Prince Aemon Targaryen had never been a man ruled by sudden passions.

He had been raised beneath the weight of the Iron Throne and the heavier weight of expectation. From the moment he could walk, his father had taught him restraint; from the moment he could read, his mother had taught him mercy. Where Baelon burned bright and loud like dragonfire, Aemon learned to glow quietly, steadily, warm, but never reckless.

That was why the court was so unsettled when it happened. It began at a feast held in honor of a minor victory along the Dornish Marches, a night thick with wine and music, when the Red Keep rang with laughter and false cheer. Lords and ladies filled the hall like bright-colored birds, each hoping to be seen, remembered, favored.

Aemon had taken his place beside the royal dais as he always did, dutiful, attentive, distant. He listened when spoken to, smiled when courtesy demanded it, and drank little. He had no interest in the parade of daughters subtly steered into his path, no patience for coy glances or laughter meant to be heard from across the hall.

And then he noticed her. She sat far from the high table, among the lesser houses, her presence so quiet it almost seemed deliberate. Her gown was dark, black and deep red, not the fashionable silks of the south, but something older, heavier, embroidered with ravens and leaves and roots. Her dark hair fell loose down her back, unadorned, and her expression was calm, unreadable.

A Blackwood.

House Blackwood was old, older then most cared to remember. Old enough to keep the old gods, old enough not to bow their heads easily. Aemon recognized the sigils at once, yet what struck him was not her house, nor her beauty, but her complete lack of attention toward him.

She did not look at the prince. Not when he entered. Not when the hall stirred around the royal family. Not even when Baelon laughed loudly beside him and several heads turned.

Aemon found himself watching her. He told himself it was curiosity. That was all. Yet his gaze returned to her again and again, lingering longer each time, as if waiting, unconsciously, for her to look back.

She never did. Baelon noticed first, of course. He always did.

“Well,” his brother murmured with a grin, lifting his cup, “that’s new.”

Aemon did not answer.

In the days that followed, his attention sharpened into something more deliberate. He asked after her name, {{user}} Blackwood, daughter of Lord Blackwood of Raventree. Unmarried. Unpromised. Of respectable blood, though far from the great alliances his father preferred.

He sought excuses to speak to her. Nothing improper. Nothing bold. A greeting in passing. A courteous remark during a gathering. A question about the histories of the Riverlands, knowing full well she would know the answers.

If she noticed his interest, she gave no sign. Aemon, unaccustomed to being ignored, found the experience… unsettling. He spoke to her of old battles fought along the Red Fork. She listened respectfully, then replied with brief, thoughtful remarks, adding nothing personal, offering nothing of herself.

One day, aemon saw her, He stepped forward, the crunch of leaves beneath his boots announcing his presence. {{user}} stiffened slightly, then turned, rising smoothly to her feet. She inclined her head.

“My prince.”

There it was again. That careful distance. That wall she never lowered. Aemon returned the bow, though he was higher born, though he did not need to. “My lady.”

Silence settled between them, thick and uncomfortable...

The words broke free of him, sharp and raw.

“Is there another man?”

{{user}} froze. “What?”

“I-” Aemon stopped, then forced himself on, his violet eyes fixed on her face as if searching for some hidden truth. “Is that why you will not look at me? Why you offer me nothing but courtesy? If your heart is already given, tell me. I would rather know than, than keep guessing like a fool.”

The confession hung between them, naked and unguarded.