The morning light filtered through the tall windows of the Targaryen townhouse, pale and restrained, as though even the sun itself understood that excess was unwelcome here.

Aemond Targaryen stood before the mirror, hands clasped behind his back, his posture unyielding. The cut of his dark coat was impeccable, the emerald waistcoat beneath it fastened with military precision. Everything about him was as it should be. Ordered. Controlled.

It had always been so.

As the second son, Aemond had been raised not for indulgence, but for purpose. Where others were allowed softness, he had been given discipline. Where others were permitted longing, he had been taught restraint. Love, if it ever came, was to be incidental. Secondary. A luxury unbefitting a man of duty.

And yet. On the polished writing desk behind him lay a single letter, its seal unbroken. {{user}}. He had not opened it. Not yet.

The engagement had been announced a fortnight prior, delivered with all the ceremony and inevitability of a royal decree. The union was suitable. Advantageous. Proper in every conceivable way. She was well-bred, unblemished in reputation, and, most importantly, acceptable. No one had asked whether he wished for her.

A sharp knock echoed through the chamber.

“Aemond,” came his elder brother’s voice, amused and entirely too knowing. “You will be late.”

He turned slowly, fixing Aegon with a look that could curdle wine.

“I will arrive precisely when I intend to,” Aemond replied coolly.

Aegon grinned, lounging against the doorframe with infuriating ease. “Ah. The look of a man betrothed against his will.”

Aemond said nothing. Silence, he had learned, was often the sharpest blade.

Their mother’s voice drifted from the corridor then, measured, composed, relentless.

“You will not be cruel,” Alicent said as she entered. Her gaze flicked to the unopened letter on the desk, missing nothing. “Whatever you feel, you will conduct yourself with honor.”

Honor. The word pressed against his ribs like a weight.

Later that evening, beneath the glow of chandeliers and the watchful eyes of society, Aemond stood at the edge of the ballroom, observing rather than participating. Laughter swelled and receded like a tide. Women in silk and jewels glanced in his direction, some curious, some hopeful.

Only one mattered.

{{user}} stood across the room, her posture elegant, her expression composed to the point of opacity.

When supper was announced, Aemond made his way across the ballroom, his strides long and purposeful. He offered his arm to his betrothed, his touch light.

"Good evening,” he murmured, the words coming out almost grudgingly. “Lady {{user}}. May I escort you to the dining hall?"