Hey! It would be lovely if you could write an Aemond/stark or northern!reader that are in a arranged marriage but are two idiots in love, he may be with Alyss but realize that loves his wife and reader is also in love but to prideful and hurt to admit it (ending could be either happy or angsty)
Hi fam! I am SO sorry for the pain I am about to put you through. I decided to be true to the book as much as I could be, there aren't any happy endings with a Stark reader unfortunately
Word count: 2,355
Angst | It gets spicy/not smut though | Aemond x Stark!Reader
I named this one.
You had been happy at King’s Landing. The happiest any Stark had ever been that far south. The sun suited you, warming to your bones. The food had been much to your liking, rich flavors melting on your tongue. The pit of despair that had initially welled up in your chest upon hearing you were to be carted off to the capital to be wed in an arranged marriage with one of the Targaryen princes soon filled with an unexpected pleasure.
Queen Alicent and her father Otto Hightower had welcomed you to the Red Keep by throwing a small banquet in your honor and to the honor of your house. “It is not often we get a Stark gracing these halls, you are most welcome Lady Y/N.” Alicent had said, embracing you gently. “I am most happily surprised your lord father agreed to merge our two great houses.”
As were you, when they had received the raven from King’s Landing you had expected your father to read the request and toss it aside as he had done with countless other requests from the Targaryens. However, this time your lord father had pondered over the missive and eventually came to you with the news you were to be wed to Prince Aemond of the house of the dragon. Your pleas for him to reconsider had fallen on deaf ears.
The welcome dinner the royals had for you took place in a beautiful banquet hall. Alicent ushered you into the room, and with her arm linked thru yours, led you to the end of the oaken table where a young man with long silver hair had just stood at your arrival. He was a head taller than you, lithe of body, and carried himself like a highly trained warrior, you noticed that right away. Your eyes scanned his face, taking in the leather eyepatch adorning the left side of his face, as well as the pink scar that ran in a vertical line beneath it.
“This is my son Aemond, your betrothed.” Alicent introduced the two of you, and each in your turned dipped your head in greeting to the other. “Aemond, this is Lady Y/N Stark. I will leave you two to get better aquainted.”
She swept away in her green gown, touching her son lightly on the shoulder as she passed him. Aemond’s hair fell in strands of silky shimmering silver, his one eye the shade of beautiful lilac purple. His face was angular, with a large nose, high cheekbones and curved lips. He was handsome, you thought to yourself, not at all what you had expected from the tales told around the fires at Winterfell.
Aemond had been inspecting you as well, his eye flicked briefly up and down your form. His thin mouth quirked slightly into the ghost of a smile, “Come, sit by me and be welcome Lady Y/N. You have traveled quite a distance from your family’s seat in the North.”
You and he made small talk during the course of that dinner, and you quickly found conversing with the young prince to be very pleasant and intellectually stimulating. Here was a man who could match you in wit and knowledge, you felt the freedom of being able to speak about the topics that had long fascinated you and Aemond would contribute with equal intelligence on the subject.
From that night onward, you two became inseparable, walking the corridors together, heads bent near one another as you spoke. He would find you curled up in an armchair of the library, nose buried in one of the many dusty books, and with an affectionate touch of his hand on your cheek, he’d join you with a volume of his own.
One night, several months after you had first arrived at King’s Landing, there was a knock on your bedroom door. You pulled on your nightrobe, and padded with bare feet to the door, opening it to reveal Aemond. He was still dressed in his dark green leather jerkin and grey breeches. The black boots he was wearing thudded on the stone floor of your chambers as he brushed passed you and into the room.
“Hello to you too, my prince.” Your gaze was quizzical on him as you closed and latched the door once more. “It’s hardly proper for you to be visiting my rooms so late at night.”
Aemond had seated himself on your sofa, pulling off his boots with a sigh. “I simply craved the company of my betrothed, surely that is no great sin.” He held his hands out to you and you walked over to take them, allowing yourself to be pulled to sit beside him. Aemond gently brushed a strand of hair off your forehead and tucked it behind your ear. His eye flicked between your own eyes, taking in your every change in expression. Heat rose to your cheeks at the intensity of his appraisal.
“Aemond, is something the matter?” You managed to breathe out.
“I wish to show you something, as you are to be my wife. It is important for me that I allow you to see me as I am.” In the many weeks you had known the man, Aemond had never sounded nervous. His hands were clammy in yours. “I wear this eyepatch for the sake of the ladies at court, what lies beneath has proven many times to be too much for their constitutions.”
A beat of silence fell between the two of you. You let go of one of Aemond’s hands and slowly reached to his face, caressing the leather of his eyepatch uncertainly.
Aemond moved his head away from your touch, his lips pressed into a frown. “I do not wish you to think me a monster, Y/N.”
“Aemond.” Your voice was halfway between chiding and sympathetic. “I would never think you a monster.”
He allowed your fingers to grab hold of his eyepatch and slowly lift it away and off of his head. You took him in, your eyes drinking in every detail. The sapphire he had placed inside the left eye socket shone dully, refracting the light from your sparking fireplace. There was still glaring evidence of the trauma Aemond’s nephews had done to that side of his face, with just one unwise swipe of a knife. You could hear Aemond’s breath still in his chest as you took your time studying the puckered skin, the scarring, the vivid red line that would never fully heal.
You traced your fingers along the scar on his cheek, ending in cupping his cheek in your hand, tracing your thumb back and forth under his sapphire. You looked long into his wide violet eye staring back into your upturned face. “You are beautiful, my love. Beautiful,” You said again at his sharp intake of breath, “and brave.” Aemond had become still as stone, but you leaned forward and placed a kiss just below the scar on his cheek. Another kiss you placed on his nose and another at the corner of his mouth.
“You will be my undoing.” Aemond groaned, finally moving to pull you into him.
You wrapped your hands around his waist, allowing him to cradle your own face in his hands. Aemond traced your lips with his thumb, trailing his touch down to your chin where he held you softly. “May I kiss you, Y/N?”
Your smile was all the answer he needed, tugging you closer with the fingers still gripping your chin, Aemond tilted his head and brought his lips down upon yours. The kiss began a gentle one, chaste even, but your hands gripping the fabric of his tunic spurred Aemond to deepen the embrace. He traced his tongue along your bottom lip, and you opened to him, groaning softly as he explored your mouth.
Aemond guided you down until your back hit the cushions and he was leaning half his weight onto you. Your hands moved up his back and buried themselves into his long silky hair, he had a lot of it, and you reveled in the feeling of it slipping thru your fingers. Aemond let out a small sound as you tugged slightly on his hair, releasing your mouth from his kiss with a lewdly wet sound. Silver strands tickled your neck and chest as he continued leaning over you, one of his knees pressed between your thighs. With all the willpower you could muster you did not move your hips down upon his leg.
“We should…” Your voice was barely a hoarse whisper.
Aemond nodded, lifting himself off you and helping to pull you back up to a sitting position. “We should continue this at a later date.”
You giggled.
He looked down at you with such a smitten look of adoration it almost made your heart stop. Aemond took your hand in his and placed a small kiss on the inside of your wrist. “I will take my leave, Y/N, before I give in fully to what I want to do with you.”
He stood, straightening his jerkin from where you grasping hands had wrinkled it. You remained seated, still recovering from the intensity of moments before. “Sleep well, Aemond.”
“Sleep well, my love.” He made to leave your chambers, stopping at your door Aemond turned a final time to face you. “And thank you.”
After that night, the two of you had sought out the other’s company in private as often as you could manage it. Aemond had even taken you to meet Vhagar miles outside the city limits, you had nearly fainted from the shock of seeing a dragon many times the size of Winterfell, but with Aemond’s steadying grip on your waist you had the courage to approach her. Vhagar had even allowed you to touch her, the dragon’s scales feeling like the bark of an iron tree under your fingers. Aemond wanted you to ride her with him, but he stopped asking after you insisted, only half joking, your heart would actually stop in your chest and then he would have no one to marry.
It was only a few weeks before your wedding day tragedy struck. King Viserys Targaryen, who you had met only the first night at King’s Landing, passed in his sleep. Queen Alicent seemed convinced his dying wish was to make his firstborn son, Aegon, king instead of Rhaenyra Targaryen. This meant civil war, and you knew it, and you believed Aemond knew it too. His tension radiated off him in waves, and he became more withdrawn.
Not two days after the whole of Westeros knew Aegon was now crowned King did the raven from Winterfell arrive. Your lord father was making arrangements to bring you back home. The Starks were pledging allegiance to the Blacks, to Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. It was perilous for you to remain at King’s Landing a moment longer and you were to meet your escort out of the city in secret and without a moment’s delay.
Your heart felt like a shard of ice had cut clean through it as your eyes took in the message from your home, from your father.
You could not marry Aemond.
Your betrothal had been broken and, though it was by no fault of your own, you felt very much the part of the traitor.
Feeling sick with guilt and grief, you did your duty as the daughter of Lord Stark and fled the city that night. You did not see Aemond before leaving, knowing if you sought him out, he would convince you to stay. Whether out of love or device, and you would soon become a prisoner of war there. Either way you were a pawn in an uncaring chess match, and to an extent you recognized Aemond was too.
Upon your arrival back at Winterfell, your father announced you would instead be betrothed to one of Rhaenyra’s children after they grew into men. You had wordlessly locked yourself in your cold chambers, the septas could barely coax you to eat the warm meals they brought you each day and most times the food went untouched at your table.
How you missed him, with every fiber of your being you ached for Aemond. He must hate you now, knowing how you had betrayed him. You would lie awake at night, staring up at the grey ceiling, wishing to hear the beat of dragon wings approach. During winter storms you would often fool yourself into thinking you did hear Vhagar approaching, carrying Aemond to you with news they had won the war and you could now be wed.
Months passed and you continued to mourn, looking out the window at the bleak landscape surrounding the castle. Never before had you felt a prisoner inside the walls of Winterfell, never before would you have thought you’d yearn for the warmth of King’s Landing.
Several months into your self appointed isolation, a Raven arrived for you from Harrenhal. It was from Aemond. You tore the letter open with shaking fingers, but with each line you read your stomach dropped further into despair. You let the paper fall from your grip, fluttering to the floor, and you sunk slowly till you knelt upon your sheepskin rug.
He was with another woman, some Alys Rivers, and had taken her as well as Harrenhal for his own. His words, written in a tidy black scrawl, had been cutting. Clearly his heart had hardened against you, and the personal hurt you had dealt at your departure from King’s Landing as well as the Starks declaring for the Blacks had solidified you as the enemy in Aemond’s mind. He had called her “my Alys” in the missive, your stomach turned, and bile rose to the back of your throat. With a sudden burst of feverish energy, you grabbed the parchment, balling it in your fist, and hurled it into the fire. Unbidden tears streamed down your cheeks as you curled in upon yourself there on the ground, and there you remained until long after the sun had begun its ascent in the eastern sky.
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