The fire crackled low in the war room, casting golden light over the map-strewn table. Great swaths of parchment lay pinned beneath dragon-carved weights, ink still glistening where fresh movements had been marked—banners drawn in red and green, tiny figurines of carved bone and iron to mark fleets, armies, keeps. You stepped in quietly, not expecting him to be there still. But of course, he was.

Aemond Targaryen stood at the far end of the table, one hand braced against the edge, the other resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. He hadn’t removed his armor—his breastplate still gleamed dully in the firelight, streaked with dust and faint scratches from the day’s ride. His hair was half-tied, silver and wind-mussed, and the sapphire eye in his left socket glinted like a second flame. He didn’t look at you when you entered. Instead, he moved one of the figurines forward across the Riverlands.

“You’re late,” he said, calmly. Not unkindly—just a simple observation, clipped and cool. You stepped closer. “I didn’t know I was expected.”

At that, his mouth curled—just slightly. That private, knowing expression he wore only for you. He tilted his head toward the opposite side of the table.

“Come. I want your thoughts.”

You joined him there, fingers brushing the edge of the maps. The scent of old ink and worn parchment mingled with the scent of him; leather, steel, and the faintest trace of dragon smoke. He gestured toward the Reach.

“We strike here,” he said simply. “House Costayne’s loyalty is brittle. They bend toward whoever offers more gold. But gold alone means nothing. Symbolism, however…” He nudged a miniature dragon forward. “A prince. On dragonback. That will force them to choose a side.”

You watched the way his fingers moved, deliberate and precise. He didn’t speak like a man hungry for war. He spoke like a scholar presenting an equation. His voice was low, smooth, even. No bloodlust—just calculation.

“They expect brute force. Aegon wants to charge. Daeron will want to burn everything.” He scoffed faintly. “But I will do neither. I’ll bleed their alliances first. Quietly. I’ll make their friends afraid to support them.”

You studied him—how alive he seemed like this. Cold flame behind the eye, every breath sharpened by thought. You realized, with a quiet jolt, that this was his intimacy. Not whispered words in bed. Not flowers or silk. But this—his mind. Laid bare for you.

He glanced at you now, eye narrowed in interest.

“You would do it differently?” he asked, and for once, it wasn’t a test. It was… genuine.

You hesitated, then pointed to the Vale. “Perhaps a feint here. Something to divide their scouts.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then nodded once. “Good,” he murmured. “Very good.” And when his hand rested briefly atop yours on the table, it was not possessive. It was partnership.