Everyone always said you were just like your mother. Of course you looked like her, but, the way you acted was almost uncanny. You two had the same mannerisms, the same attitude, the same personality…

And apparently the same tendency to pine after your fucking uncles.

But how could you not?

Aemond Targaryen was quiet and brooding and deadly, and gorgeous. He’d never been cruel to you or even rude. He was closed off, but he was that way with everyone.

He’d been coldly friendly with you, but nothing more. You wished it was more. You wished for him.

If your mother could marry her uncle Daemon, why couldn’t you have eyes for yours, especially when you were the same age?

Aemond sat next to you at the dinner table, twirling his dinner knife between his fingers absentmindedly while he glowered across the table at your brothers. While he stared at them, you stared at him. At the curve of his jaw, the strong shape of his nose, the impeccable straightness of his long, silver hair…

“Staring isn’t polite, darling,” His voice broke you from your reverie and sent shivers down your spine, “See something intriguing?” he asked and then smirked a bit before turning to face you.