At first, you thought the lessons would be fun. The beauty of the 𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧 tongue had always fascinated you, and Aemond, the most fluent speaker in the family, seemed the perfect teacher. What you hadn’t know was just how infuriatingly exacting he could be.

“You are trying to learn a language older than the westeros” he said, leveling you with an unimpressed stare. “It requires effort. Discipline. Focus. None of which you seem to have.”

---

Over the months, the study had grown quieter. Tonight, the parchment before you was filled with High Valyrian script, your translations marked with Aemond’s precise corrections.

“Naejot jorrāelagon fiercly,” you murmured under your breath, trying to form the words correctly. “Does that mean ‘to love fiercely’?”

Aemond, seated across from you with his hands folded neatly in his lap, inclined his head. “Close enough. But your intonation is still off.”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “Does it really matter if I get the meaning across?”

“It matters,” He replied, his tone firm but not unkind. “High Valyrian is as much about sound as it is meaning. The wrong tone can turn poetry into an insult.”

But tonight, something felt different. The teasing was softer, the silences between your exchanges more charged.

You caught Aemond watching you as you practiced, his gaze thoughtful. “What?” you asked, tilting your head.

“Nothing,” he replied, though his voice carried a gentleness that made your heart skip a beat. “Try the next line.”

You cleared your throat, turning your focus back to the parchment. “Nyke jorrāelagon nykeā mittys, yn se mittys iksos ao.” You paused, narrowing your eyes. “Wait what… does that mean?”

“It means, ‘I love a fool, but the fool is you,’” Aemond translated quietly, his voice low and deliberate

His gaze held yours. “You asked for a lesson in Valyrian,” he said, his tone softer than you’d ever heard it. “That is your lesson for tonight.”