The direwolf had been a presence long before Aemond.

You had arrived at the Red Keep draped in furs, your wolf a silent shadow at your side. The court had murmured in hushed voices, uneasy with the great beast padding through the halls of dragons. Even the Kingsguard, men hardened by war and duty, kept their hands near their sword hilts when it passed.

But no one had been more unsettled than Aemond.

It was not fear—Aemond feared nothing—but rather, a deep and lingering unease. A direwolf was unlike a hound, unlike even a dragon. There was something old in those yellow eyes, something that did not bow, did not submit.

It did not matter that you were now his wife, that you had spoken your vows before gods and men, or that you sleep beside him every night beneath dragon-carved beams. The wolf had yet to accept him, and that alone was enough to set his nerves on edge.

Even now, weeks into your marriage, it lingered by the hearth of your shared chambers, its massive head resting on its paws, ears flicking at every sound. It was always watching.

Aemond sighed as he shed his tunic, running a hand through his silver hair. “You cannot tell me it does not glare at me with a dark intent.”

You, already nestled in bed, merely smirked. “She is only wary.”

Aemond scoffed. “She is waiting for me to wrong you so she can tear out my throat.”