jacaerys was everything aemond was not.

where he was warm, aemond was carved from ice and tempered in fire. he had inherited the reckless charm of old valyria, and people, for some reason, adored him for it. he was the heir to the woman aemond loathed most, and yet, by targaryenn tradition, by birthright, it was his hand you had been promised to. first-born son to first-born daughter. he knew it was inevitable. jacaerys had been given everything aemond craved—an unscarred face, the love of a mother. and soon, he would have you.

aemond watched in silence from the shadows of the courtyard, the torchlight flickering against the carved stone, casting long, shifting shapes across your figure. you stood by the fountain, fingers trailing idly through the water, lost in some quiet thought. the wind stirred your hair, the silver strands glinting under the moonlight, and even in the dim glow, he could see the deep reds and blacks woven into your gown. targaryenn colors. yours. for now.

he should not be here. he should not still want.

but how could he not, when once—before duty—you had been his?

you had sought him out before you ever sought jacaerys, before you understood what it meant to belong to someone in the way you soon would. your hands had once traced the jagged scar that marred his face, fingers brushing the ruined skin with something he had almost mistaken for tenderness. he had let you closer than anyone, let your lips ghost over his eyelid while his touched your jaw, the hollow of your throat. you had whispered his name in the dark like it was something sacred. it had undone him.

still, old habits lingered. he could see it in the way you paused, as if you feel his gaze.

so, he stepped forward, boots clicking softly against the stone. you turned at the sound, and for a moment, neither of you spoke.

then, with a slow tilt of his head, he spoke.

“i’ve been thinking, niece,” he said, casual only you knew it was not. “it’s strange… how something can feel so far away and yet still be right in front of me.”