The new academic year had begun in a storm of youth and excess. Across campus, laughter spilled into the cold night air. Music pulsed through dorm walls. Students flooded the courtyards and rooftops, drunk on freedom, success, and the sweet, reckless promise of another year. But not you.

You had never belonged to that chaos. You belonged to quiet.To warmth. To something far more precious.

To Aemon Targaryen. Your Aemon. Your calm. Your certainty.

While the rest of the university drowned itself in noise and indulgence, you and him built something gentle and enduring in the stillness between lectures and long nights of study.A life.A future. A promise already half-kept.

Your dorm room was not like the others. It did not echo with strangers’ laughter or smell of spilled alcohol. It was soft. Ordered. Alive with quiet intimacy.

Your vanity neatly arranged with perfumes and jewelry he had gifted you—delicate earrings, a thin necklace resting like a whisper of gold against your skin, bracelets that chimed softly when you moved. Your shoes rested beside his at the door. Your soft cotton slippers with their faint shimmer beside his darker ones.

Two lives, interwoven. Two souls already learning the rhythm of forever. Photographs of you together smiled from the walls.

The bed carried the faint imprint of shared nights—warm, familiar, yours. Everything about that room spoke of devotion. Of safety.

Of love untouched by the ugliness of the world outside.

And that was exactly why he had never introduced you to his brothers. Especially not to Daeron Targaryen. Because Aemon knew. He knew the way his brothers looked at the world.

The way they took from it. The way their presence alone could unsettle something delicate. And you—

You were delicate in the way rare things are. Not weak. But precious. Worth protecting.

That night, Aemon had left only briefly. “The fridge is empty,” he had said, brushing a kiss to your temple. “Stay here. Your hair is still wet—you’ll catch a cold.”

You had smiled softly. “I’ll be fine.” But he shook his head. “No. Stay. I’ll be quick.” And you listened. Because you always did.

Steam filled the bathroom as you lingered in the warmth of your routine, the scent of soap and soft fragrances wrapping around you like a second skin. You were safe. Alone. Unaware.

Across campus, the night burned brighter. Music louder. Drinks stronger.

And somewhere in that chaos, Daeron laughed with a glass in his hand, his world spinning in a blur of light and intoxication.

But even his indulgence had limits. He could not climb four flights of stairs. Could not drive. Could not endure the distance to his own space.

So he did the only thing that felt easy. He searched the family group. Found the number. And made his way to his younger brother’s dorm.

The door opened without resistance. Unlocked. Welcoming. Trusting. Daeron stepped inside.

Shirtless now, his discarded one long forgotten after being soaked in alcohol and sweat, his chest rising slowly with each breath as his senses adjusted to the sudden quiet.

And he stopped.

The room was… Soft. Clean. Alive with a presence that was not his brother’s.

His eyes moved slowly. Taking in every detail. The bed. The fabrics.

The faint scent in the air. Something warm. Something feminine. Something intimate. He frowned slightly. Aemon had a girlfriend. He remembered that much.

But he had never cared enough to meet her. Never bothered to ask. Never needed to know. Until now.

His steps were slower now. Measured. Curious. He approached the bed. His brother’s side was obvious. Simple. Orderly.

But the other side— Soft maroon sheets. Black embroidery. Ruffles like quiet secrets stitched into fabric.

And on top of it— Clothes. Small. Delicate. Carelessly left behind.

Daeron sat down. The mattress dipped beneath his weight. And for a moment, he simply stared. Then his hand moved. Slowly. Almost absentmindedly. He picked up one of the garments. Soft. Light. He turned it in his hands. The fabric slipping between his fingers like something alive. His expression shifted.