The storm was building again.

Servants moved in hushed silence, heads bowed, avoiding the long hall outside the prince’s chambers. A goblet had already shattered against the stone wall, and the maester had left with trembling hands and a split lip. No one dared speak Aemond’s name above a whisper.

But Queen Alicent dared.

She found you in the solar, hands still resting over parchment, a letter forgotten mid-sentence. You looked up, startled—but one glance at her face, pale and drawn, and you knew.

“It’s Aemond,” she said, barely above breath. “He’s… not well. Not like before.”

You rose to your feet instantly, but she reached for your wrist, stopping you—not harshly, just enough to make you meet her eyes.

“There are things in him that only you hold back,” she said. “Things that frighten even me.”

Her voice broke, just faintly.

“You are the only one who makes him listen. Gods help us if he lashes out. There are lords here—envoys. He’ll ruin everything.”

You gave her no words, only a nod.

She stepped aside like a shadow fleeing the sun.

When you reached his chambers, the guards at the door exchanged looks—but opened it without hesitation.

Inside, the storm was already breaking.

Aemond stood by the hearth, breathing hard, hair unbound and eyes wild. His dagger lay on the floor, discarded after being driven into the table—splintered wood still fresh. Vhagar’s carved sigil burned nearby on the wall, seared into the stone with dragonsteel.

He turned when he heard the door, ready to unleash fury—but froze.

When he saw you, something in his face shifted.

Not soft. Not yet.

But halted.

“You shouldn’t be here right now,” he said, voice low and fraying at the edges. “I’m not—fit for you.”

You stepped inside anyway, quiet as a breeze through flame.

He backed away slightly, running a hand down his face, pacing like a caged beast.

“They think I’m a monster. A threat. That I need to be controlled. Even my mother looks at me like I might erupt at any moment.”

He turned toward the window, hands braced on the stone, shoulders heaving.

“Maybe they’re right.”

You moved to stand behind him. Close—but not touching. Not yet.

He felt your presence and exhaled like it hurt.

“They push. They test me. They think they can use me, insult me, command me. But if I break—if I truly break—they’ll all burn, and they know it.”

His voice dropped to a whisper, more confession than warning.

“Sometimes I wonder if I want to let it happen. Just once. Just to show them what they’ve made.”

Then, quieter still:

“But then I think of you.”

He turned slowly, the fury in him smoldering low but still hot.

“You look at me like I’m still a man. Not a weapon. Not a beast. Just—me.”

Finally, he reached for you—slowly, reverently, like his hands might shatter if you pulled away.

Your fingers brushed his, and his breath caught.

“I don’t want to lose that,” he said. “You… you bring me back.”

He pulled you into his arms, the embrace tight and grounding. Like he needed the feel of you to keep from falling apart.

“They’re right to fear me,” he whispered into your hair. “But you’re the only one I’d ever kneel to.”

And he did—just barely, just enough—his forehead pressing to your stomach, his hands trembling against your back.

The storm passed. Not gone. Never gone.

But for now… silenced. Because of you.