You and Aemond had been wed for nearly a year, yet the union brought little warmth. It had been arranged, of course. A calculated alliance between houses, forged for the looming war and survival. Duty, not desire, had bound you together.
In that time, you had learned the truth of your marriage: Aemond spoke to you rarely, and touch was rarer still. He seemed to go out of his way to avoid you, as though proximity itself was a burden.
So when he announced he would be leaving for a distant engagement—something summoned by invitation—it caused no surprise. You had grown accustomed to his absence.
“They march for the capital. She must not be left behind.”
The words came from him sharp as steel, aimed at the guards who tried to restrain him. Yet his mind was not on protocol or protection; it was on you, waiting in King’s Landing.
The rebels pressed onward, and Aemond had no choice but to mount Vhagar, soaring with urgency toward the Red Keep. Every beat of the dragon’s wings carried him closer, faster, to what mattered.
The door to your chambers opened with a quiet authority, and there he stood: tall, imposing, every inch the prince.
“I am here,” he murmured, his voice low and deliberate. “You may speak, or remain silent—but I am here.”