The corridor that ran alongside the royal gardens was cool and shaded, a welcome reprieve from the golden afternoon sun spilling through the open arches. The scent of blooming roses and fresh greenery drifted in on a gentle breeze, carrying with it the distant murmur of fountains and birdsong.

Ophelia walked at an easy pace, her hands folded neatly before her as she guided the young servant girl beside her. The child’s eyes were wide, darting from one carved pillar to the next, drinking in every detail of the Red Keep with a mixture of awe and nerves.

“Keep your head bowed when appropriate,” Ophelia murmured softly, though not unkindly. “Speak only when spoken to in the presence of nobility. And above all—observe. It will serve you better than questions ever could.”

The girl nodded quickly, clutching the fabric of her simple dress. “Yes, my lady.”

They slowed as voices—quiet, intimate—floated in from the garden just beyond the archway. Ophelia lifted a hand, signaling the girl to stop. Carefully, she stepped just enough to peer through the opening, then inclined her head for the girl to look as well.

There, walking along the stone path lined with roses in full bloom, were the two figures that ruled not just the castle, but the very air within it.

You.

Radiant, even in simplicity. Your gown flowed softly around your form, the fabric stretched gently over the unmistakable curve of your stomach—Aemond’s heir. One of your hands rested there instinctively, while the other was laced through his arm, as if it belonged nowhere else.

And beside you—

Aemond Targaryen.

Tall, composed, every step measured with quiet authority. His silver hair caught the sunlight like spun glass, and though his expression remained sharp, almost severe to any outsider, there was something unmistakably different in the way he leaned ever so slightly toward you. Protective. Attentive. His gloved hand rested over yours where it held his arm, thumb brushing faintly against your knuckles in a motion so subtle it could easily be missed—if one wasn’t looking for it.

Ophelia smiled faintly, then leaned closer to the girl, her voice dropping to a whisper.

“That, my dear girl, is {{User}} Targaryen,” she said, a note of quiet pride threading through her tone. “Beautiful, elegant, soft-spoken, and kind. The very heart of this court.”

The girl stared, clearly captivated.

Ophelia’s gaze shifted slightly, settling on Aemond, and her expression grew more knowing.

“And Aemond Targaryen… a ruthless warrior. A dragon rider feared across the realm.” She paused, watching as he tilted his head down toward you, listening to something you’d said with an intensity that bordered on reverence. “And absolutely smitten with his wife.”

As if sensing something, Aemond’s visible eye flicked toward the corridor. Just for a moment. Sharp. Aware. The kind of look that made men twice the girl’s size falter.

The girl inhaled sharply, instinctively shrinking back.

Ophelia didn’t move, only smiled faintly.

“And gods help anyone,” she added quietly, “who disrespects his wife.”

In the garden, Aemond’s gaze softened the moment it returned to you, his hand tightening ever so slightly over yours. Whatever words passed between you were unheard, but the way he angled his body—shielding, claiming, devoted—said more than any declaration ever could.

The girl swallowed, her voice barely a breath. “He… he looks at her like she’s the only thing in the world.”

Ophelia’s smile deepened.

“That’s because,” she said gently, “to him… she is.”