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One would assume that prince Aemond Targaryen would have special tailors coming into the Red Keep to provide him with clothes, as the rest of the royals did. Yet such a rarity it was indeed, that the prince had become a regular customer of your humble shop in one secluded corner of the Street of Looms.
The first time he stepped through the creaking door, after an uneventful workday, he had come donning a dark cloak that obscured his eyepatch and hid his head of silver hair, softly murmuring, “I’ve heard through good sources that you’ve the finest leather in the realm.”
You were stupefied, blinking to see if this was no fever dream as a consequence of the horrid stew you’d had for dinner the night before – wondering just how such a claim reached him when he lived in an entirely different sphere than you.
He hummed, rolled his eye at your lack of response and turned to leave - but you were quick enough to stop him
“Yes my lord, that is true!” you declared, to which he slowly turned back to appraise you, “I’ve inherited this shop from my father. This shop used to thrive under his keep; his good businesses allowed him to import the most excellent fabrics. After his death, I’m afraid, those partnerships felt rather uncomfortable with me taking over the trades. But I assure you, my lord, that my tailoring is of utmost quality. You can take a look around and see for yourself if you feel so inclined, my lord.”
He smirked, letting out a pensive hum while fully stepping inside the shop, and carefully examining the assortment of sample pieces you had mounted on racks and folded on several tables. He looked particularly pleased, as you brought a set of squares of different types of leather that you’d retrieved from the backroom while he toured the space.
He inspected the material with his thumb, then lifted lips just the slightest, gaze warming if only a grade higher than normal, before replying, “I’m looking for a new set of jacket and trousers.”
“Well, then, right this way my lord. We must take your measurements.”
From that day forth, prince Aemond became a recurrent customer. If not for him and his generous spendings on a variety of outfits and accessories, you would be starving to death by now. You feel eternally grateful with the prince, and wish there was a proper way to thank him, beyond the good work you do.
They may be silly feelings.
But there’s a little bud inside your chest that perennially starts to bloom with each time the prince comes for a fitting.
From the way he stands proudly on top of the little pedestal you have him step on; that near imperceptible smirk when a design pleases him so; the length of his limbs as they stretch out for a measurement; not to mention the heavenly scent that man exudes when he discards a piece of clothing.
You know not if this is a side effect of your eternal solitude, but the prince has got you all dizzy in a way you’d never felt for any other before.
These things you keep to yourself, lest you’re sent straight to the gallows for even thinking about prince Aemond in such a light.
But it gets harder to hide as he stands so contentedly at your disposal as he is now, with your measuring tape traversing his arm, then the other, before carefully placing a series of sewing needles along the mock linen tunic that he’s wearing – that’s still sitting a little loosely on his frame – offering you a generous peak at milky skin and protruding collarbones.
He’s chattier than usual today, which is a pleasant surprise, even if that only means that he actively asks you questions that don’t relate to your trade, and responds with a couple of full sentences in a row, instead of single words or mere grunts.
You’d like to think he may be at least a little fond of you by now, but you quickly brush off those thoughts as nothing but wishful thinking. He is a royal, after all.
The last rays of evening sunshine were most potent before they disappeared into night time blue, cutting through the windows of your shop like sharp knives and slicing prince Aemond’s face directly, making him irritably scrunch his nose and close his eye.
“Are you well, my prince?” You ask, halfway through your measuring.
He purses his lips and furrows his brow, slowly shaking his head and palms opening up to seek for purchase right before he stumbles down the fitting pedestal – quickly you’re able to steady him by the arms before he could topple to the ground.
“Prince Aemond!?”
He hisses while quickly shucking off his eyepatch, rubbing on that side of his face carefully. “Nerve pain,” he mumbles. “Is there somewhere I can lay down for a moment?”
The shop is also your home, where you have a tiny bed in the back, along with the rest of your belongings. It might be entirely improper to take the prince there to rest, but what other choice do you have?
“Right this way, my prince,” You lead him to your room and help him settle down beneath the ratty blankets of your bed.
“Excuse the intrusion, my lady. The slightest things can cause this pain to flare up. Consequences of having been struck in the way I was, when I lost my eye.” Aemond speaks so softly, as he accommodates on his good side, fluffing up the pillows so that his face would be angled in a way that would relieve the pain.
“I apologize, I’ve ruined your progress.” He laments as he gathers up the sewing needles that fell when he laid down, and places them in your wooden bedside table. You could only shake your head and gently shush him – the prince apologizing to you? You must be dreaming.
And what a dream it is. The sight of him in your bed, all tucked in as a child would, longingly tugs at your heartstrings, making you ache to caress his hair and tuck it behind his ear, or sit by the bedside until the pain dissipates.
But reality cruelly strikes you, and you can only stand there watching, feeling like your heart will shatter into millions of pieces.
“Do not fret, my king. Please, take all the time you need to rest.”
You gnaw at your lip, looking at him as ease settled in his face before reluctantly leaving, going to your kitchenette to fetch him a glass of water, which, by the time you had placed it on the nightstand, Aemond was already fast asleep.
He’s truly gorgeous, all peaceful amidst your pillows, with his lip in a perfect curved line and cheeks all soft – you couldn’t take it. Regardless of the yearning in your heart, you leave once more, trying to remain still with the fact that his strong, masculine aroma would be imprinted in your sheets the next time you settle for bed in the night.
When you return to the front of the shop, you notice the prince’s eyepatch on the ground, and frown as you pick it up, studying it from up close.
The eyepatch is clearly overworn, its edges frayed, which gets you thinking that the spikey bits must graze and poke into his eye socket constantly, making it terribly uncomfortable and borderline painful for him, now that you know how bad his nerve damage is.
Plus, the leather wasn’t of the best quality to begin with. You guess he must’ve assembled it himself with scraps of fabric or it’s but a rudimentary eyepatch that his palace maester’s constructed, with no sense of comfort or even fashion.
The more you toy with the eyepatch in your fingers, the more the gears inside your head start turning, and soon your heart starts beating as the perfect idea for you to show the prince your appreciation, begins to form.
–
Either the Gods had granted you a wish and made your deepest fantasies come true, or this was but one great lucid dream.
After the prince’s incident in your shop, he’d been coming to you more frequently, not just for fittings but to rest.
In your home he’d found a safe harbor in the shadow of his life here in King’s Landing – somewhere he could just be, without expectations or burdensome duties. He’d bring you books, and treats from the Street of Flour, in exchange for a calm evening of tea and conversation that dragged onto the hour of the owl – though it was never enough for you.
When he’d come to you after rigorous training sessions, he’d abashedly ask, “my lady, would I be crossing a line by asking if I could rest here? I’d like to bask in a moment of quiet, away from my brother’s constant bickering.”
You’d promptly agree without a second’s hesitation, quickly refuting his worries about lack of decorum and bringing him a glass of water to your little back room where he would nestle himself under your covers.
A long time had passed, until the morrow of the prince’s nameday arrived.
You knew there was no way he’d come to you today, which saddened you most deeply, but allowed for you to ready the present you had prepared for him.
Suddenly a knock on the door nearly makes you cut yourself with the edge of the wooden box in which the present laid.
Frowning, for you had no appointments today, you cautiously open the door and feel your heart drop to your feet at the sight of your dear prince in front of you, in his usual dark cloak.
“My lord! I did not expect to see you today! Shouldn’t you be preparing for the feast in your honor?”
He smirks and hums, as is Prince’s Aemond’s signature reply, “By all means, I should, but the Red Keep is a disaster right now. I was hoping to at least spend a brief moment of my nameday with company I actually enjoy.”
He raises his eyebrow and stares at you expectantly, for as soon as you register his implication you feel yourself blush so hard, burning so hot as if you’d come down with a fever.
“Of course, my prince, do come in!” You step aside to welcome him in, mentally fussing about how you wished you had cleaned up a little bit for his arrival, or awaited for him with freshly brewed tea and baked goods.
He removes his cloak and smiles as he displays the last leather tunic you’d made for him – unbeknownst to you that he had intended to wear it for this occasion. It hugged his frame so beautifully – from his broad shoulders to a narrow waist, with emeralds encrusted in the clasps that run down the middle of his chest, and a high V-shaped collar that offered a peak of his strong, Adam’s apple.
You need a huge intake of breath in order to speak without stumbling over your words, “It is an honor that you deem me worthy of your company, my lord. On this day, no less. In fact, pardon my gal, but, I actually have a present I meant to give you.”
“Oh?”
You bite your lip nervously, palms sweating as you tentatively go to grab the little engraved wooden box that you’d left on one of your work tables, and come back to stand before him.
“I…” You wanted to reveal the contents of it yourself, but you find that a harder task than normal, paired with looking for words that wouldn’t make you come out foolish in front of the prince. Instead you hand Aemond his gift, and continue to speak.
“I designed this right after that day you felt ill during one of your fittings, my prince. You had dropped the eyepatch you’re wearing now, and when I picked it up, like a good seamstress, I couldn’t help but notice its faults. It’s so rugged, I can’t imagine how uncomfortable it must be, so I made you a new one.”
His eye widens in child-like wonder as he picks up his new eyepatch and turns it over in his hand, with the biggest smile that the prince has ever blessed you with.
Your heart pounds as loudly as a war drum while you continue to describe the piece in detail.
“This one has cotton padding inside that will make it feel soft and cushy against your skin, but the lining and strap are still of a taut yet lavish black fabric, making it both functional and stylish. The edges are all embroidered with very fine silver thread. I did my best trying to do a subtle design of a dragon wing.”
By the time you finish you’re petrified, not knowing what to make of his silence that seems to stretch out far past the harbor of Oldtown.
“My prince?”
“Will you put it on for me?”
You think you might’ve heard wrong, but he gazes at you with a gleaming eye and a fine dusting of pink along his high cheekbones. He takes off his old eyepatch to reveal his sapphire eye, leans down and places his gift into your hands.
With your heart caught in your throat, you take it, gingerly wrap the straps around his head and secure it tight.
When you lean back, prince Aemond remains inches away from your face, allowing you to admire your work up close before he whispers, “How do I look?”
Would he like the long answer, or a shorter one? Because you could fill endless rolls of parchment paper with prose about his ethereal beauty, but again, it is certainly not your place, and you can only settle for, “Very handsome, my prince.”
“Hmmm…” He smirks, before delicately holding the side of your face and guiding you to a brief, yet passionate kiss.
Is the world spinning? Or had time stopped completely? You don’t know. Suddenly everything else dims, except for the sensation of his silky lips moving so sensually against yours.
When you separate, your fingertips immediately touch your lips that feel like they’re tingling with electricity, looking at him as if he had just pulled down the very stars and thrown them in a bouquet to give you.
“Thank you, my lady. This is the most thoughtful gift I’ve ever received. I dread that I must part now, but if you’ll have me, I can perhaps come back later tonight? Like I said, I wish to celebrate my nameday with someone I genuinely like.”
“Please do, Prince Aemond.” You whimper before you could even register your response, making him chuckle, and capturing your lips once more in a slow, soothing kiss.
When he left your shop, it was with a spring in his chest.
For you did not know this – and he might elaborate later tonight – but it thrilled him to no end, each time he came to your shop, to leave with a piece of you on him, to have and to hold at all times.