lake on the other side and had made their way towards her end? But the lake was so large and so deep, that none could even see to the other side.

Turning to pick up her basket and the sword again she was halted by the flickering of something shiny in the distance, the setting sun reflecting off of metal amongst tree root and rock. She wondered briefly if it was going to be another sword, or perhaps a helm. That would be easier to sell at the nearby town; a smith would certainly pay handsomely to melt down the steel and turn it into whatever wares he desired. She kicked soil over the blade and placed the basket full of greens and fish atop the hilt, covering the gold and reflective surface entirely before making her way towards the flickering light.

Her dress pulled down on her shoulders heavily, water dripping from the hem with each step as a chill rose upon her flesh. But something compelled her further, despite all other instincts within, she pushed on, making her way towards the glinting metal which snaked along the rocky shore. The closer she got, the more she recognised that it was chains, draped and shining in the sun, some covered in dirt the rest leading towards the water.

She thought of the many things she could do with the chains, what their worth could be, and whether or not it was worth going further to collect them, and yet still she persisted, feet muddy and wet, a slight sting from where the blade of the sword had cut at her toes.

She bent down to gaze upon them, strong, good quality steel it seemed. They had not tarnished, nor were their many marks upon them. The chain links were half the length of her arm and triple the width, its weight likely more than her own. They were far too large for her to carry alone.

A breeze rolled through the forest and across the water, sending goosebumps to rise over her body with a shiver. It was getting dark, she was drenched, and the best option was to leave the larger find behind and come back for it on the morrow, perhaps with a plan on how she would move the chain from water, to shore, to forest, to door.

She turned to face the forest and was greeted with evidence of the destruction dragons could inflict. Trees older than her grandmother had ever been, their trunks as wide as horses, split down the centre and broken from the impact of a large body. Further within she could see the singed tree tops, where ash that had settled down atop the canopy. The eeriness of a broken forest and a broken realm, far too close to home.

And yet she was drawn to it, this destruction. It was unlike anything she had witnessed before; she was pulled forward. Feet crunching on the pine floor, the crunch of her steps deafening in comparison to how quiet it was amongst the carnage. The animals had not yet returned, the ones that had once been there dead, silent.

Even with the trees that had somehow managed to survive, to stand tall despite the terror that had reigned above them, their trunks and leaves were covered in the evidence of what was. Ash, streaked each surface, and with a curious hand she place it atop the bark of a tree, brushing her finger along the ridges of the wood, watching as they turned grey. A quick rub of forefinger and pointer together made the ash smear, and as she stood by that tree, taking in the scene before her, her eyes focused upon a darkness behind the tree that should not have been there.

Something that was not born of ash nor bark nor fur.

Something human.

Uncertainly she took a step around the tree to see the beginning of a boot, a leathered boot at that. And attached to it a leg, and then hips, and finally;

A man.

Dressed head to toe in dark leather, now grey with ash, the man lay on his side. Her heart raced in her chest, though she had seen the dead before, this time was different. This time it was not a sick merchant, nor a child who had gotten the winter fever. It was not her father dying at the hands of a drunken fight, blood trickling from his mouth.

This was one of them.

Long silver hair lay knotted across the mans face, ash streaking the pearlescent tresses grey. His skin much the same, though the parlour was similar to a corpse; so pale, so almost blue that she could have mistaken him for one of Harrenhal’s ghosts.

Was he the man who had slaughtered the Strong family at Harrenhal?

Or was he the one who commanded the brutal rape and murders of those who opposed the Blackwoods?

Did it matter? She thought to herself, They were all the same.

The leg she had discovered was bent at an unnatural angle, the shin snapped in two, broken in a way that if he had lived he would have been crippled for the rest of his days. The rest of his body did not fair well either, tears in his leather tunic and breeches given way to an attack, or a fall, or Gods knew what else. The famed silver hair which obscured his face from view was red at his skull, slowly seeping into a rust colour where blood had dried from a wound.

Bare toes stood beside the pale mans head as she dipped to her knees, her wet dress sticking to the ash and pine coated floor. She observed him for a time, admiring the stitchwork of the tunic he wore, noting that it would likely be-- despite its conditions-- the nicest thing she could own. But she was no grave robber, and she had no desire to be haunted by his spirit after desecrating his corpse.

Her curiosity however won out, and with an unsteady hand, unsure whether it be from the cold or the man, she reached forth to brush the blood crusted hair away from his face.

Despite its appearance, ash, blood and leaves tangled in the locks, his hair was as soft as silk as she brushed it with her hands. The skin of his ear was cold to the touch. She swept the tangled heap away from his brow and cheek, revealing a bruised and cut cheek, though that was not what had made her breath skip in her chest.

The space where his eye should have been was empty, though not from this battle, but from one many years ago she supposed, the skin of the brow and cheek scarred deeply down his face. She could see to the back of where his eye would have once sat, the flesh darkened and scarred.

Aemond One-Eye.

Following the scar on his cheek, she looked to his lips, where dried blood had crusted at its opening and down his other cheek to the forest floor. His nose, aquiline and strong had bled too, as did his ears from what she would see, and through the centre of his face a cut sliced through the bridge where bruising and bone were visible.

It was weird, to sit so close to a corpse of royalty, and she were sure that if he were alive he would have stuck her for daring to even touch him. For daring to even touch his pure blood, and his pure hair, and his purer skin. And this thought alone made her touch him all the more, tracing curious fingers across his cheek, his nose, the scar running through his cheek, and down to his neck, where his tunic had been torn and the pale expanse of his neck was visible.

Her finger trailed down past his jaw, underneath it, wondering what in the world separated the two of them. They died just like everyone else. Whether that be in the birthing bed, in cups of ale, or fighting one another. What made the Targaryens so far removed from her? Besides their silver hair, their lilac eyes and their dragons, they were merely men, and all men died.

The King was proof of this.

A faint fluttering beneath her fingers made her lift her hand in shock, her digits hovering over the mans face as she looked at him in disbelief.

He couldn’t…

She leant down, dipping her ear beside his lip as she rested a hand against his ribs.

And there it was, a rattling breath so weak, so quiet, that had his lips not been pressed against her ear she would not have heard it.

He was alive.

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to the tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! Enjoy <3

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asumofwords · 8 days ago

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Watercress - Chapter 2

Warnings: She/her pronouns. Descriptions of injuries, blood and broken bones, stitches. Tags will be added as the fic goes along.

Pairings: Aemond x She/Her

Word Count: 6k

Notes: Firstly I want to thank you all for your patience on this series, I had some insane writers block but I think I'm back! I also want to thank you for all your kindness with the first chapter and your excitement, I feel terrible for not being able to get this out sooner but hopefully it's worth the wait. I'm thinking this miniseries will be about 10 chapters long! It's a bit of a hefty chapter because I couldn't help myself. I did way too much medieval medicine research, Oops! Again, thank you all for your kindness and patience, I really love writing for you all. Enjoy <3

The earth moved beneath her, pines and dirt sliding out from under her feet as she tugged with all her might. Pulling and dragging, the remnants of her net hooked beneath the mans armpits. His unconscious body was limp and heavy as he was moved along the dirt floor, the sun descending from the sky, darkness beginning to blanket the realm.

She hadn’t had too much of a second thought to bring him with her. At first she had assumed that he would die from being moved in the manner he was, but she couldn’t leave him. Something compelled her to drag him from the trees back to her home.

It was in her nature to heal, it was what the Gods gifted her with. Something that she had only known her whole life, and despite her reservations about him likely dying, and her likely wasting her hard earned and homemade remedies, she couldn’t do it. The Gods would look down upon her if she did. She could feel it.

They wanted her to find him, for what, she did not know. It was like a faint scratching in the back of her head, this urge to do it. She wondered if she had access to the Weirwood tree in the ruins of Harrenhal itself if she could make sense of it all there.

But for now, all she could do was follow her instincts.

Death was no stranger to her. And she hadn't raced back to his side, instead taking languid steps, calm and unrushed. If he had survived this long, he could survive another moment.

And if not, the Gods willed it so.

She found him where she had left him; broken and cold, silver hair matted and bloodied—an insult to what he'd been.

Though he was tall and slender, his mass was dense with muscles from swordsmanship. At times the man would moan softly, his swollen yet sharp features furrowing as the broken leg would catch or bump along rock and root, yet she couldn’t feel sympathy for him, only a dull sense of duty to do what she could. Not to him or his family, but to life—to the Gods.

For years, people of all stations sought her out—Lords, Ladies, and small folk alike. She had lived in solitude, trading medicines and knowledge for coin, goods or food. She was bound to healing, like her mother before her--by choice, or by design she did not know. The forest was her wisdom, her hands were her tools, and her skills were her coin.

With each step backwards, head cast over her shoulder looking to where she would step, she dragged the silver haired man through the forest. Her thighs cramped, her feet ached, and her back protested from the heavy weight, but still she pressed on. By the time she finally reached her home, she let the net slacken lowering the mans torso to lay flat on the earth. Fresh blood leaked from the wounds she could see—mouth, ears and nose alike.

He would be lucky to survive the night.

The door creaked when pushed as she entered, the man left at the threshold. Stretching, she felt her spine crack, an ache steadily creeping further into her muscles.

The fireplace was a steady glow of embers, and the need to light it came first. Kneeling at the hearth, she coaxed the embers to life, feeding them twigs and moss until flames caught before placing some logs atop.

Her stone and wood cottage was simple yet well kept. It was a large open space with shelves lined with jars of dried roots and flowers, metal tins sealed with salves and oils. The fireplace dominated the room, a great iron pot hanging above it. Herbs, flowers and bark strips were hung from the beams of the ceiling to dry, whilst tools and books cluttered the shelves.

There was a sturdy wooden table that bore the marks of time—knives, flames, and countless memories. Memories of old with her mother, her father. Memories of new, meals spent alone, or with those she healed. People sat or laid atop it as she had tended to their wounds or sickness with unwavering care.

Her bed was nestled against the farthest wall, softened with pillows and blankets from a distant trader and furs she had both bought, and prepped herself.

She was by no means poor, her long years of work and keen skills meant that she had steady business and flow of coin. It afforded her luxuries that many had not, though she wasn't materialistic. She had what she needed, and only that.

On top of the table lay the long sword and her basket of fish and foraged items. She moved the basket to a bench and set the sword in the corner by the fireplace before stepping back outside to check on the man.

The Targaryen looked like the Stranger had finally come to call. His skin was paler and mottled with bruises and blood, hair matted and dirty, crusted against his scalp, his leg bent at an unnatural angle.

And yet still, Aemond One-Eye lived.

Pulling him atop the table was no easy task. His long limbs seemed to go anywhere but where she wanted him to, and by the time she was done, she was coated in a light sheen of sweat and smears of fresh blood. The Prince had groaned softly as she jostled him without repentance until he lay flat atop the wood.

With scissors collected by the fire, she began to cut off his leather robes, deciding that it would be easier to take them off this way rather than worrying about preserving his modesty or the well made clothing. The scissors in her hand were sharp, and cut easily through the stitching—tunic and undershirt coming off first. The leather and linen was dropped to floor in a heap of ash and blood, as she scanned his body for notable injury.

Blues and purples bloomed across his ribs on one side, a jagged cut moving up his hipbone to sternum. Coagulated blood and rusty flakes littered his skin as his chest rose and fell shallowly. He could breathe, a good sign, but beneath his swollen flesh, there could be a danger.

Feeling with her fingers along his ribs, she looked for signs of splintering—a pierced lung does little good to a dying man, and despite her years of healing, she dreaded those injuries the most. She probably should have checked for this first before she dragged him along the forest floor and heaved him atop her table, but if she had found it then she would have had to treat him where he was, or risk getting help from someone in a nearby village. And being who he was, she hadn't wanted to risk it.

She felt his cold skin until she reached his lower most ribs. Fingertips felt along his swollen flesh, the bones loosened with raised ridges—broken. An ear to the chest confirmed blood in his lungs, wheezing shallow breaths from trauma, but breaths nonetheless.

Broken ribs, but no pierced lungs. Fortunate.

Next was his head. Silky silver tresses, knotted and dry, passed through her fingers as she felt along his skull where the silver turned red, searching for the wound. A broken skull could mean he never woke again, until he slowly withered away into nothing and became another dead man amongst many. Wetness met her searching, and a gash on his scalp was re-disturbed, fresh blood rising to the surface. She pressed deeper into the wound, his skull did not move nor creak in the way it would if it was broken.

Relief.

As she looked down at the dragon rider, she noted what was needed; Water from the creek to wash the wounds, boiled above the fire and herbs. She wondered momentarily if she had any honey from the last months trader—it filled wounds well enough and assisted in healing.

Her observation continued down to his clothed legs and shoes. The broken leg would need focused care, and with his condition she wished to leave the worst until last. He may wake and become violent, difficult to control, or he may die from the pain of her setting the bone. She wished to work from the minor to the major, cuts and bruising first, then work her way up. An odd way of working, but a way to ensure that he stayed unconscious and pliable, in the rare chance that he did wake.

Mortar and pestle and a jar of dried marigolds was carried over to the table where he lay, placing them in the space beside him. Behind her, her water pales were mostly full, but there was a need for fresh running water, not water that had been stagnant for washing.

It was dark when she left her home, her eyes adjusting to the low light. By the time she got back, her skirts and dress had almost dried, and her home had been warmed from the fire she had stoked. She lit candles for light, and took the pale to the fireplace to boil.

In a jar by the kitchen was a murky oil which shone in the light of candle and flame, its colour a slight yellow. She remembered as a child her mother showing her the pink or sometimes yellow flowers with care—Evening Primrose—and that the oil from the leaves—never the flower— can have pain relief, and help to heal. Together combined with the thick honey that she eventually found by the kitchen, she could seal his wounds together and give him some relief should he wake.

Would they look for him?

Or would they believe like all others that he was dead?

She did not recall seeing any men nor dragons above searching the lands after his fall. No green and gold banners were seen to march through the fishing ports, and no message from the small villages and communities nearby came to warn or reward those of the missing monarch. In fact, not a single Green banner had been seen, only Black. The Green army was defeated.

To everyone but her, he was dead.

Beneath the lid of his single eye, his lashes fluttered and shifted with a faint, weak groan escaping his lips. All else remained unmoving, as if in death, while she continued her work undeterred. She added drops of the oil to the powdered marigold and spoonfuls of honey to the mixture, grinding the pestle into the mortar to mix it all together into a thick paste. The soft, rhythmic sound of stone against stone filled the quiet space.

She washed his head first, hands not in the slightest bit gentle, but precise. The dried blood lifted from the silver locks, and soon it turned a soft pink, water dripping down off of the table and onto the floor below. It would be a lengthy process with the man having such long hair, that she wondered if it would be quicker to cut it all off.

He needn’t a mirror to gaze upon. Hair can regrow; life cannot.

Holding his hair in her hand, she took her scissors beside her and cut through the silver. Several inches of god-like hair was hacked away as easy as his life could have been, the silver strands offering no resistance. If he stood, it would come to his shoulders. She let the locks fall to the floor in a wet heap amongst his clothes before resuming.

One by one, she stitched his wounds, steady and practiced. Her needle had seen hundreds of injuries; this time was no different. Each stitch was precise. Not too tight, not too loose.

Her paste was smeared atop the wound thickly, until the stitches were covered. Then this she had learnt from her mother; fish skin which had been dried a moon before was cut into a strip with her blade atop the wooden table, it was soaked in the hot water, and then placed atop the sticky wound. She flattened it down until it became almost like a plaster, wherein she smeared more salve atop.

She repeated the process to the rest of his wounds, from the cut upon his face, a gash on his arm, to the jagged cut from hip to chest. Some wounds needn’t the needle or thread and so she simply smeared the salve into the cuts or bruises until all injuries had been accounted for.

All that was left now was his mangled leg.

The skin of his shin was swollen and purple, red veins crawled across the flesh like streams, short silver hairs shining in the low light. The break itself was just below the centre of his shin, the bone having moved skin, flesh and bone to the side. The point of the break was visible to the eye, though it did not break the skin. With her fingers she pressed against and around the wound, feeling the bone and swollen flesh, hot to the touch. Perhaps the beginnings of infection.

Standing back, she looked over him. The wounds on his face and head had stopped bleeding and the one upon his side was settling with the fish skin and salve she had made. She had done all that she could, and after this final task she could rest and leave his fate to the Gods for the night.

The hardest part was now.

She positioned two wooden splints at the sides of his leg, securing them with tight cloth strips.

Hands on either side of his shin, she pushed with all her strength the bone back together, feeling the ends grinding against each other. The man groaned loudly, his swollen face scrunching up as his chest rose and fell rapidly. She kept on, no cares for his pain, pushing until she felt the tension give, and a gut turning crunch send a click into her hands.

The man gasped a wheezy moan but did not wake.

It done.

His life was now in the hands of the Gods.

She rose with the sun as she always did, its warm light shining through the open windows. Rising from her bed, she stoked the embers of the fire, placing a small log atop the ashes to let it smoulder.

The man hadn’t moved from where she had placed him the day before, the parlour of his skin still ashen. The wounds she had tended to were sealed by salve or fish skin, and had not bled nor wept through the night, the skin around his wounds pink, but the heat from them didn’t indicate dangerous infection.

He had survived the night, and would hopefully another.

There was an abrupt knock upon the hollow door of the cottage. She stood in the kitchen looking down at the silver haired man atop her table, and felt a small seed of dread in her gut.

Had someone seen her? Dragging the body of the man through the woods to her cottage?

Or perhaps they had seen her dragging the long sword through the forest ground before him?

Another knock.

She stepped to the door, inhaling deeply.

“Yes?” she whispered through the crack, eyes flicking to the unconscious man. If he woke, if he made a sound—

“You the healer?”

A gruff voice. A man.

She hesitated, then, “Aye.”

“I have coin.”

No urgency. No proclamation of Knighthood or King’s Guard.

She unlatched the door, opening it just a sliver. The man outside was older, broad-shouldered, with deep lines of worry carved into his face. He did not try to peer inside, and only met her gaze.

“My daughter. She’s sick.” His voice wavered, brows furrowed. He seemed out of breath.

“What ails her?” The woman asked, noting the girl was clearly to unwell to travel to her as she was not with the father.

He huffed, “Well that’s why I came to you, isn’t it? I’m not a bloody Maester.”

Ah. The telltale irritation that most people who worried for the sick had. It didn't bother her anymore as it once had.

“Fever?”

"Aye."

“Cough?”

He nodded.

“Blood?”

“No.” His head shook violently.

“Where is she?”

He shifted, revealing a man worn thin by sleepless nights. His boots, though well-made, were scuffed from wear. His clothes, fine but unkempt. A father, desperate. He was taller than her by a foot, but had a thick build to him. If she were to guess he would be a tradesman of some sort. Perhaps a fisherman.

“Not far, I’m in the fishing village just over to the east.” A large calloused finger lifted and pointed east of the water where her cottage resided.

She hummed, “How far?”

It wasn’t that she didn’t know where it was, it was more that she didn’t know where he was. His dwelling could be on the outskirts of the village like hers or dead in its centre.

“About an hours walk.” His posture indicated growing fear and impatience.

She hummed again, that would mean she would likely be gone for 3-4 hours then, depending on the state of the girl.

“Horse?”

“Foot.” He confessed with a small inkling of shame.

She nodded. Most people she dealt with didn’t own horses, nor the coin to pay her, but if they could, she would take what they could offer. No person was turned away, and trade was often a payment. Furs, blankets, knives, clothing; whatever the person could offer was taken without reluctance.

Before he could speak again she turned around and went back inside closing the door behind her. The basket she had used for foraging and fishing was filled with tinctures and herbs, oils and creams. She was sure it was likely another case of the fever that seemed to roll around in the colder months, but she liked to be prepared otherwise.

The journey to the man’s home and village was swifter than she had expected, but quiet. He didn’t speak unless to direct them or ask if she could help his sick child.

As they traveled, his questioning became increasingly impulsive, circling back to the same concerns. She answered him patiently at first, but when he repeated himself a fourth time, she chose silence instead.

As they neared the village, its presence became unmistakable. Foot-worn paths grew more defined, and scattered huts at the outskirts became more frequent, until they stood only a stone’s throw apart. A well-worn cobblestone road split the town through its centre, leading toward the river which connected to the Gods Eye. A sturdy yet timeworn dock penetrated the water, small fishing boats littering the shore.

The scent of fish clung thickly in the air, though the villagers had long since grown used to it. At the docks, merchants bartered with customers over the day’s catch, while others tended to small boats or repaired fishing nets. She felt the weight of fleeting glances as she followed the man through the town, basket in hand. Some villagers recognised her, others merely noted her presence before returning to their tasks. The older ones, she knew, had once sought out her mother for guidance, just as they now came to her instead.

The man’s pace quickened as they entered the heart of the village. Upon reaching his home, a modest wooden dwelling, he pushed the door open with little effort, its hinges well oiled.

Warmth greeted them at once. A fire blazed inside, casting flickering light across the walls. He strode straight to a bed tucked against the far side of the room, where a small figure lay curled beneath thick furs.

The healer took a moment to scan the space. A simple table and three chairs sat near the hearth, where food would be prepared and eaten. Strips of dried fish hung from the rafters alongside a large net to dry. The air held a faint briny scent, but she hardly noticed it after a few breaths. The fireplace, larger than expected, was built from blackened stones perhaps darkened by soot, scavenged from an old ruin nearby.

The man spoke down to the poorly child, breaking her observation, “I’ve brought the healer for you. She’s going to make you better.” His large hand pushed back the sweaty darkened hair upon a paled face.

The girl was comely but bore the clear signs of illness. Shadows darkened the skin beneath her eyes, and her complexion had taken on a gray pallor. A fine sheen of sweat clung to her skin, and though her damp curls were tangled, they held the promise of beauty when well-tended.

She placed her basket beside the bed and moved the worried father out of the way, feeling his eyes watching her as she observed the girl. Her hand brushed against her forehead, the skin hot and clammy . Despite the plentiful furs and raging fire, she shivered slightly.

“Are you in pain?” The woman asked softly.

The child’s dark eyes, so like her father’s, fluttered open with great effort.

“No.” Her voice was thin, barely more than a breath. “M’cold.”

The woman hummed, pulling the furs down from the girl who whined softly in protest, the man behind her shifted.

“I’m looking for sores.” She told them both, but mostly for the benefit of the father who seemed to moved closer to his daughter as an action of protection.

The chemise that the girl wore was old and worn and almost soaked through with sweat. She carefully looked at the girls arms, neck and legs, pulled the chemise up to look at where her glands lay beneath her skin. She thankfully could see no sores.

She nodded to herself and hummed again, opening the girls mouth to look inside her throat. With the help of the fire she was able to see that the back looked red and sore.

“How old is she?” The healer asked, eyes not moving from the girl.

“Ten.”

“Has she had Redspots before?” She asked, a common and non-fatal sickness to children.

“Aye, when she was three.” The father replied.

Immediately she was sure of what ailed the girl. The father moved again and spoke, concern lacing his voice, “What is it?”

“A simple fever.” She retrieved a cloth from her basket and dipped it into a jar of tincture, the rag absorbing the golden-hued oil.

“Shivers?” Dread in his voice.

“No.” She had to hold back an endearing smile as she began to wipe the oiled cloth on the girls face, neck, arms and legs, “Shivers takes quickly. And she is not shaking.”

The man shifted nervously beside her, leaning over her to watch as she treated his daughter, “There have been men.” He breathed quickly, a new fear creeping into his voice, “-Sick. I’m surprised you haven’t been called to town sooner.”

She didn’t stop as she worked, not once lifting her head as she smoothed the hair from the girls face back, “Everyone gets sick. No one is immune to illness.”

“No.” The man said with a more fearful tone, “It’s different, this one. I’ve never seen anything like it. Two men came back and dropped dead. Not even the grey have seen it.”

This peaked her interest, “Two?”

“Aye.”

She frowned, “Shivers most likely.”

“No." He insisted, and this insistence made her heart beat faster, "These men were hale and healthy. Hardiest men I’ve ever seen or known. Fishermen like most of us. And they died. Dropped like flies. Ain't no one seen anything like it before.”

She let herself look at the man, his nervousness made the hair on the back of her neck stand up, “Fevers are not uncommon during winter.”

He began to shake his head to argue again but she interrupted him, “When did these men die?”

His eyes looked away as he thought, “Six or seven days past now.”

“And has anyone else grown ill?”

The man thought about it, “No. None but my Ceryce.” His eyes dropped to his daughter.

“Does she fair as they did?”

"No." He shook his head, more to convince himself than the healer, “They were red in the face—swollen, mad. Raving about things, seein' things that weren’t there. Couldn't understand a thing they was saying." His eyes looked to his daughter, "But she’s pale, tired. No visions.”

The woman exhaled, “Then there is nothing to fear.” Even so, unease curled in her gut.

“Is s-“

“-Apply this,” she handed over the small jar of oily substance to him, “upon her skin twice a day. Once at dawn, once at dusk. Make her drink,” she looked around, “have you ale?”

“Aye.”

“Good. Make sure she drinks.” Fingers reached into her basket again as she looked for a small cloth bag. Once found she lifted it and opened, showing the man its contents, “Make her tea, three times a day. When her fever begins to break, make a stronger dose.”

Inside the sack were seeds, “What is it?” He asked, uncertainty in his voice.

“Coriander for the fever.” She stood, the bed shifting.

The girl groaned quietly before her eyes fluttered open again to look up at her, “Am I going to die?”

The woman’s heart clenched painfully. In truth, she did not know. Some fevers stole their victims away; others burned through in a day. But the girl was young, and for now, the Stranger did not linger at her door.

Pulling the furs back up on the young girl, she gave her a small reassuring smile, “No. Your da will make you better.”

She handed the man the oiled cloth, her small roughened hand passing over his. He looked down at her gratefully and smiled in a way that most people did after she treated them.

With relief.

With thanks.

With worry.

“How much coin?”

The woman thought about it, instead remembering what she had spotted when she first walked inside the home.

“No coin.”

The man’s eyebrows rose, a refusal on the tip of his tongue.

“-But,” she continued, “I'm in need of a new net. I’ll take the one you have hung instead of coin.”

“A net?” His brows furrowed, he had such an expressive face.

A nod.

She knew it was a much cheaper deal than he had anticipated. But he wasn’t going to argue. He nodded with vigour and moved to the wall where it hung and handed it to her, and with a second thought, pulled down 3 dried fish for her, tied together with string. She nodded in thanks and placed it inside of her basket.

“Thank you.” He gave her a sad smile, “ Fever took her mother after she gave birth. She’s all I have of my Deyan.”

She let herself give him a small sad smile back, “The stranger comes for all. If she gets worse, cool her with rags. If the rags do not help, send for me, I will come."

The man’s hand shot out before she could react and grasped her hand in his squeezing, “Thank you.”

She nodded and made her way to the door, the sun outside lowering in the sky. If she moved quickly she could make it home before the sun had set. As she stepped outside, the man called out to her again.

“It’ll be dark soon.” Barely having left his daughter side, “It’s dangerous to be a woman in the dark." His voice held little concern, and more of a warning, "There’s raiders now, more than before the war. People are desperate.”

Without replying, she simply nodded and went on her way.

Of course it was dangerous to be a woman walking alone at night, but then again, it was dangerous to be a woman anywhere. Nowhere was safe, especially after the war. Desperation clung to men like filth, more pungent than sweat or unwashed clothes. But she trusted in her own caution, in the knowledge of when to step into the shadows and when to keep moving. She knew the land better than she knew herself.

And she was right. Her home was dark once she finally arrived, the trees surrounding blocking out what little light there already was.

And he was still there. Not that he could have gone anywhere.

She thought momentarily that he was dead--he was so still, so pale that it was hard not to mistaken him for a corpse. But once she stood beside him, she touched his neck and felt warmth and the slow and steady thump of his heart.

The longer she looked at the young prince however, the more she realised she would likely need her table back, and surely having him elevated was not safe. If he woke and thrashed, he would fall to the hard floor. She would need to move him, and to her bed. But if she did this, she herself would have nowhere to sleep.

Regret pricked at her for not taking the fisherman’s coin. Cloth for a makeshift cot would have been useful. A blanket, too.

Hands on her hips, she surveyed her home. The furs on her bed were plentiful and would be enough to soften the floor. If she laid by the fire, it would keep her warm too.

It would have to do.

She dragged the furs from her bed and onto the floor beside the fire for warmth. She knew that she would need to change his bandages soon, and so she went to him.

With a deep breath, she braced herself. Hands beneath his arms, she pulled him upright. His face went bone-white, his lone eye rolling beneath its lid, lips parting in a strained whimper.

She twisted so that his chest leaned against her back. It was risky with his ribs, but she had no choice. He was dead weight. She hooked one arm under his broken leg, then hoisted him from the table.

The effort nearly sent her toppling.

His body tensed against her back, muscles locking as another sound of pain escaped his lips. She staggered, knees nearly buckling beneath his weight. And though he was lean, he might as well have been made of iron.

Quick unsteady steps and more groans which grew with intensity behind her she made it to the bed dropping him as gently as she could on the surface. He lay awkwardly, the broken leg on the bed, the other hanging off the edge, his skin had taken a green tint and she worried he may be sick.

She hurried to fix his position, heart hammering when she noticed the fresh bloom of red on his bandaged side. Not enough to be dangerous but enough to tell her the jostling had torn at the wound.

Even in the low light of the fire, he looked worse, but she knew it was for the best. Her fingers felt his ribs, and all seemed to still be in the places where they should be. An ear to his chest confirmed a lack of punctured lung. Small mercies, she supposed.

His face was taut with pain, the most expression she had seen in the days passed. His brows were furrowed and his eye seemed to roll vigorously inside its socket.

With a cloth she had used before, she wet it and came to his side, soothing the skin of his forehead in an attempt to settle him again. But as soon as the cloth touched him, his eye shot open. She was met with dazzling violet, which despite his weakness burned with what little strength the man had left. His pupil struggled to focus on her face, growing and shrinking, the violet disappearing and reappearing.

She gave him what she thought was a unthreatening smile, and continued on the path of wetting his forehead with the cloth in soft gentle strokes of reassurance.

She prayed momentarily that he didn't attack her. Men on their death beds have surprising strength when cornered. The bodies last burst and attempt of survival.

Aemond blinked sluggishly up at her, and she was surprised that he had even stayed conscious this long despite the pain the marred his face. The white of his lashes dusted his cheeks, and she saw that the muscles surrounding the missing eye tried also to blink what was left of the other lid.

“Sleep.” She cooed at him, brushing against the side of his face where sweat had begun to settle.

His lips parted, cracked and dry,

“Mother.”

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to the tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! Enjoy <3

Taglist: Please ask if you would like to be added to the taglist

@thewriterthatghostedyou @sepherinaspoppies @insufferablelust @osferthswifey @persephonerinyes @ihadlife @aemondsfavouritebastard @misspinkonmars @aelora-mills-targaryens @nina2697 @dahlias-and-marigolds @callsigncrushx @fivefeetsnark @sarcasticwitch11 @aemondtargaryenwifey @lynnbell @adurnat01-blog @livmondcole @sillylittlepenguin181818 @misfitbimbosblog @blackswxnn @idontwanttoloveanymore

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asumofwords · 7 months ago

Text

Watercress - Coming soon...

Warnings: She/her pronouns. Tags will be added as the fic goes along.

Pairings: Aemond x She/Her

Notes: This has been a long time coming, and I'm sorry I haven't been writing more! It's been a while since I've had the energy to write anything but I had a random sudden burst of inspiration and here we are! The first chapter will be coming out very soon, hehe ;) so enjoy this little teaser... <3 And as usual, I hope you enjoy!

Even with the trees that had somehow managed to survive, to stand tall despite the terror that had reigned above them, their trunks and leaves were covered in the evidence of what was.

Ash, streaked each surface, and with a curious hand, she placed it atop the bark of a tree, brushing her finger along the ridges of the wood, watching as they turned grey. A quick rub of the index and forefinger together made the ash smear, and as she stood by the tree, taking in the scene before her, her eyes focused upon a darkness beyond that should not have been there.

Something that was not born of ash, nor bark, nor fur.

Something human.

Curiously she took a step around the tree to see the beginning of a boot, a leathered boot. And attached to it a leg, and then hips, and then finally;

A man.

If you want to be on the tag list for this or general tag list, let me know !! 💕

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asumofwords · 7 months ago

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I'm so excited for Watercress. Can you tell us anything about it? Like a tease line or something?

😈 absolutely

Heres the teaser.... ;)

#aemond x she/her #WatercressAu

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asumofwords · 7 months ago

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Mother, I cannot wait to read more of your writing. I've been rereading all your Aemond fics. SFA is your masterpiece, but I do love Till Death..because I'm a little dark lol

Omg thank you 😭 I haven’t written anything in ages, but I have the first chapter of Watercress ready to go 😈😈😈

Thank you !! 💕💕💕

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asumofwords · 2 years ago

Text

Masterlist

Hi I'm Tee! I write fanfic and am entirely feral. Smoke, Fire and Ash is my first ever fanfic. I have always enjoyed reading and writing! My AO3 is the same handle @asumofwords

I mostly write for HOTD, But I'm also open to writing for other characters so it's best to just ask if you're unsure!! <3

Currently my requests are CLOSED!

BOUNDARIES FOR REQUESTS: I will not write for anyone who is underage (actor and character) and I will not write anything for stepdad/stepchild fics.

If you would like to be added to a general writing tag list, click here.

Aemond Targaryen:

Smoke, Fire and Ash (COMPLETED)

Dark! Aemond Targaryen x Reader

The Sublet Masterlist (COMPLETED)

Modern!Aemond x Reader, Roommate!AU

Lighthouse - Miniseries - (COMPLETED)

Sailor!Aemond x LighthouseKeeper!Reader

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Watercress - Miniseries

Aemond x OC

Chapter 1. Chapter 2

Til Death Do Us Part - Oneshot

Dark!Modern!Aemond x Reader, Divorce!Au

Ettore from High Life:

Treat

Michael Gavey from Saltburn:

Midpoint Common Factors

REQUESTS:

Unsought Betrothal - Dark!Aemond Targaryen

Unsought Betrothal Part 2 - Dark!Aemond Targaryen x Reader

Cock sizes Drabble

What Aemond, Aegon, Daemon, Jace and Criston fancy.

Linger - Ghost!Aemond x Reader, Possessed!Cregan x Reader, Spooky Season >:)

If you wish to be put on the taglist, please let me know ! :)

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almondmilktargaryen · 8 days ago

Text

Wowowowowow

Watercress

Warnings: She/her pronouns. Smallfolk OC, mentions of death and war, descriptions of injury and blood, slowburn. Tags will be added as the fic goes along.

Pairings: Aemond x She/Her

Chapter 1: Broken

Moving to a new spot, she threw the net once more, watching the weights sink swiftly as she pulled it in. This time, there was resistance.

"Fuck." she hissed as the icy water soaked her gown up to her waist.

“Fucking cunt.” She flung the net back to shore, the weights making a wet thud on the soil, as she looked to where the her net had got caught.

So it was one of theirs, then.

Eyes drifting behind her towards the lake, she wondered what had happened those days past.

Nothing good ever came to the Riverlands when She was near.

The dance of the two dragons above Gods Eye was no more, and she could finally go back to living her life; uninterrupted.

Something that was not born of ash nor bark nor fur.

Something human.

Uncertainly she took a step around the tree to see the beginning of a boot, a leathered boot at that. And attached to it a leg, and then hips, and finally;

A man.

This was one of them.

Was he the man who had slaughtered the Strong family at Harrenhal?

Or was he the one who commanded the brutal rape and murders of those who opposed the Blackwoods?

Did it matter? She thought to herself, They were all the same.

Her curiosity however won out, and with an unsteady hand, unsure whether it be from the cold or the man, she reached forth to brush the blood crusted hair away from his face.

Aemond One-Eye.

The King was proof of this.

A faint fluttering beneath her fingers made her lift her hand in shock, her digits hovering over the mans face as she looked at him in disbelief.

He couldn’t…

She leant down, dipping her ear beside his lip as she rested a hand against his ribs.

And there it was, a rattling breath so weak, so quiet, that had his lips not been pressed against her ear she would not have heard it.

He was alive.

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to the tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! Enjoy <3

Taglist: Please ask if you would like to be added to the taglist

@thewriterthatghostedyou @sepherinaspoppies @insufferablelust @osferthswifey @persephonerinyes @ihadlife @aemondsfavouritebastard @thaisthedreamer

#aemond x reader #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen fic #aemond #hotd #hotd fanfic #aemond x you #aemond targaryen x reader #fanfic #hotdfanfic #aemondfanfic #aemond smut #no use of y/n #Watercress fanfic #WatercressAu

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aemondsbabygirl · 8 days ago

Text

Oh I love this so much! I really enjoyed all the healing descriptions. Your writing is so immersive, and has a captivating rhythm. I really got pulled into the story, to the point where I felt like it ended too quickly.

RIP Aemond’s long hair! But shoulder length hair will look good on him. I’m worried about that illness spreading in the village, and curious about someone possibly looking for Aemond. He’s not very easy to hide.

The end, with him calling out for his mother, made me awww out loud 🥲

Im so happy you updated, and I really enjoyed this chapter !

Watercress - Chapter 2

Warnings: She/her pronouns. Descriptions of injuries, blood and broken bones, stitches. Tags will be added as the fic goes along.

Pairings: Aemond x She/Her

Word Count: 6k

But for now, all she could do was follow her instincts.

Death was no stranger to her. And she hadn't raced back to his side, instead taking languid steps, calm and unrushed. If he had survived this long, he could survive another moment.

And if not, the Gods willed it so.

She found him where she had left him; broken and cold, silver hair matted and bloodied—an insult to what he'd been.

He would be lucky to survive the night.

The door creaked when pushed as she entered, the man left at the threshold. Stretching, she felt her spine crack, an ache steadily creeping further into her muscles.

Her bed was nestled against the farthest wall, softened with pillows and blankets from a distant trader and furs she had both bought, and prepped herself.

And yet still, Aemond One-Eye lived.

Broken ribs, but no pierced lungs. Fortunate.

Relief.

Would they look for him?

Or would they believe like all others that he was dead?

To everyone but her, he was dead.

He needn’t a mirror to gaze upon. Hair can regrow; life cannot.

One by one, she stitched his wounds, steady and practiced. Her needle had seen hundreds of injuries; this time was no different. Each stitch was precise. Not too tight, not too loose.

All that was left now was his mangled leg.

The hardest part was now.

She positioned two wooden splints at the sides of his leg, securing them with tight cloth strips.

The man gasped a wheezy moan but did not wake.

It done.

His life was now in the hands of the Gods.

He had survived the night, and would hopefully another.

There was an abrupt knock upon the hollow door of the cottage. She stood in the kitchen looking down at the silver haired man atop her table, and felt a small seed of dread in her gut.

Had someone seen her? Dragging the body of the man through the woods to her cottage?

Or perhaps they had seen her dragging the long sword through the forest ground before him?

Another knock.

She stepped to the door, inhaling deeply.

“Yes?” she whispered through the crack, eyes flicking to the unconscious man. If he woke, if he made a sound—

“You the healer?”

A gruff voice. A man.

She hesitated, then, “Aye.”

“I have coin.”

No urgency. No proclamation of Knighthood or King’s Guard.

She unlatched the door, opening it just a sliver. The man outside was older, broad-shouldered, with deep lines of worry carved into his face. He did not try to peer inside, and only met her gaze.

“My daughter. She’s sick.” His voice wavered, brows furrowed. He seemed out of breath.

“What ails her?” The woman asked, noting the girl was clearly to unwell to travel to her as she was not with the father.

He huffed, “Well that’s why I came to you, isn’t it? I’m not a bloody Maester.”

Ah. The telltale irritation that most people who worried for the sick had. It didn't bother her anymore as it once had.

“Fever?”

"Aye."

“Cough?”

He nodded.

“Blood?”

“No.” His head shook violently.

“Where is she?”

“Not far, I’m in the fishing village just over to the east.” A large calloused finger lifted and pointed east of the water where her cottage resided.

She hummed, “How far?”

It wasn’t that she didn’t know where it was, it was more that she didn’t know where he was. His dwelling could be on the outskirts of the village like hers or dead in its centre.

“About an hours walk.” His posture indicated growing fear and impatience.

She hummed again, that would mean she would likely be gone for 3-4 hours then, depending on the state of the girl.

“Horse?”

“Foot.” He confessed with a small inkling of shame.

The journey to the man’s home and village was swifter than she had expected, but quiet. He didn’t speak unless to direct them or ask if she could help his sick child.

The man’s pace quickened as they entered the heart of the village. Upon reaching his home, a modest wooden dwelling, he pushed the door open with little effort, its hinges well oiled.

“Are you in pain?” The woman asked softly.

The child’s dark eyes, so like her father’s, fluttered open with great effort.

“No.” Her voice was thin, barely more than a breath. “M’cold.”

The woman hummed, pulling the furs down from the girl who whined softly in protest, the man behind her shifted.

“I’m looking for sores.” She told them both, but mostly for the benefit of the father who seemed to moved closer to his daughter as an action of protection.

She nodded to herself and hummed again, opening the girls mouth to look inside her throat. With the help of the fire she was able to see that the back looked red and sore.

“How old is she?” The healer asked, eyes not moving from the girl.

“Ten.”

“Has she had Redspots before?” She asked, a common and non-fatal sickness to children.

“Aye, when she was three.” The father replied.

Immediately she was sure of what ailed the girl. The father moved again and spoke, concern lacing his voice, “What is it?”

“A simple fever.” She retrieved a cloth from her basket and dipped it into a jar of tincture, the rag absorbing the golden-hued oil.

“Shivers?” Dread in his voice.

“No.” She had to hold back an endearing smile as she began to wipe the oiled cloth on the girls face, neck, arms and legs, “Shivers takes quickly. And she is not shaking.”

She didn’t stop as she worked, not once lifting her head as she smoothed the hair from the girls face back, “Everyone gets sick. No one is immune to illness.”

“No.” The man said with a more fearful tone, “It’s different, this one. I’ve never seen anything like it. Two men came back and dropped dead. Not even the grey have seen it.”

This peaked her interest, “Two?”

“Aye.”

She frowned, “Shivers most likely.”

She let herself look at the man, his nervousness made the hair on the back of her neck stand up, “Fevers are not uncommon during winter.”

He began to shake his head to argue again but she interrupted him, “When did these men die?”

His eyes looked away as he thought, “Six or seven days past now.”

“And has anyone else grown ill?”

The man thought about it, “No. None but my Ceryce.” His eyes dropped to his daughter.

“Does she fair as they did?”

The woman exhaled, “Then there is nothing to fear.” Even so, unease curled in her gut.

“Is s-“

“-Apply this,” she handed over the small jar of oily substance to him, “upon her skin twice a day. Once at dawn, once at dusk. Make her drink,” she looked around, “have you ale?”

“Aye.”

Inside the sack were seeds, “What is it?” He asked, uncertainty in his voice.

“Coriander for the fever.” She stood, the bed shifting.

The girl groaned quietly before her eyes fluttered open again to look up at her, “Am I going to die?”

Pulling the furs back up on the young girl, she gave her a small reassuring smile, “No. Your da will make you better.”

She handed the man the oiled cloth, her small roughened hand passing over his. He looked down at her gratefully and smiled in a way that most people did after she treated them.

With relief.

With thanks.

With worry.

“How much coin?”

The woman thought about it, instead remembering what she had spotted when she first walked inside the home.

“No coin.”

The man’s eyebrows rose, a refusal on the tip of his tongue.

“-But,” she continued, “I'm in need of a new net. I’ll take the one you have hung instead of coin.”

“A net?” His brows furrowed, he had such an expressive face.

A nod.

“Thank you.” He gave her a sad smile, “ Fever took her mother after she gave birth. She’s all I have of my Deyan.”

She let herself give him a small sad smile back, “The stranger comes for all. If she gets worse, cool her with rags. If the rags do not help, send for me, I will come."

The man’s hand shot out before she could react and grasped her hand in his squeezing, “Thank you.”

Without replying, she simply nodded and went on her way.

And she was right. Her home was dark once she finally arrived, the trees surrounding blocking out what little light there already was.

And he was still there. Not that he could have gone anywhere.

Regret pricked at her for not taking the fisherman’s coin. Cloth for a makeshift cot would have been useful. A blanket, too.

Hands on her hips, she surveyed her home. The furs on her bed were plentiful and would be enough to soften the floor. If she laid by the fire, it would keep her warm too.

It would have to do.

She dragged the furs from her bed and onto the floor beside the fire for warmth. She knew that she would need to change his bandages soon, and so she went to him.

With a deep breath, she braced herself. Hands beneath his arms, she pulled him upright. His face went bone-white, his lone eye rolling beneath its lid, lips parting in a strained whimper.

She twisted so that his chest leaned against her back. It was risky with his ribs, but she had no choice. He was dead weight. She hooked one arm under his broken leg, then hoisted him from the table.

The effort nearly sent her toppling.

She hurried to fix his position, heart hammering when she noticed the fresh bloom of red on his bandaged side. Not enough to be dangerous but enough to tell her the jostling had torn at the wound.

His face was taut with pain, the most expression she had seen in the days passed. His brows were furrowed and his eye seemed to roll vigorously inside its socket.

She gave him what she thought was a unthreatening smile, and continued on the path of wetting his forehead with the cloth in soft gentle strokes of reassurance.

She prayed momentarily that he didn't attack her. Men on their death beds have surprising strength when cornered. The bodies last burst and attempt of survival.

“Sleep.” She cooed at him, brushing against the side of his face where sweat had begun to settle.

His lips parted, cracked and dry,

“Mother.”

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almondmilktargaryen · 8 days ago

Text

Oh, I am so into this

Watercress - Chapter 2

Warnings: She/her pronouns. Descriptions of injuries, blood and broken bones, stitches. Tags will be added as the fic goes along.

Pairings: Aemond x She/Her

Word Count: 6k

But for now, all she could do was follow her instincts.

Death was no stranger to her. And she hadn't raced back to his side, instead taking languid steps, calm and unrushed. If he had survived this long, he could survive another moment.

And if not, the Gods willed it so.

She found him where she had left him; broken and cold, silver hair matted and bloodied—an insult to what he'd been.

He would be lucky to survive the night.

The door creaked when pushed as she entered, the man left at the threshold. Stretching, she felt her spine crack, an ache steadily creeping further into her muscles.

Her bed was nestled against the farthest wall, softened with pillows and blankets from a distant trader and furs she had both bought, and prepped herself.

And yet still, Aemond One-Eye lived.

Broken ribs, but no pierced lungs. Fortunate.

Relief.

Would they look for him?

Or would they believe like all others that he was dead?

To everyone but her, he was dead.

He needn’t a mirror to gaze upon. Hair can regrow; life cannot.

One by one, she stitched his wounds, steady and practiced. Her needle had seen hundreds of injuries; this time was no different. Each stitch was precise. Not too tight, not too loose.

All that was left now was his mangled leg.

The hardest part was now.

She positioned two wooden splints at the sides of his leg, securing them with tight cloth strips.

The man gasped a wheezy moan but did not wake.

It done.

His life was now in the hands of the Gods.

He had survived the night, and would hopefully another.

There was an abrupt knock upon the hollow door of the cottage. She stood in the kitchen looking down at the silver haired man atop her table, and felt a small seed of dread in her gut.

Had someone seen her? Dragging the body of the man through the woods to her cottage?

Or perhaps they had seen her dragging the long sword through the forest ground before him?

Another knock.

She stepped to the door, inhaling deeply.

“Yes?” she whispered through the crack, eyes flicking to the unconscious man. If he woke, if he made a sound—

“You the healer?”

A gruff voice. A man.

She hesitated, then, “Aye.”

“I have coin.”

No urgency. No proclamation of Knighthood or King’s Guard.

She unlatched the door, opening it just a sliver. The man outside was older, broad-shouldered, with deep lines of worry carved into his face. He did not try to peer inside, and only met her gaze.

“My daughter. She’s sick.” His voice wavered, brows furrowed. He seemed out of breath.

“What ails her?” The woman asked, noting the girl was clearly to unwell to travel to her as she was not with the father.

He huffed, “Well that’s why I came to you, isn’t it? I’m not a bloody Maester.”

Ah. The telltale irritation that most people who worried for the sick had. It didn't bother her anymore as it once had.

“Fever?”

"Aye."

“Cough?”

He nodded.

“Blood?”

“No.” His head shook violently.

“Where is she?”

“Not far, I’m in the fishing village just over to the east.” A large calloused finger lifted and pointed east of the water where her cottage resided.

She hummed, “How far?”

It wasn’t that she didn’t know where it was, it was more that she didn’t know where he was. His dwelling could be on the outskirts of the village like hers or dead in its centre.

“About an hours walk.” His posture indicated growing fear and impatience.

She hummed again, that would mean she would likely be gone for 3-4 hours then, depending on the state of the girl.

“Horse?”

“Foot.” He confessed with a small inkling of shame.

The journey to the man’s home and village was swifter than she had expected, but quiet. He didn’t speak unless to direct them or ask if she could help his sick child.

The man’s pace quickened as they entered the heart of the village. Upon reaching his home, a modest wooden dwelling, he pushed the door open with little effort, its hinges well oiled.

“Are you in pain?” The woman asked softly.

The child’s dark eyes, so like her father’s, fluttered open with great effort.

“No.” Her voice was thin, barely more than a breath. “M’cold.”

The woman hummed, pulling the furs down from the girl who whined softly in protest, the man behind her shifted.

“I’m looking for sores.” She told them both, but mostly for the benefit of the father who seemed to moved closer to his daughter as an action of protection.

She nodded to herself and hummed again, opening the girls mouth to look inside her throat. With the help of the fire she was able to see that the back looked red and sore.

“How old is she?” The healer asked, eyes not moving from the girl.

“Ten.”

“Has she had Redspots before?” She asked, a common and non-fatal sickness to children.

“Aye, when she was three.” The father replied.

Immediately she was sure of what ailed the girl. The father moved again and spoke, concern lacing his voice, “What is it?”

“A simple fever.” She retrieved a cloth from her basket and dipped it into a jar of tincture, the rag absorbing the golden-hued oil.

“Shivers?” Dread in his voice.

“No.” She had to hold back an endearing smile as she began to wipe the oiled cloth on the girls face, neck, arms and legs, “Shivers takes quickly. And she is not shaking.”

She didn’t stop as she worked, not once lifting her head as she smoothed the hair from the girls face back, “Everyone gets sick. No one is immune to illness.”

“No.” The man said with a more fearful tone, “It’s different, this one. I’ve never seen anything like it. Two men came back and dropped dead. Not even the grey have seen it.”

This peaked her interest, “Two?”

“Aye.”

She frowned, “Shivers most likely.”

She let herself look at the man, his nervousness made the hair on the back of her neck stand up, “Fevers are not uncommon during winter.”

He began to shake his head to argue again but she interrupted him, “When did these men die?”

His eyes looked away as he thought, “Six or seven days past now.”

“And has anyone else grown ill?”

The man thought about it, “No. None but my Ceryce.” His eyes dropped to his daughter.

“Does she fair as they did?”

The woman exhaled, “Then there is nothing to fear.” Even so, unease curled in her gut.

“Is s-“

“-Apply this,” she handed over the small jar of oily substance to him, “upon her skin twice a day. Once at dawn, once at dusk. Make her drink,” she looked around, “have you ale?”

“Aye.”

Inside the sack were seeds, “What is it?” He asked, uncertainty in his voice.

“Coriander for the fever.” She stood, the bed shifting.

The girl groaned quietly before her eyes fluttered open again to look up at her, “Am I going to die?”

Pulling the furs back up on the young girl, she gave her a small reassuring smile, “No. Your da will make you better.”

She handed the man the oiled cloth, her small roughened hand passing over his. He looked down at her gratefully and smiled in a way that most people did after she treated them.

With relief.

With thanks.

With worry.

“How much coin?”

The woman thought about it, instead remembering what she had spotted when she first walked inside the home.

“No coin.”

The man’s eyebrows rose, a refusal on the tip of his tongue.

“-But,” she continued, “I'm in need of a new net. I’ll take the one you have hung instead of coin.”

“A net?” His brows furrowed, he had such an expressive face.

A nod.

“Thank you.” He gave her a sad smile, “ Fever took her mother after she gave birth. She’s all I have of my Deyan.”

She let herself give him a small sad smile back, “The stranger comes for all. If she gets worse, cool her with rags. If the rags do not help, send for me, I will come."

The man’s hand shot out before she could react and grasped her hand in his squeezing, “Thank you.”

Without replying, she simply nodded and went on her way.

And she was right. Her home was dark once she finally arrived, the trees surrounding blocking out what little light there already was.

And he was still there. Not that he could have gone anywhere.

Regret pricked at her for not taking the fisherman’s coin. Cloth for a makeshift cot would have been useful. A blanket, too.

Hands on her hips, she surveyed her home. The furs on her bed were plentiful and would be enough to soften the floor. If she laid by the fire, it would keep her warm too.

It would have to do.

She dragged the furs from her bed and onto the floor beside the fire for warmth. She knew that she would need to change his bandages soon, and so she went to him.

With a deep breath, she braced herself. Hands beneath his arms, she pulled him upright. His face went bone-white, his lone eye rolling beneath its lid, lips parting in a strained whimper.

She twisted so that his chest leaned against her back. It was risky with his ribs, but she had no choice. He was dead weight. She hooked one arm under his broken leg, then hoisted him from the table.

The effort nearly sent her toppling.

She hurried to fix his position, heart hammering when she noticed the fresh bloom of red on his bandaged side. Not enough to be dangerous but enough to tell her the jostling had torn at the wound.

His face was taut with pain, the most expression she had seen in the days passed. His brows were furrowed and his eye seemed to roll vigorously inside its socket.

She gave him what she thought was a unthreatening smile, and continued on the path of wetting his forehead with the cloth in soft gentle strokes of reassurance.

She prayed momentarily that he didn't attack her. Men on their death beds have surprising strength when cornered. The bodies last burst and attempt of survival.

“Sleep.” She cooed at him, brushing against the side of his face where sweat had begun to settle.

His lips parted, cracked and dry,

“Mother.”

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to the tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! Enjoy <3

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aemondsbabygirl · 7 months ago

Text

I’m so excited for this!!!!

As always, I love the way you write. There was an eerie atmosphere throughout this chapter. I am so curious about where the story is going. I’ve always wondered about what would have happened if he had survived. I can’t wait to see your take on this. Is he going to have lost his memories? Is he going to be an asshole and freak out and try to kill her? He better not!!! How is she going to manage to get him to her cabin? I have so many questions!! Don’t tell me though, I will learn patience and find out in due time 🤭

Watercress

Warnings: She/her pronouns. Smallfolk OC, mentions of death and war, descriptions of injury and blood, slowburn. Tags will be added as the fic goes along.

Pairings: Aemond x She/Her

Chapter 1: Broken

Moving to a new spot, she threw the net once more, watching the weights sink swiftly as she pulled it in. This time, there was resistance.

"Fuck." she hissed as the icy water soaked her gown up to her waist.

“Fucking cunt.” She flung the net back to shore, the weights making a wet thud on the soil, as she looked to where the her net had got caught.

So it was one of theirs, then.

Eyes drifting behind her towards the lake, she wondered what had happened those days past.

Nothing good ever came to the Riverlands when She was near.

The dance of the two dragons above Gods Eye was no more, and she could finally go back to living her life; uninterrupted.

Something that was not born of ash nor bark nor fur.

Something human.

Uncertainly she took a step around the tree to see the beginning of a boot, a leathered boot at that. And attached to it a leg, and then hips, and finally;

A man.

This was one of them.

Was he the man who had slaughtered the Strong family at Harrenhal?

Or was he the one who commanded the brutal rape and murders of those who opposed the Blackwoods?

Did it matter? She thought to herself, They were all the same.

Her curiosity however won out, and with an unsteady hand, unsure whether it be from the cold or the man, she reached forth to brush the blood crusted hair away from his face.

Aemond One-Eye.

The King was proof of this.

A faint fluttering beneath her fingers made her lift her hand in shock, her digits hovering over the mans face as she looked at him in disbelief.

He couldn’t…

She leant down, dipping her ear beside his lip as she rested a hand against his ribs.

And there it was, a rattling breath so weak, so quiet, that had his lips not been pressed against her ear she would not have heard it.

He was alive.

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to the tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! Enjoy <3

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