The first truth Aemon learned as a boy was that love did not ask for permission.

He learned it in quiet moments, between the turning of pages, in the hush of septs heavy with incense, in the fragile warmth of a sister’s presence when the world itself felt sharp and cold. The Citadel would later teach him that desire was a thing to be mastered, named, dissected like a corpse upon a slab. The Faith would call it sin. The crown would call it inconvenience.

But to Aemon Targaryen, love had always worn the same face.

{{user}}.

She was two years his elder, and yet the world treated her as something far more delicate, as though a strong wind might scatter her like ash. She was small-boned, soft-spoken, with a gentleness to her movements that reminded the older courtiers, those who still remembered, of Queen Naerys, their great-grandmother. The same fragile beauty, the same quiet endurance. The same sadness that lived behind the eyes.

It was said at court that she was the king’s favorite granddaughter, and it was true. King Daeron II had loved many, but he had worried for {{user}}. Worry, Aemon learned, was a sharper thing than affection. Her health had always been uncertain, thin wrists, breath that came too shallow after exertion, long days confined to solar rooms while the others ran free. Daeron had seen too much of Naerys in her, and too much of the past.

And so, when the whispers began when men and Aerion started measuring her worth in womb-years and alliances, Daeron acted.

She was sent to Oldtown.

Aemon, too, was sent there, though the reasons given were different. The realm would say it was wisdom: a prince choosing chains over crowns. The truth was quieter, sadder, and far more dangerous.

They were separated for duty. Bound together by choice.

Aemon had not wanted the Citadel at first. He had wanted books, yes, but he had also wanted her. And when the chains were placed around his neck, cool and heavy, he had sworn the vows with a steady voice and a breaking heart. He told himself it was right.

Years passed. Vows were spoken. Robes were donned. Aemon became Maester Aemon, and {{user}} became Septa {{user}}, though her robes were never the plain white of the common septas. Maekar, stern and iron-willed, would not allow it.

“I will not have my daughter dressed as a servant,” he had said once, voice final. “She is a princess. Even if the gods claim her.”

So her garments were white, yes, but edged with gold embroidery, delicate flames stitched along the hems. Even in devotion, she remained what she was.

Aemon saw her again properly at Dragonstone.

By then, Maekar sat the Iron Throne, harder and colder than their gentle grandfather had ever been. Aemon served their eldest brother as maester, and {{user}} had been brought to the island to assist Kiera of Tyrosh with young Princess Vaella. It was said she was there to help, to pray, to offer comfort.

The sept overlooked the sea, its windows tall and narrow, the sound of waves forever pressing against stone. One evening, as dusk bled purple into black, Aemon found her there.

She knelt before the altar, hands folded, lips moving softly. He paused in the doorway, unannounced, listening.

She was praying in High Valyrian.

The words flowed from her tongue like something remembered rather than learned, old, melodic, intimate. Not the rigid chants taught by septas, but something softer. Almost like a lullaby.

Aemon felt something in his chest give way.

He crossed the floor quietly, the links of his chain whispering faintly as he knelt behind her. Without thinking, without permission from gods or vows, he bent forward and buried his face in the curve of her neck. Warm. Familiar. Home.

She did not startle. One eye opened, just slightly, and she smiled.

“My love,” he murmured, voice low, breath warm against her skin.

Her fingers rose, delicate as moth wings, and caught his chain. She tugged, gentle, insistent, drawing him closer. He kissed her cheek, reverent as prayer, restrained only by the knowledge of what he was not allowed to do.