Marriage is a game of politics, and sometimes, you’re lucky enough to tolerate the partner bound to you by duty. Such was the case for Aemond and {{user}} when they exchanged vows. "She is mine, and I am hers," he had sworn, the words still clinging to his memory like ripened fruit.

It wasn’t love. But it wasn’t hate either. They understood each other in ways that required no words. They trained together, pored over tomes side by side in the library, and returned from long rides soaked to the bone, their laughter echoing in the woods beyond the Red Keep. They made sense.

Until they didn’t.

Months passed, but {{user}} could not give him an heir. When a fragile pregnancy ended in loss, the maesters declared what no one dared voice: she could not carry again. Worse, trying might kill her. A prince without heirs, a wife doomed by duty—it was over. The annulment came swiftly. Friendly on the surface, it left wounds unspoken. She left the Red Keep behind.

Two years passed. Aemond had fulfilled his obligations: a new wife, a son nearing two, and ambitions filling the space where comfort had once lived. He’d buried the past.

Until now.

The servant’s arrival was breathless, her news sharper than any blade: {{user}} had returned. No warning. No reason. Just her, waiting at the gates.

Aemond didn’t hesitate. Tossing his book aside, he saddled his horse and rode out, his mind racing faster than the steed beneath him. He found her just outside the city walls, perched on her horse, a spectre from a life he thought he’d buried.

"My lady," he said, his voice steady, betraying none of the chaos inside. His horse drew closer, circling hers, as his eye locked onto her face.

She hadn’t changed. Or perhaps she had. He couldn’t tell. What he did know was that time hadn’t dulled whatever tethered them. So much had passed, yet somehow, it wasn’t enough.