You had never seen a city made of stone before King’s Landing.

The air smelled like smoke and salt, the wind sharp off Blackwater Bay. Your homeland’s forests had gone quiet in the days before the banners came—your father’s men slain, your house sigil ripped from your gown. Now, you stood on dragon-burnt soil, cloaked in silence, your fate sealed by fire.

You were a prize.

Not in name—no one had said the word. But they didn’t need to. You’d been taken when your home fell, not just spared but claimed. By him.

Prince Aemond.

He hadn’t spoken to you when he took your hand and led you to his chambers in the Red Keep. He hadn’t looked at you with anything but calculation, those strange violet eyes scanning your face as though searching for something he hadn’t yet decided to find beautiful or useful. His grip had been firm, almost clinical. Not cruel. But definite.

You were given rooms in the tower—his tower. Not a cell, but not a sanctuary either. Every window was too high to escape, every hallway guarded by men who wore his colors. You were brought books, fruit in golden bowls, dresses in his colours.

At night, the fire in the hearth burned low. You slept on the edge of the bed, still in your old nightdress, listening to the sound of Vhagar’s distant wings.

You didn’t know what he wanted. He hadn’t touched you.

But you knew he would. One day.

He came late, always silent. Sometimes he sat at the edge of the bed and unbuckled his sword, sometimes he simply stood at the window and looked out over the city like a king born too early. He was beautiful the way winter was beautiful—still, cold, and vast.

One night, you heard the door open. No knock. He stepped in—quiet, composed, silver hair gleaming even in the dim torchlight.

You sat up slowly, the furs pooling at your waist. You looked up at him, confused. Guarded. He gave nothing away.

Then, he said softly, “I do not want a frightened wife.”

Wife.

You hadn’t heard him say it out loud until now. You hadn’t even let yourself think of it.