It had always been Aemond.

From the time you were children running through the gilded halls of the Red Keep, his sharp, pale gaze had followed you like a shadow. While Aegon sought mischief and Helaena found refuge among her dreamlike wonders, Aemond was the one who lingered at your side—silent, watchful, always there. It had not been a surprise when he began courting you, though the court whispered about it. They found it strange that the cold prince, the one with a gaze sharp as Valyrian steel, would melt so easily for someone.

But you knew better. You knew the warmth buried beneath the armor of his sharp words and unyielding posture.

The flickering firelight danced across his room, painting the stone walls in soft gold. You sat on a stool before the mirror, the quiet crackle of the flames the only sound until Aemond’s fingers brushed the back of your neck.

“Stay still,” he murmured.

You huffed a soft laugh. “I am still. You’re the one tugging like you’re preparing me for battle.”

A faint smirk tugged at his lips—quick, fleeting, but you caught it in the mirror. He stood behind you, long fingers working carefully as he braided your hair. It was a surprisingly tender skill of his, one he claimed he’d learned out of necessity. “I do not trust anyone else to touch you,” he said once, as if it explained everything.