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author-morgan · 2 years

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Title: Cold Hands Pairing: Tormund Giantsbane x fem!Reader Rating: M Summary: After the Battle of Castle Black, Jon needs someone to ensure their wildling prisoner makes it through the night. Because Tormund's the type you just want to rage fuck and I've been looking for an excuse to write for him since like 2017. tagging @mrsragnarlodbrok suffer with me

THE STEWARDS’ QUARTERS are dimly light and crowded in the wake of the night’s battle with the wounded members of the Night’s Watch. You rise from looking over little Olly’s scrapes and bruises, passing the boy a cup of watered ale to help him sleep —forget the horrors of the fighting. Castle Black was no place for a woman, and every estranged look cast in your direction from one of the men reminded you of that. Frowning, you wipe your hands on a stained apron and step outside into the frozen air. Below, men are clearing out the dead, a mix of wildlings and their own brothers, and beginning to make repairs to fortify the defenses should there be another attack. Jon Snow approaches you and lowers his head in greeting. “I have someone I need you to tend to,” he utters.

Castle Black’s dungeon is not large, only a single line of iron-barred cells in a short corridor —unoccupied save for the hulking figure at the very back in chains and pocked with broken arrows and crossbow bolts. He wears the thick, mismatched furs of the wildlings, but the fire in his hair is unmistakable. Tormund Giantsbane. Jon unlocks the cell and steps back, letting you pass. “Hurt a hair on her head,” Jon Snow starts, ice in his voice, “and you’ll be joining your kin on the pyre.”

You give Jon Snow a final nod of assurance —you’ve dealt with worse men than Tormund Giantsbane— and the bastard retreats down the corridor as you set down a flagon of icy water and a satchel of herbs and vials. “Tormund,” you greet, unwilling to shy away from his burning bright-blue stare. His notoriety spans north and south of the Wall —the man who suckled a giantess’s teat and fucked she-bears. Someone who you wouldn’t have expected to find stuck like a pincushion and locked away.

“Heard them say you’re a witch,” he grunts, hiding a scowl as you prod the arrow in his shoulder. You lift a curious brow. The crows call you a wood’s witch. In truth, you’re only a skilled herbalist with knowledge acquired from patching up members of the Night’s Watch over the years. Maybe it is a good thing they call you a witch —the men of the Watch didn’t much care for spirits and magic. “Don’t look like a witch,” Tormund notes, his voice rough. “All the witches I’ve known had warts and crooked noses” —he glares when you pull the first arrow from him without warning, knowing they were only bodkin points — “lived in trees.”

You lay a damp cloth over the bleeding wound before sliding around to his back. The arrows needed to be removed before you could strip him of the heavy furs to properly tend him. “If I had a cock,” you start with a dry laugh, “they’d call me a maester and give me a heavy chain to wear ‘round my neck.” Pressing your hand next to a second arrow, you wiggle the broken shaft, ensuring the arrowhead would come free too when you finally pull. You see the muscles in his neck tense.

“No more crows to worry over?” Tormund asks, voice gruff. Weren’t no more than a hundred men defending Castle Black on the ground and from above —a few more warriors in his warband, and they could’ve taken the castle to let Mance Rayder walk through the gates to the south.

“None that require my skillset.” He looks back, lifting a bloody brow in question. “Plucking arrows from men” —you snatch the third and final arrow from his back and toss it aside, all that’s left is the crossbow bolt in his leg— “sewing them back up.” Sitting back in front of him, you reach for the ties and straps of his clothes. Grimacing, he helps you divest himself of the layers until your icy fingertips brush against his broken and heated flesh. The wildling is barrel-chested with broad shoulders and strong arms —a testament to hard living beyond the Wall. Tormund lets you work in silence —defeat still leaves a sour taste on his tongue

HE SHIFTS AT the sound of footfalls on the stone, too light to belong to any of the crows. Between the torchlight and the few burning braziers, Tormund can see it is his sweet healer come to visit or torment him. The shackles on his ankles clink together against the stone floor as he moves around, scooting forward as you grow closer. “Couldn’t stay away,” he muses as you stop in front of his cell, setting down your satchel and water flagon.

“Daily rounds to see all my wards,” you counter, pulling a wrought iron key from the inside of your sleeve. You’d convinced Jon you could handle the wildling chieftain —maybe it was foolish of you to think that.

“Best for last?” He asks, laughing.

You huff, rolling your eyes as you unlock the cell, stepping inside. “You must be feeling better,” you note, setting out all your supplies.

Tormund drops the last of his layers —a stained wool tunic— next to him as you kneel with a damp cloth and fresh salve. He seizes your hands, startling you, but does nothing more than hold them between his own —his fingertips are rough, palms warm, wholly engulfing yours. “You got cold hands,” Tormund mutters, seeing the question form in your eyes.

“Didn’t think wildlings minded the cold,” you note, holding his gaze. He doesn’t say anything, just grunts in response and keeps your hands held in his for a moment longer before letting you carry about changing his wounds’ dressings.

But curiosity gets the better of him. He’s not known the Night’s Watch to keep a woman on hand. “How does you staying here with all these crows work?” Tormund asks —the muscles in his back tense when a cool, damp cloth touches his skin.

“Didn’t stay with the crows,” you tell him, removing a day-old cataplasm from his shoulder, washing away flecks of ground herbs left behind. “Stayed in Mole’s Town.” It was a small unpleasant village, but it meant you were close to the Wall —the Lord Commander paid for your services as a healer with how few men were currently in the Night’s Watch and with Maester Aemon growing frailer by the day. “Or I did,” you pause, remembering the grey smoke rising from the south a few days ago, “before your lot put it to the torch.” He wears a curious look as though to ask how you escaped his warband. “Was already here tending to those who went out north of the Wall.”

“Fate then,” he decides —the Old Gods must have meant for your paths to cross.

OF ALL THE men currently under your care, Tormund is your favorite, though you won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that —it’d make him nigh unbearable. He’s no longer kept in the dark cells below ground, despite still being a prisoner, or perhaps hostage, depending on what Stannis Baratheon and Jon Snow have planned. They’ve moved him to an empty room in one of the decaying towers of the castle. You unlock the door, finding him pacing along the perimeter of the small room. “Come to enchant me?” He asks, still finding it amusing that the crows would call a woman like you a witch.

“Thought I already had,” you laugh, watching as he starts tugging at his outer furs without instruction, “and that’s why you’ve been such a good boy.” Tormund Giantsbane wasn’t even half as stubborn as some of the Rangers who’ve come into your care over the years —like Benjen Stark when he came back from north of the Wall with an arrow in his shoulder.

“Boy?” Tormund bristles. “A boy doesn’t have a cock–” his voice fades into a hiss when you press the vinegar-soaked rag to the worst of his wounds. He glares at you, but then his hard stare softens when you smile. Tormund’s mind wanders, unable to stop himself from thinking what’d it be like to lay with a woman from south of the Wall —and if you’d still have that sharp tongue with his cock buried inside your cunt. “Can show you I’m not a boy,” he says, lips twitching upward under his ginger beard. “Doubt you’ve ever had a real man.”

Your gaze flits up to meet his, undeterred by his advances. It’s not the first time you’ve suffered through them, and you doubt it’ll be the last if you continue working with men who’ve sworn to be celibates. “That all you can think about?” You ask —more so teasing than chiding— unwrapping the strip of linen from around his leg. The poultice has kept infection at bay, though this wound is healing slower than the others.

“When I’m looking at a pretty woman,” Tormund replies in all sincerity, leaning forward.

You can feel warmth rushing to your cheeks, but you won’t let yourself look away elsewise he’ll know you’re not immune to his charms. “Well” —you smile, thinking of the conversation you’d overhead between Jon and Stannis— “you’re soon to be looking at a pretty crow named Lord Commander Snow.”

TORMUND GIANTSBANE IS no longer a prisoner under Jon Snow. The Lord Commander means to take him and a score of men to Hardhome and let the wildlings settle in the Gift to escape the encroaching Long Night. Jon knows he’s the only person the others will listen to in the wake of Mance Rayder’s death. The air in the common hall is thick with something you cannot describe —the members of the Night’s Watch have not taken kindly to Stannis’s men or the red-haired wilding sitting below the high table.

Olly sits next to you and Edd with a white-knuckle grip on his spoon, the taste of betrayal sitting bitterly on his tongue. Your gaze flits between the boy, Jon, and finally to Tormund. The wildling’s cold stare is already on you. Edd raises a brow when he sees how quickly you look away, cheeks tinged with warmth.

After some time, you take leave of the common hall, turning to the tower with a small room where Ser Alliser Throne said you could reside, as there was nowhere left for you to go. Tormund trails after you —and before you can shut the door to your chamber for the night, he stops you from doing so. “Didn’t come tend my wounds last night,” he laments, pouting almost.

“You’re going to live,” you assure him, letting him come in anyways. Last you checked, none of his wounds were close to festering, and all were healing cleanly and quickly. Untying your apron and belt, you set them aside and turn back to Tormund, half-smiling. “It’d be a waste of herbs and linen.” Those herbs and flowers would be precious commodities with winter fast approaching. He watches as you empty your satchel on the table and replenish the supplies in quiet awe —his sweet healer with cold hands. “You gonna tell me why you’re really here?” But you’re almost certain you already know, and you’ve no objections, either.

Tormund doesn’t answer at first. Instead, he steps behind you and cranes his head down to the crook of your neck, breathing in your scent as his arm slides across your middle, pulling you back nigh flush against him. “You know,” he rasps at your ear. The tickle of his beard against your neck is all the warning you have before his lips brush over your skin. Sighing, you tilt your head to the side, melding into his warmth and wandering hands. He tugs impatiently at the laces on the front of your woolen dress, but you swat away his hands and make quick work of the ties and break from his hold to shimmy out of the heavy garment. It leaves you in a thin shift, scarcely protection from the frigid air of the North —though the fire in Tormund’s darkened stare does set your blood aflame.

You step to him, curling your fingers into the soft leather and fur on his chest, and he pounces like a wildman. His kiss is soft at first, a gentle caress of the lips, but it grows deeper when his tongue coaxes you into what becomes a series of leisurely kisses, though each one feels more urgent than the last. Tormund’s hands wander to the small of your back, then along the curve of your bum, bunching up the fabric of your shift until he can grip onto the bare meat of your thighs. He must think you weigh nothing by the way he lifts you, opening your legs until they’re wrapped around his waist, your arms around his shoulders, lips never straying far from his.

He places you on the edge of the bed, then begins with the ties of his clothes and boots —throwing the leathers and furs aside in great haste— until he’s left in only a pair of sealskin shorts with the outline of his hard cock clearly visible. Tormund slips to his knees in front of you, wedging himself between your knees. Surging forward, you kiss him again, intoxicated by the moment. He’s happy to give and reluctant to part. “Thought the Free Folk didn’t kneel,” you challenge, combing your fingers through his beard.

“Only to those we choose,” Tormund tells you, dragging his rough hands along the outsides of your thighs, over your hips, pushing your shift up until you pull the thin fabric overhead, dropping it to the stone floor. You whine when his rough fingers brush over your clavicles, up the column of your neck —there’s a gentleness to the wildling chieftain you would have never thought existed. Tormund’s hand grips your jaw, forcing you to keep his gaze —affirmation he’d chosen to kneel before you.

Without another word, he leans down and presses small kisses around your breast, looking up at you the whole time. The small pecks soon turn into sloppy, open-mouthed kisses as his eyes close in focus. You reach down, carding your hands through his fiery hair —encouragement. He continues to inch closer and closer until he latches onto your nipple and sucks hard, using his hand to play with your other one. He pulls back just for a moment to nip at it. “Tormund,” you breathe, burying your hands into his fiery locks.

Tormund moves his hands to the soft insides of your thighs, squeezes them, then leans down, placing a kiss below your navel. You jump at the tickle of his beard, and his low chuckle rattles through you both, sending a wave of warmth washing over you, pooling low in your belly as he moves farther down. He groans at the sight of your cunt —slick already and begging to be feasted upon, and feast he will. He laps at you, firm but gentle, the corners of his lips turning up in a smile when he reads the pleasure making your gaze go soft and unfocused.

Then you lose conscious thought the second he wraps his lips around your clit, hands holding you firmly in place as he laps and licks through your folds, methodical and slow with a long and low groan. Tormund’s fingers brush through your folds, gathering the slick there, and he eases one finger into your cunt, curling, and stroking, then adds a second. He’s doing something devastating —the gentle pressure with each flick of his tongue— your breath comes in short gasps, chest heaving until it all erupts with white sparks. “All southrons sweet as you?” He asks, scraping his beard along the inside of your thigh, fingers still working you down from the sudden high.

“I am from the North, Tormund,” you remind him, amused.

“South of the Wall, though,” he refutes, giving one final nip to the inside of your thigh before withdrawing his sopping fingers and sucking them clean —eyes never leaving yours. It sends a shiver down your spine. He rises from his knees, and you stand too, hands going to the ties of his underpants. Kicking aside the last of his clothing, he lets you push him back to the bed and climb atop him like you’ve won some great victory.

He’s splayed out beneath you, looking up at you with those clear-blue eyes, clouded with lust, like a challenge. He let you win. You know that — he knows that. But here you are, straddling him with your fingers intertwined in his, pinning his hands above his head. He can easily turn the tables —flip you over and hold you down, and make you beg for him until you can't take it anymore. He can do all of that, but he doesn’t. No, Tormund Giantsbane likes the feeling of your weight above him, pressing him into the mattress, and he wants to see where this will go.

You lean over him and press a kiss to his collarbone, then to the base of his neck and underside of his jaw —his beard brushes against your lips as they move further up until they’re ghosting over the corner of his mouth. He turns his head slightly, stretching up to capture your lips in a hungry kiss. You moan softly into his mouth as his tongue drags over your bottom lip, seeking entrance. He loves the taste of you everywhere —the sweetness of your tongue, the salt of your sweat, the tang of your cunt— Tormund loves it all. Perhaps you had enchanted him.

His hips press up off the bed when your fingers wrap around his cock, stroking him from base to tip, thumb following along one of the throbbing veins on the underside. You shuffle back, guiding the weeping head of his cock between your slick folds until it catches on the entrance of your aching cunt, and you press back further sinking onto him with a lurid moan —echoed by his own strangled groan and a string of curses.

You start to rock and twist your hips, building a pleasant rhythm, working yourself on top of him. Tormund’s lips are parted, breathing heavily as he watches how your cunt takes him in over and over again, a sight that drives him to oblivion, and paired with how you whimper and moan and the feel of your breasts under his hands, he thinks he could finish then and there.

Tormund digs his heels into the bed, aiding you as you bounce and twist atop him. “Tormund,” you whimper, knowing you need more than this —you need his touch. He’s quick to answer the soft pleading, hands squeezing against your hips, arms flexing to lift and drag you across his cock himself as his hips roll upwards, pressing deeper it feels than ever before. Leaning down, you press your lips to his —panting against his mouth as your chests move against one another, hips rolling and filling the room with the sound of flesh against flesh and a chorus of low moans and breathy praises.

It’s sudden when he twists around, putting you beneath him —his weight hovering over you, cock still buried deep in your cunt. “Fucking greedy,” he groans, continuing his slow pace. Something changes in his eyes, but you cannot decipher it. Instead, you draw his face down and kiss him again. You relax inch by inch, sliding your hands over his muscled back, the ridges of his shoulder blades, and down his arms, taking the time to fully appreciate the small nicks and scars you’ve seen a dozen times over now. Then he moves again and again. Each stroke quicker and deeper than the last.

His cheeks and chest are flushed in the low light, and his hair clings to his neck and forehead as his pace picks up. Long, calloused fingers bury into your hair, angling you to look at him. His other hand slides down to where your bodies are joined, rubbing your clit, knowing by the way your walls flutter, that you're close, as is he. The budding pressure grows, setting you on another precipice ready to fall. Your body begins shuddering against his, limbs limp but jerking, neck tilted back into the furs —shining with sweat. Seeing you like this is enough to push him over too. Tormund’s body tenses, his hip stuttering, cock twitching deep inside you with a spreading warmth. His groan is strangled when he thrusts into you again, lazily —just to feel his seed begin to seep from your ruined cunt.

You feel an old sort of contentment as he lowers his weight to rest on bent forearms at either side of your head —his hazy blue eyes staring down at you, the dark red of his hair and beard wilder than you’d ever seen. Tormund dips his head down, nuzzling against the crook in your neck.

On instinct, your arms wrap around him, fingertips following one of the curving scars on his back, relishing the feeling of warmth and safety. “You’re going to come back to me,” you tell him, mussing the strands of hair at the back of his neck. Jon Snow means to set off to Hardhome at first light, he’d said as such during the evening meal, and in the following days, Stannis and his men will depart to head south, first to Winterfell and then onward to King’s Landing. But you’ve no doubt Tormund Giantsbane will return.

“Aye,” Tormund agrees, rolling to the side. He’s quick to pull you along with him and tuck you into his side. “Then we’ll see if the crows can hear us all the way from atop the Wall,” he says, squeezing a handful of your bum. You laugh, pressing your face into his chest, and he laughs too, the sound coming from deep in his belly. Though it soon turns to a wistful sigh, should the Others take him, he’s certain his last thought will be of you —his sweet healer.

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#Tormund #Tormund Giantsbane #Tormund x Reader #Tormund Giantsbane x Reader #Tormund Fanfiction #Tormund Giantsbane Fanfiction #Game of Thones #Game of Thrones Fanfiction #ASOIAF #ASOIAF Fanfiction #my writing #i went overboard for this ginger fuck #slick as a baby seal he said #and then you go inside but slowly #tell me this man does not know how to fuck #this is your fault claire

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everlarrk · 2 years

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“I did not decide to name Rhaenyra my heir on a whim. All the lords of the kingdom would do well to remember that.” - Viserys I Targaryen

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emmadarcyextra · 1 year

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House of the Dragon star Emma D’Arcy makes GQ’s Men of the Year list!

I am beyond excited! 😍🔥

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simpinglandxxxfanfics · 2 years

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My one true King// Aemond Targaryen x male!oc

Alys Dayne is the secret love of Aemonds life, the only one he could trust with his feelings after coming back from Storm's Ends. Would he think of him as a monster? Would he destroy the boy's life?

He came back wet, her eye much more open than usually. When he reached for his mother, he couldn't look at her. He was entering the throne room, where Aegon was sitting on the throne, Otto by one side, Alicent by the other. Ser Arys Dayne was listening in the hall, waiting for Aemond to come back. He had gone to propose an alliance between houses, the young prince would marry one of the Baratheon daughters and assuring a loyalty to the new King Aegon. The Lord heard of the news by gossiping, so when Aemond was about to fly, he cronfronted him.

"When were you going to tell me, my prince?". He had anger and sadness moving throw her blushed face. "When I find her in your bed? Or you may put her in the back of your Vhagar and fly together your way to King's Landing". The Targaryen couldn't speak at the moment, his throat was closed by the sadness so he just stared at the ground. In the silence of the lonely Dragonpit, Arys started to sob. They both knew that nothing could be done, that this day would come, but not so soon. To calm him, and to let him know about how much he still loved him, Aemond took Arys faces into his hands. But the boy refused. He pushed the prince and left, Aemond watched him disappear before riding to Storm's End. Having the princes marry meant for Arys to do the same, there was no need for him by his side according to the social laws of Westeros. He came to the Red Keep when he was one and ten, the King Viserys approved Otto's idea of bringing a boy on court that could train with a recently half blinded Aemond. The King suggested a Dayne, family known as the best fighters and swordsman, as well as loyal people. The house sent their second born, the one with the princes' age. At first, Aemond was an absolute dick. He found Arys character soft and weak, but he was better than him with weapons, much graceful and smooth. So he became jealous and a bigger dick to him. All that stopped by the resilience the Dayne boy showed everyday. He always greeted the princes nicely, he always offered his hand when Aemond fell, always tried to calm him when Aegon annoyed him. Little by little, they became friends. They shared their feelings after the training, when they were left alone by Ser Criston. And, as the years went by, they became much more than friends, but thats another story.

The prince did act weird after one meeting, but Alys could sense his stress and anxiety so he decided to be close to him but not insistent. Now he knows what it was and he felt stupid. They were only six and teen, and many seconds sons were allowed to wed much older, or even not obligated to wed. Well, Aemond being a prince could make his ascent to the throne possible but if the Greens avoided a war there would be no need for him to stay at court. Alys was also aware about his non-existence duties now that his brother had two baby boys back at home. But all those things were dreams, they were the things that were supposed to happen, if only the Gods were good...At the distance, Alys stared at his prince, he looked so genuinely upset that the anger in Alys became worry and he followed him to his chamber. Of course, Aemond could feel him behind, but they did what they always did, walk the same direction, one before the other, no exchange of looks until one of them arrived at the rooms. Alys saw him get into his own, he then went into his, but he entered one of the many secret halls of the Keep and he finally reached the secret door in Aemond's room. He knocked two times, like always.

Aemond hurried to open it, he need it to talk, but he didn't want to do it with Alys. He did trusted him with his life, and he didn't feel judge at all...but they have different ways to see life and the thing he did was the kind of thing that the Dayne boy founded worthy of punishment. He didn't want to lose him this way, he didn't want to see the disappointment of his beautiful eyes and say goodbye knowing he felt disgusted by the person Aemond had become. But... Seven Gods...he loved him so much he was dying to see him again. And there it was, behind the secret door that he opened at the moment.

Alys was there, his eyes staring at him with sadness and he entered slowly. A fire was lightening the room, buy Aemond was stil soaking wet. They didn't speak, but Alys started to put the prince clothes apart. The dragon kept staring at his lover with soft eyes, tears about to fall. The clothes were putted on the sofa nearest to the fire. He was naked, but this was another type of nudity for the couple. The hands didn't move from the prince's face and Alys stared at him until he confessed.

"I just started the war..."

"I bet thats not the truth". Alys tried to confort him.

"It is" he spilled. "I killed Luke". The hands felt off. "I was just trying to scare him...to scare him so much he ended up ripping off an eye just for me".

"Was it an accident then? I don't understand". Alys was, as Aemond feared, horrified.

"I saw him on Storm's End, and I threatened him...but I just wanted an eye..." Aemond never cried but he was having trouble with swallowing. "I became so angry, Alys...that fucking kid with his little dragon, all dress up and noble...He's a bastard and nobody fucking cares...".

"Aemond, what the fuck did you do?" Asked Alys, growing angry. He did agree with him, but the prince didn't act right that night at Driftmark and Luke was just a kid defending his brother.

"I chased him with Vhagar...and Luke tried to hurt her and she...she became..."

"Uncontrollable?" Alys always feared for that. Such an old dragon, a wild creature. Beasts are never to be trusted and Aemond never saw why he feared his flying habit so much.

"I tried to stop her...I beg for her to stop and before I realised...she ate the bastard alive...the wings and tales were the only thing that escaped her bite". Poor Luke, he was just a kid, a teenage...Alys met him the last time he came, a brave boy, a bit naive but at the events that followed Alys saw the reason why the Greens resented them so. Luke shamelessly laugh at Aemond after everything...that night they both spent it together, talking and Alys made an efford to convince him. "You told me to gave them my forgiveness. At the end of the day, Luke was just a kid, you said...and now he would never had the chance to grow up".

Knowing Aemond, he wasn't sad about his nephew...he was sad about being the one who did it. Because what he did meant something that was out of his reach, war was a King's business, and he could only dream of it. War was a terrifying scenario, where the people that he loved would be in incredible danger, and even the victory would demand losses. And he had people he loved as much as Rhaenyra loved Luke. They will come for him, not only her half sister, but Daemond too. He not only had a mother that he loved, but Helaena was his most adored sibling, with kids who still had a chance of becoming like her mom...and Alys Dayne...oh, if the gods take him away...he would never forgive himself. He, the only person he could be true to himself, how believed in him, his sweet and wise Alys looked at him with terror and he felt himself falling apart. Now it was him sobbing and Alys pulling him closer. He caressed his back, Aemonds face hide in the croock of his neck.

"War started the moment your brother was crowned, Aemond...and Luke...you need to learn to control yourself...you fill yourself with hate...".

"Are you going to hate me?" cut Aemond. He looked up again, eye red. "I brought war with me on this night".

"I could never hate you, Aemond...and I was willing to fight for my true king any other way, because you are my true king, and I love my one..."he kissed his forehead, "true..." he kissed his eyelid, "king..." he putted away his patch to kiss his esmerald, "Aemond Targaryen" and he softly kissed his lips.

"I love you, Alys Dayne...but you are not going to fight for me...you will with me" he promised.

"From this day, until my last day, dragon".

"From this day, until my last day, star".

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x male!oc #aemond targaryen x male reader #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen x male!reader #aemond targaryen x oc #aemond one eye #aemond stannies #ewan mitchell #house of the dragon #house of the dragon fanfiction #hotd fanfic #game of thones #game of thrones fanfiction #asoiaf

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a-dowryofblood · 2 years

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I hope that the people that edit the Targaryens with purple eyes know that I love them. They carry the entire fandom on their backs.

Thank you for doing what HBO refuses to do.

#i love you purple eyes edit people #have the best of dreams #purple eyes #house of the dragon #hotd #house targaryen #got #game of thones #asoiaf

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yopigeonflyerjo · 1 year

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Aemond Targaryen SFW alphabet

Will be corrected

Aemond x reader

A= affection (how affectionate are they?(How do they show affection?)

Security, there is anything. In this world that scares him more than the thought of losing you. If you ever go for a night walk, he just spawns there and either walk with you or take you to the chambers. He keeps his eye on you. Aemond as someone raised by someone not ready for motherhood Alicent (we stan raging lesbian girlboss) and Viserys who was never there for him, he is really touch starved. In private he just can’t keep his hands off his hands. In public he may hold your hand but nothing more. But his gaze says everything.

A= best friend (what would they be like as a best friend?)

Protective bro energy, he would be first to throw hands if someone disrespected you. If not literally, he would make the life of this person a real hell. He loves it when you are near when he trains with Cole. It happened at least a few times a week. You read a book until it finishes, then two of you go for a walk.

C= cuddles (do they like to cuddle? (How would they cuddle?)

He LOVES to cuddle. Especially in bed, he lies down on your stomach or chest. Don’t even try to move. In public he is not this touchy. He holds you near, but don’t show more affection than that.

D= domestic (do they want to settle down? (How are they around the house?)

A happy life with you, a castle as far from the king’s landing as possible is his dream life. But as long as his family is in danger, he can’t leave. You understand and support him, for now that are only plans.

E= ending (if they had to break up with their s/o, how would they do it?)

He wouldn’t let it be. There is not a single chance that you would leave him. If that somehow happened, be ready for this blond mf yandere mood.

F= fiancé (how would they feel about a commitment? (How quickly would they like to get married?)

As fast as he is, he is, he is sure that you also love him. For him, marriage doesn’t really matter that much, but he knows how important it is for you and your reputation. Also, he sees it as final confirmation that you love him and will never betray him.

G= gentle (how gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

H= hugs (do they like hugs? How often do they do it? (What are their hugs like?)

Warm, in private most of them lead to something more. He loves it when you kiss his neck during hugging. For the first time you hugged him after Leana's funeral. That's one of his happiest memories. Let's be honest, he needs a hug.

I= jealousy (how jealous do they get? (What do they do when they're jealous?)

REALLY EASILY, even if it's just a random drunk guy flirting with you, he wouldn’t let that slide. If it were Aegon, he would just threaten him. Random guy immediately stabbed or became a Vhagar snack (leave this elder woman out of this), if that's one of his nephews is ready for war. There is no one as insecure as Aemond, especially after losing an eye. He has never forgiven these bastards (after writing that I realized how adequate that was) how they never paid for that.

K= kisses (what are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss their partner? (Where do they like to be kissed?)

Most of them are short but full of emotions. The good ones are long and passionate. He treats them like a promise that you two will meet again.

L= little ones (how are they around children?)

Not bad, sometimes he plays with Haelana children. He ignores them as long as they are not his nephews,

N= nights (how are nights spent with them?)

He is peaceful, but he is a very light sleeper. Your softest move can wake him up, especially that since you two sleep together, he holds you tight. He doesn’t sleep much, most of the times he goes to bed late and wakes up early.

O= open (when would they start revealing things about themselves?)

He wasn’t really sure that it ever happened until your wedding night. There wasn't a bedding ceremony, you two just go to the chambers and talk all night long. At first, he did not show it, but the ceremony touched him. You are really his.

P= patience (how easily angered are they?)

He is patient (we will bring this back in nsfw one), this man waits so long for his revenge.

Q= quizzes (how much would they remember about their partner?)

He is a good observer (gods, it has so much meme potential), and he sees and notes little things about you in his mind. What food you like, what don’t, which one aunt you avoid, who is your favorite cousin.

S= security (how protective are they? (Would they like to be protected?)

As I said, very protective. He is your truly guard dog (dragon).

T=try (how much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

He is not into expensive gifts, he gives you some stunning dresses or Dimond jewelry, but he doesn’t really treat it as a real gift. He likes something with meaning. Like your childhood toy that he has kept for years or a necklace with your favorite flower inside.

U= ugly (what would be some bad habits of theirs?)

He can be cruel and brutal if he thinks someone deserves it. He seems not to really notice the line between good and evil. Even if he does, sometimes he just doesn’t care.

V= vanity (how concerned are they with their looks?)

He is not really concerned, he is insecure. Showing you his eye was a really big deal. He did it at the wedding night, and it was really stressful for him. Aemond was sure you would run away, but when you stayed,ed, he was the happiest man in Westeros at this moment.

W= whole (would they feel incomplete without you?)

He would feel tearful. You are not only his lover but also his friend. You were his support and the only person that always cared.

X - xtra (a random headcanon for them.)

He had a crush on two people beside you, Healena and Daemon (you can’t elaborate)

You try to kill yourself after a battle above the gods' eyes

He is never quite sure about Vhagar, he doesn't quite trust her. As much as a rider should trust a dragon.

First, he really has problems with riding her Vhagar Viserys never really loved Viserys again after losing his eye. He could never forgive his father that he cared more about Rhaenyra at general

So after Viserys' words „Rhaenyra, my only child", he didn’t feel anything.

He really loves his mother. After years, Aemond noticed how lost and helpless she is

The only person that really worries him is Daemon.

Z= zzz (what is a sleep habit of theirs?)

He always kisses you before and after sleep.

Sometimes he goes for late night flights on Vhagar.

He is always happy when you join

#house of the dragon #aemond one eye #aemond fic #aemond imagine #aemond x y/n #aemond x reader #a song of ice and fire #fanfic #sfw #game of thones #aemond the kinslayer #daemon x rhaenyra #deamon x rhaenyra

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