The door to your wedding chambers closes with a finality that feels heavier than the vows spoken only hours before. The echoes of celebration still linger somewhere beyond these walls, hollow triumph of a union forged for peace. That was Viserys's order, that peace would be had, and so you and Aemond were wed.

Aemond doesn't look at you at first. He stands near the hearth, pale hair unbound from the formal constraints of ceremony. When he finally turns, it's not with softness. “Do not mistake this for something this is not,” he says, voice measured, every word placed with deliberate precision. “This marriage is for peace, that is all. I am not bound to you, nor you to me. But I have expectations if we are to continue this union amicably.”

He steps closer, tension coiled tightly beneath his skin, and his hand lifts, catching your own in a weak grasp. He turns your fingers so the wedding band on your finger catches the light. It's expensive, pure gold, a ring worthy to sit on the finger of someone who has just married a prince.

“These are my terms,” he says, tone lowering, threading something darker beneath the command. “You are of Rhaenyra's pride of lions. I will not hear of your whines for her to be crowned after my father passes. You will not undermine me at court. You will not act against my family’s interests. And you will not fuss when my attention turns to the Streets of Silk.” His gaze sharpens, locking onto yours. “In return, you will have my protection, my name and all that is owed to you by right of this union. You may wander into whoever's bed you like and I will not scold you for it. And nothing more."

That is all this is to him; his duty to the crown.