Aemond watched them sleep.

The candle had guttered long ago, but moonlight found them anyway, draping silver across bare skin, across lashes still wet from what they’d refused to call tears. His fingers twitched at the sight. He wanted to touch them again—drag the curve of his hand down their spine, press the bruises he’d left and whisper that he hadn’t meant it.

But I always mean it, he thought, bitter.

He told himself it was love. What else could it be ? The fire in his blood didn’t cool for anyone else. They got under his skin like no one ever dared. They spoke back, challenged him, mocked him even—when they weren’t clawing at his back, begging. And when they looked at him, really looked at him—not the prince, not the rider of Vhagar, not the one-eyed monster—but him, Aemond… it made him feel alive. And that was dangerous.

He sat at the bed, fingers curled in his lap. He should go. Let them rest. Let himself rest. But something in his chest stayed coiled. Coiled and jealous and unwilling.

They’d said it tonight, just before turning away from him.

“You don’t love me. You just hate the thought of anyone else having me.”

And maybe that was true. Maybe it wasn’t. He’d snarled at them for the words, dug in with a crueller tongue until they flinched. But the truth was, he didn’t know how to love any other way. He’d grown up with scorn, with whispers behind hands, with Mother’s guilty coldness and Aegon’s laughter ringing hollow. Vhagar was the only thing that had ever been fully his.

Until them.

And even now, even with their breath slow and soft in sleep, he didn’t trust it. He didn’t trust them. Not with their soft voice and gentler heart, not with the way they could walk into a room and make him feel something other than rage. That sort of thing turned to weakness, and weakness burned.

They make me better. They make me worse. He didn’t know which one he wanted more.

He shifted. Moved closer. Leaned over them like a shadow.

“I would kill for you,” he whispered to their ear, not quite touching. “But don’t ever think that means you can leave me.”

They stirred. Not awake, not yet.

Aemond stared for a moment longer before brushing a strand of hair from their cheek with a thumb far too tender for the way his heart ached.