The Great Hall of the Red Keep glowed beneath hundreds of candles, their light gleaming off polished stone and the banners of House Targaryen that draped the walls. Music drifted through the air—lively, indulgent—fitting for a name day feast thrown by the king himself. Lords and ladies from every corner of the realm filled the space, silks brushing against velvet, laughter rising and falling like waves.

You stood among a small cluster of noblewomen near one of the marble columns, a goblet cradled loosely in your hand. Their conversation was light—court gossip, shared amusement at some foolish knight who had already drunk too much. You laughed, genuine and unguarded, and for a moment she looked less like a political prize and more like a young woman enjoying the rare freedom of the evening.

Across the hall, Aemond Targaryen noticed immediately.

He had been speaking with a lord from the Reach, posture rigid, expression carved from stone. His single eye tracked the room out of habit—threats, slights, anything out of place. And then he saw you. Laughing. Surrounded. Unclaimed, at least in appearance.

His eyes softened till he saw Lord Clement.

Lord Clement Celtigar had noticed her too.

With the easy confidence of a man who had never learned restraint, Celtigar excused himself from his companions and drifted toward the group of ladies. He leaned one shoulder against the wall beside you, close enough to intrude, far too familiar. His gaze flicked over your jewelry, your expression, lingering just a beat too long.

“So,” Clement drawled, lips curling with amusement, “where’s your scary fiancé tonight?”

You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed, your smile cooling just enough to sharpen. “Probably off doing scary fiancé things.”

The ladies around you chuckled softly.

Behind them, Aemond had already moved.

You felt him before you saw him—his presence unmistakable. Strong arms wrapped around your waist from behind, firm but controlled, as if daring anyone to object. His chin settled on your shoulder with deliberate ease, the black leather of his gloves contrasting against the fabric of your gown.

You leaned back into him without hesitation.

Aemond’s visible eye never left Celtigar.

“Right here,” he said calmly, his voice low and precise, carrying just enough to cut through the surrounding noise. There was no anger in it. That made it worse.

Celtigar stiffened, a nervous laugh escaping him as he straightened. “Prince Aemond. I didn’t see you there.”

“That,” Aemond replied coolly, tightening his hold by the smallest degree, “seems to be a recurring problem.”

The music swelled. Candlelight flickered. And in the heart of the feast, the balance of the room shifted—everyone suddenly aware of exactly who stood claimed, and by whom.