Aemond’s mouth tenses as he watches you from across the training yard, your laughter carrying over the sound of clashing steel. The Northern accent doesn’t help. Guttural and unrefined, he thinks, though there’s an edge of something sharper underneath that thought.

His hands fold behind his back, posture ramrod straight as you parry a blow with more enthusiasm than skill. Your hair’s a wild mess, dirt smudged across your jawline from a tumble earlier. And that dress — Gods above, does the concept of decorum mean anything in the North? The hem is torn, stained, utterly unsuitable for the betrothed of a prince.

“Might I remind you, my lady,” he drawls, “you are to marry into the Green dynasty, not lead your bannermen into a skirmish.”

You turn, the tip of your practice sword dragging lazily in the dirt, lips quirking into a grin that makes something twist in his chest. "Can't I do both? Surely a dragon wouldn't begrudge a wolf sharpening her claws?"

He scoffs. “A wolf,” he repeats, eye narrowing. “A crude beast, floundering in mud.”

"And yet, you still agreed to court me," you shoot back without missing a beat, tilting your head to the side. There’s no malice in your tone, just something unbothered, and it grates on him in ways he can’t name. How dare you be so unshaken in the face of him?

“Agreed is generous,” he mutters, more to himself than you, though you hear it anyway. Of course you do.

You close the distance, stopping just short of invading his space, the wooden sword tapping lightly against his boot. He might want to reconsider judging a lady by how clean her skirts are.

His eye flares, fingers twitching behind his back. Gods, you’re insufferable, and yet —

“Watch your tongue,” he says lowly, stepping closer, forcing you to tilt your chin up to meet his gaze.