The Red Keep smelled of stone and salt and dragonfire—old power layered over newer blood. You could feel it beneath your boots as you were escorted through the corridors, spine straight, chin lifted. You wore Stark colors, heavy furs despite the southern heat, a silent reminder that winter was not something to be softened.

Nightgaze padded at your side, massive paws soundless against the floor. The direwolf’s dark coat gleamed like shadow given form, pale eyes alert and unafraid. Courtiers shrank back instinctively. You did not slow.

They brought you to the solar overlooking Blackwater Bay, sunlight spilling through tall windows. And there he stood.

Aemond Targaryen turned as you entered.

He was taller than you’d expected, all sharp lines and controlled stillness, dressed in black and deep green. Silver hair fell straight down his back, catching the light like drawn steel. And there—unhidden, unapologetic—was the sapphire set where his left eye should have been, gleaming cold and bright.

Many would have faltered. Many had.

You didn’t.

Your gaze met his, steady and level, taking in the whole of him without pause or pity. If anything, your eyes softened—not with weakness, but understanding. Your mother’s voice echoed quietly in your memory, the lesson spoken long ago beside a winter hearth: Beauty is not what the world stares at. It is what endures when staring no longer matters.

Aemond noticed.

He noticed everything.

For the briefest moment, something unreadable flickered across his face—surprise, perhaps, or curiosity sharpened by something deeper. He had learned to expect revulsion, fascination, fear. Indifference was rarer. Acceptance rarer still.

Nightgaze stepped forward, placing himself subtly between you and the Targaryen prince, a low rumble in his chest—not a threat, but a warning. You rested a gloved hand on the direwolf’s neck, fingers threading into thick fur.

“He won’t bite,” you said calmly. “Unless I ask him to.”

Aemond’s visible eye dropped briefly to the wolf, then back to you. Instead of recoiling, his mouth curved—just slightly.

“I would expect nothing less from a Stark,” he replied. His voice was smooth, edged with iron. “You brought the North with you.”

“I was told this was to be a union,” you said. “Not a surrender.”

Silence stretched, heavy but not hostile.

Then Aemond inclined his head—just enough to be respectful.

“Then perhaps,” he said, stepping closer, unafraid of teeth or shadow, “we will understand one another better than either of our fathers intended.”

Outside, a dragon cried. Nightgaze’s ears flicked. And something ancient, cautious, and powerful began to stir between ice and fire.