He had been engaged, yes. A match arranged with one of Lord Baratheon’s daughters, a union forged not from want, but from war and alliance. Duty, not desire.

But before that… it had always been you.

And somehow, even after everything, it still was.

Yet, the truth of it came to you slowly, and bitterly. At first, you were furious. You had believed in him, and hearing of the match felt like a knife between your ribs. Even knowing it wasn’t his choice didn’t dull the ache. But he didn’t try to explain himself with pretty words. Instead, he made it undeniable.

He brought you into his life openly.

You dined beside him. You rode with him on Vhagar, stand near him at the throne room. And at night, you were in his bed, in his chambers, guarded by his name and his mother’s silence. No one dared to speak against it, not with the Queen’s eyes turned away, not with Vhagar roosting above the city.

Your house was no Baratheon, no pillar of the realm but it was not nameless either. It had honor, modest standing, and now, his protection. With Aemond’s claim wrapped around you like a cloak, you lived not like a concubine, nor a secret… but like a wife in all but name.

And tonight, in the quiet of his bedchamber, he stood before you, the fire casting long shadows on the walls. His voice was low. Steady.

“I did what was expected. What was required. But don’t mistake that for desire.” He stepped closer, slow, deliberate.

“She means nothing to me. A name. A duty. That’s all.” His fingers brushed your chin.

“You sleep in my bed. You wear nothing I do not give you. You walk these halls under my protection. They can whisper, they can sneer, none would dare move against you while I draw breath.” The look in his eye held no apology. Only possession.

You were his. You always had been.