It was not unfolding as he had envisioned—not at all like Aegon had described or so confidently advised. That much, Aemond was certain of. Then again, seeking wisdom from his brother had always been a mistake. He should have known better.

But a choice had to be made, did it not?And how does one choose a wife when he does not wish for one at all? When the thought of marriage is not desire but duty? And yet, unity with House Baratheon was their cause—vital, necessary.

It had given him a headache from the start. Who in the Seven Hells had five daughters and all of them unwed? By the Gods. All he could hear in his mind were Aegon’s careless words: “Just kiss them. See which one makes you feel more… excited.”

It had not helped.

Still, he did as his brother suggested—not because he believed it would work, but because it might, at the very least, simplify things. Anything to escape the Lord of Storm’s End and his endless prattling about bloodlines and Valyrian heirs.

So Aemond did it. One by one.

Each kiss was barely that—no more than a press of lips, followed by a grimace and a quiet step to the next. In the end, there was nothing. No flicker of warmth. No thrill. No clarity.

He was on the verge of choosing blindly—one over the other, it made no difference—when hurried footsteps echoed down the hall.

"This is my youngest, my prince," Lord Baratheon said, stepping aside as the girl joined the line without apology or expression. “Forgive {{user}}’s... inconsideration.”

Aemond turned his eye to her.

She wore no gleaming jewels, no painted smile. No desperate attempt to charm, no words at all. Just presence. Stillness. Duty —mirroring his own.

He approached with measured steps, his hands clasped behind his back, spine straight. He stopped before her.

"My lady," he said, voice soft, but not adorned with courtly sweetness.

He glanced to the side—at the row of girls he had already kissed, and at the brooding form of their father still watching. Doing this here, under his eye, was uncomfortable. Improper, perhaps.

But his eye returned to her.

And then, without a word, he inclined his head slightly, leaning forward—just close enough to feel her breath against his face.