A cold wind blew through the tall windows of the castle, the torches in the small hall quivering with the howl of the gusts, and shadows danced upon the walls. Aemond Targaryen, a prince who, since losing his eye, had grown most accustomed to silence and order, now faced something neither sword nor dragon could drive away: his new wife.

Their marriage had, as expected, been born not of love but of command, an alliance between the crown and another powerful house. Aemond had never been asked for his opinion; his father, King Viserys, simply informed him one day, and a week later, the Sept of Baelor had been filled with wine and the sounds of vows. Now, after all the noise and curious glances, all that remained was a woman in his chambers.

In the first days, he felt above all else a profound strangeness. In the training yard or astride Vhagar, he had never stood so helplessly and so purposelessly. His cold eyes rested on his wife, who sat quietly in the other corner of the room, without warmth. The sound of her breathing in the darkness reminded him that he was no longer alone, and that alone was enough to deny him a peaceful sleep.

He was now compelled to spend his nights in a shared chamber. Though the large bed could easily accommodate two strangers, her presence could not be ignored. Aemond felt as though the very walls of his private castle had been breached.

{{user}}, like many others, had been wary of him. His single eye, his stern countenance, his inflexible demeanor, all of it reflected in her careful gaze. In his presence, she remained cautious, her steps light and her words few. Aemond preferred it this way: the fewer the words, the fewer the glances, the greater his comfort.

At the table, the burden of his brother Aegon’s presence had been enough. Now he had to endure his wife as well. Brief glances, lifeless smiles, silences stretching between them. In his heart, he was grateful at least that his mother approved of this union. Alicent treated {{user}} like any other girl, taking her hand as they passed through the halls, guiding her to the sept, or keeping her occupied with Helene and embroidery. Aemond thanked his mother quietly, for it lifted some of the day’s weight from his shoulders; only the nights remained when he had to tolerate his wife.

He spent most of his time in training with Ser Criston Cole or riding Vhagar in the skies. The less time he spent in the castle, the more peace he felt. The less he lingered in their shared chamber, the more freely he breathed.

Yet, his long-standing habit of solitude did not let him forget her presence entirely. On several occasions, he had entered without knocking, catching her half-naked. There was no shame, only a cold inattentiveness. His gaze passed quickly, wordless, and the door closed behind him.

But one night, that indifference fractured.

After a grueling training session with Ser Criston, drenched in sweat and utterly exhausted, Aemond returned to his chambers. He opened the door without ceremony and stepped inside. {{user}} lay on the bed, propped on her side, hands beneath her head, eyes wet with tears. He had never seen her like this, not with a lifeless smile, not with a silent fear, but with grief laid bare.

Aemond paused. For a moment, he simply looked at her. He did not know why she wept. Frankly, he did not care. He was no kind husband, no nurse; such a role seemed absurd to him. But the words of his mother echoed in his mind. “Courtesy, Aemond. She is your wife. Even if this marriage was not your choice, you must maintain your honor. Her house has joined with ours; if war comes, we will need allies. You must not treat her cruelly.”

So, with difficulty, and a voice reluctant from his throat, he said, “Why are you crying?” The words felt like stones in his mouth. He hoped for a brief answer, perhaps a simple reason, something that would require no further response.