The first time Aemond Targaryen walked through the doors of the brothel, silence fell like a blade.

He was a prince—Death in silver and black, one eye cold as ice, the other a sapphire burning in his skull. No one dared speak to him unless spoken to first. No one touched him unless told. But he didn’t come for flesh. He didn’t come for power, for dominance, or for lust.

He came for you.

You were not like the others. You didn’t paint your face in bold colors or laugh with false delight. You sat in the far corner of the room, listening more than speaking, your gaze distant even when men called your name. Your beauty was quiet—earthbound. Tired, but unbroken.

He paid, and you led him to the room upstairs. But he didn’t touch you. He only asked you to sit.

“Just stay,” he’d said, removing his sword and leaning it against the wall. “That’s all.”

It became routine. He’d arrive in the late hours, cloak damp with night rain, jaw tight with whatever burden the day had thrown at him. You’d light a single candle. He’d speak. And you’d listen. You always listened.

“I see traitors at every table,” he muttered once, sitting on the edge of the bed, fingers clenched. “Even in my own blood. I hate what I’ve become.”

Your silence never judged. He hated how much he needed it.

He learned you didn’t want to be there—that your father had sold you off to cover debts, that no coin of yours ever made it home. He learned that you longed for a different life, not one of silks and wine, but of freedom. He never said it aloud, but he swore that one day he’d give you that.

The nights he couldn’t come were bitter. The nights he did were never long enough.

One evening, he arrived early. The madam met him at the door, wringing her hands.

“She’s gone.”

His blood ran cold.

“Her father took her back. Sold her to a merchant from Oldtown. There was nothing we could do.”

There were few times Aemond’s rage was silent. This was one of them. His eye flared, and the air around him seemed to burn cold. He turned without another word, mounted Vhagar, and rode into the sky like vengeance incarnate.

He found the wedding feast on the merchant’s estate two nights later. It was modest, attended by traders and old men—none fit to guard a jewel like you. Aemond descended with smoke and wings, blade in hand, voice booming over the stunned guests.

“She is not yours to give,” he declared, staring down your stunned father. “She never was.”

The duel was not long. The merchant was no knight. Aemond did not kill him—just shattered his pride and his wrist, casting him to the floor like spilled wine. Then he turned to you.

You stood at the edge of the garden, hands trembling but head high, eyes meeting his without shame or fear.

“You told me once you wanted to be free,” he said. “Come with me. I will not ask again.”

The stars overhead were silent. The fire still flickered in his eye. But he waited for your response with bated breath.