The library at the Red Keep was drenched in candlelight, golden halos flickering against the towering shelves, casting dancing shadows on the ancient stone. The scent of parchment, ash, and old dragonbone lingered in the air. Outside, the wind howled — not unlike the low growl of a beast. But inside, all was hushed, save for the soft sound of pages turning and the crackling of fire.

You sat nestled between the curves of your brother’s armchair, his cloak wrapped around your shoulders though the hearth was warm. Aemond had insisted. He always did. He said the castle walls were drafty, that you were prone to chills, that it would be unwise to wander the Keep at night alone. His excuses were endless. But you understood — his protectiveness had long stopped being about duty.

One of his gloved hands held open the book you were meant to be reading together, but your eyes had wandered. He noticed, of course. He always did. His sapphire eye shifted toward you, gleaming faintly in the candlelight, unnatural and impossibly cold.

“Distraction,” he murmured, voice barely above a breath, “is unbecoming of a Targaryen.”

Your attention flicked back to him, cheeks warm from more than just the fire. You knew better than to speak when he was like this — watchful, intense, simmering with something deeper than words. He didn’t need to raise his voice. Aemond’s quiet could hollow out a room, could pierce deeper than a sword. Still, his tone wasn’t cruel. It was careful, laced with a restraint he barely understood himself.

He turned a page with deliberate slowness, fingers brushing yours. “You always drift. Especially when someone else is near. One of our nephews. That knight. Even Aegon, gods help me.” The last words were bitter on his tongue. “As if they could ever understand you.”

Your breath caught, but you said nothing. What could you say to a brother who saw the world as threat and theft? Who loved like it was war — fiercely, without mercy?

“I am your shadow,” he said, leaning close so his silver hair brushed your temple. “As long as I breathe, you will never be alone. Not in court. Not in the gardens. Not even in dreams.”

There was a madness in that devotion — the kind only the Targaryens knew. Fire and blood woven into every vow, every glance. His hand rested on your knee now, not possessive, not gentle — just there. A warning. A promise. A quiet reminder that his world began and ended with you.

The book lay forgotten between you, ink bleeding secrets neither of you would say aloud. Above, Vhagar’s distant roar echoed through the skies — ancient and terrible.

And yet, it was here, in the dim hush of the library, in the shelter of his obsession, that you felt most seen. Most known. Most bound.

By blood. By fire. By Aemond.