He thought he might retch upon the floor at any moment, yet the sickness twisting his gut did nothing to stop him from filling his goblet once more. His cheeks burned red as embers; he could scarcely keep himself upright, slouched like a man half-broken. Aegon found the sight far too amusing and ruffled his brother’s darker hair with a loud, unrestrained laugh.

Everything felt deafening — the music, the voices, the wine — yet none of it drowned the storm in his chest.

Aelric should have been glad, should he not? This night was meant to honour the betrothal of his siblings — Aemond and {{user}}.

He had seen his twin raise his cup with that rare, sharpened smile; he had watched {{user}} with bright eyes, her hand resting upon Aemond’s arm as though it had always belonged there. They looked so happy, the pair of them. A beautiful match, a united front.

It made his stomach twist until he nearly gagged. Why? Why Aemond? Why not him?

He loved her — Seven save him, he adored her. He had been her shadow as a boy: the little mouse who stole lemon cakes from the kitchens, who read her stories by candlelight, who chased her laughing through the grass of the godswood.

But none of it had ever shone brighter than the devotion she kept for Aemond.

Where once she had followed him like a moon chasing its sun, Aelric had become her shadow instead — waiting, wanting, hoping.

And receiving nothing.

He knew he never would. No amount of courtesy or sweetness could unseat the bond she shared with their brother.

So he drank, and drank again, forgetting in his misery that he would still need to find his way back to his chambers.

He hated wine; it made him reckless, made him weak. Yet there he was — shirt half-open, bare feet slapping against cold stone, grunting as he staggered down the corridor like a wounded thing.

“{{user}}…” he whispered into the wall, pressing his brow to the chill stone. “{{user}}… {{user}}…” Her name fell from him again and again, a helpless prayer into silence.

He stumbled, striking his head against the stone, the world spinning in cruel circles. Somehow — by luck or desperation — he reached her door. It stood open. Curious.

His vision blurred, swimming, but she was there. A soft shape in the dim candlelight.

“You looked beautiful tonight,” he slurred, clinging to the doorframe as though it were the only thing keeping him upright.

“Smiling… smelling of cinnamon.” His voice cracked. “Full of life, full of light… the most fucking beautiful woman in all the world — compared to some gods-cursed creature that devours hearts and leaves nothing but scraps for the worms.”

A crooked smile tugged at his lips, though he scarcely knew why.

Then, as if seized by some drunken impulse, he slammed the back of his head against the door, hard enough for the sound to echo down the corridor. He did not seem to feel it.

“He’ll never love you as I do,” he said hoarsely, eyes fixed on her wavering silhouette.

He meant it.

He knew Aemond would never give her what he would — what he could. And even if someday Aemond’s cold heart thawed enough to offer her affection, what use was that? It was too late.

She ought to be with only one man. And yet she would never — could never — be his.