The great hall of the Red Keep burned with light and noise, torches blazing against red stone while banners snapped softly in the heat. Music swelled and laughter rolled like distant thunder as lords and ladies from every corner of the realm gathered to honor the king’s name day. Gold and silk shimmered everywhere, goblets raised, alliances whispered into being between smiles.

You stood among a cluster of noblewomen near the edge of the hall, laughter bright on your lips as you listened to some half-amusing tale. Your gown caught the firelight when you moved, and more than one set of eyes followed you without shame.

Including Lord Clement Celtigar’s.

He lingered a little too long, pretending interest in the musicians while his gaze drifted back to you again and again. Each time you laughed, his mouth curved into something pleased. Each time you turned, he leaned subtly closer.

Across the hall, Aemond Targaryen noticed.

He had noticed the moment Celtigar’s attention fixed, sharp as a drawn blade. His visible eye narrowed slightly as he took a slow sip of wine, posture relaxed in a way that fooled no one who knew him well. The prince did not rush. He did not scowl. He waited—then moved.

Aemond crossed the hall with measured steps, boots echoing softly against stone. Conversations seemed to dim as he passed, the air tightening around him. When he reached Celtigar, he did not announce himself. He simply slid into place beside the lord, close enough that their shoulders brushed, and hooked an arm around Celtigar’s as though they were the dearest of friends.

His goblet rested easy in his hand.

“You see my girl?” Aemond said calmly, gaze fixed forward. His voice was smooth, almost conversational. “Very pretty. Very off limits. Very mine.”

Celtigar stiffened, surprise flickering across his face before he forced a laugh that rang hollow. “Prince Aemond, I meant no—”

Aemond turned his head then, silver hair shifting, his single eye finally settling on the lord with quiet, terrifying focus. The smile he wore did not reach it.

“Of course you didn’t,” he replied softly. “Men rarely mean things. They simply forget where the line is.”

He lifted his goblet in a mock toast, tightening his arm just enough to make the point clear. Across the hall, you glanced over at the movement, your smile faltering when you caught sight of Aemond. His expression changed instantly then—sharp edge dulled, attention anchoring to you as if the rest of the room no longer mattered.