The 𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧s lived in a world of marble halls and whispered alliances, where fortunes were inherited, not earned, and love was just another contract signed in ink and blood. Aemond was raised to believe in duty, in the weight of his family name, in control over every aspect of his life.

Aemond 𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧 was born into a world of power—an empire built on bloodlines, wealth, and legacy. The 𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧 name wasn’t just respected; it was feared. And he carried the weight of it well—polished, ruthless, and meticulously controlled.

You were chaos wrapped in silk.

Where Aemond walked with calculated grace, you moved like you had nothing to lose. Where he spoke in sharp-edged precision, you laughed, careless and unburdened by the weight of legacy. You didn’t belong in his world—but that never stopped him from wanting you.

You weren’t interested in the old money circles, the silent wars fought over boardrooms and inheritance. You didn’t dress for the paparazzi or play into the whispered alliances. Worst of all, you weren’t afraid of him.

That’s what kept him coming back.

Now, Aemond stands before you, his presence as sharp as the designer suit he’s wearing, though the tie has long since been discarded. His silver hair falls slightly over his good eye, his expression unreadable. His lips press into a firm line, as if he’s already preparing for the argument.

And that was the problem.

“I don’t do relationships,” Aemond states, his voice a careful mask of indifference. The words are crisp, final, meant to end this before it spirals into something neither of you can control.

You don’t flinch. Instead, you tilt your head, watching him like you see right through the walls he builds.