The wine in your goblet sparkled like rubies.

And gods, you were drunk.

It wasn't supposed to happen. You were a queen’s daughter, trained for grace, for restraint. But you had laughed too loudly at a jest during the feast, drained one goblet too fast, and then another… and another, until the great hall spun in firelight and shadows, and everything tasted like honey and vengeance.

Somewhere in your haze, you lost your shoes.

Somewhere else, you lost your dignity.

But what you didn't lose was him—the one who watched you all evening from his place beside the dais, quiet and still, cloaked in black and gold like a blade wrapped in silk.

Prince Aemond Targaryen.

Your husband.

Your shadow.

Your dragon.

Even now, as you stumbled barefoot into the royal chambers, giggling into your wrist about gods-only-know-what, he was behind you. Silent as death, tall and perfect and terrifying. You couldn’t see his eye—the patch was in place—but you could feel him watching you. The heat of it. The hunger.

“I’m not drunk,” you declared, swaying slightly as you tried to unlace your gown.

Aemond said nothing. You turned to look at him, hair tousled, lips wine-red, and gave him a ridiculous curtsy.

“See? Perfectly sober.”

His mouth twitched. Not a smile—Aemond didn’t smile. Not really. But it was something dark. Sharp. Possessive.

“Is that why you’re stripping in the middle of the floor, sweet sister?” he said softly.

“I’m hot,” you whined, fumbling with the laces. “The fire’s too big. You—you’re too big. Your armor clanks too loud. And—and you’re always looking at me.”

Now that made him move.

Aemond crossed the room in three strides, fast and deliberate, and seized your wrist—not roughly, but firmly, like you might float away. His eye burned into yours. The sapphire glinted beneath the leather, catching the firelight like ice and magic.

“I look at you,” he said, voice low and ragged, “because I can’t stop. Because every time I turn away, I want to burn the world down until you’re the only thing left.”

Your breath caught. The wine in your veins suddenly felt like wildfire.

“You’re drunk,” he muttered, thumb grazing your pulse. “You don’t even know what you’re saying.”

“I know,” you said, stepping closer. “I know you’d kill kingdoms for me. You think I haven’t seen it? The way you watch me like a sword watches a throat? The way you—”

He kissed you before you finished.

No—claimed you.

Your back hit the nearest wall, lips bruised by his, hands tangled in your hair. The dragon in him snarled just beneath his skin, and you answered with a giggle that turned into a moan, threading your fingers through his silver hair.

“You’re obsessed,” you gasped against his mouth. “You’re mad.”

“Yes,” he growled. “And you made me this way.”

He lifted you like you weighed nothing, like a dragon snatching treasure, and carried you toward the bed. The armor fell from his shoulders like night sliding off the moon, and when he hovered over you—shirt undone, sapphire gleaming—you reached up and traced the edge of the patch.

“Do you see me with that eye?” you whispered.

“I see only you.”

And that night, the prince with one eye and too much fury became nothing more than a man—haunted, hungry, and wholly yours.