Laughter and the clinking of goblets filled the air, yet Aemond felt an oppressive weight in his chest. He sat a little apart from the festivities,his gaze swept over the gathered lords and ladies until it landed on her—his betrothed, Rhaenyra’s daughter. She possessed the same fiery spirit that flowed through her mother’s veins, paired with the unmistakable grace of a Tаrgaryen, yet all Aemond could see was the reminder of her lineage and his simmering disdain for her resemblance to Harwin Strong.

The whispers of illegitimacy hung in the air like a bitter breeze, and Aemond felt the weight of his family’s expectations settle heavily upon him. The resemblance to Lord Commander of the City Watch was unmistakable, a fact that gnawed at Aemond like a relentless itch. He despised her and her brothers for it; their very existence was a constant reminder of what should have been a rightful claim to the Iron Throne, twisted by the sins of their mother.

Yet here they were, bound by the chains of an arranged marriage meant to unite their fractured house.

As the music swelled, Aemond felt a flicker of annoyance—he had never wanted this union, never desired a connection with these reminders of betrayal. Yet, as if compelled by some unseen force, he approached her, the weight of his disdain cloaked beneath a veneer of courtly decorum.

“A dance, niece,” he commanded, his tone betraying a hint of disdain, though he hid it with practiced indifference. A flicker of confusion crossed your features; how could one who held such contempt for you extend this offer? Yet, it was not an invitation, but a decree—there was no escaping it. As you placed your hand in his, the juxtaposition of his cool touch against your warm skin ignited a flicker of defiance within you.

In that moment, amidst the fabric of pomp and circumstance, the dance became less about revelry and more about the unspoken tension that splayed between you like a taut string ready to snap