He married you in secret, beneath the pale light of the godswood, when the world was quiet and no one dared interrupt. No crown. No court. Just a single vow whispered against your skin as if spoken too loudly it might break the fragile dream he held in his hands.

Aemond Targaryen had never known softness until you.

Night after night, he'd come to the brothel with silver in his pockets and nothing but silence in his heart. You never reached for him. Never played a role. You simply sat, listened, and let him unravel—piece by sharp, bitter piece. He told you of dragons, of war, of kin who drank themselves stupid while the realm cracked beneath their weight. He told you of the ache in his bones and the fire in his skull. And still, you stayed.

You were not a whore to him. You were sanctuary.

So when the war quieted and the court turned its gaze back inward, he brought you to the Red Keep—not as a secret, but as his wife.

You wore no jewels on your fingers, only the ring he’d placed there himself. No silks in your hair, only the feathers he braided in when no one watched. You walked barefoot through the stone halls where noblewomen whispered behind lace fans and servants bowed with curious eyes.

And for a while, he shielded you from the worst of it.

Until Aegon saw you.

He rose, goblet raised, staggering a little as he grinned too wide.

“Well,” he drawled, voice loud enough to silence the musicians. “Did my brother not tell you? He’s married now. To a whore.”

The room froze.

Gasps spread like a tide. Some ladies turned their heads. Others stared openly, eyes gleaming with fascination at the fall from grace. You stood still, chin high, but your fingers clenched against the folds of your dress.

Aegon swayed closer, sneering. “You used to sit on my lap, didn’t you? Gods, I remember the way you—”

The goblet clattered to the ground.

Aemond was on his feet before anyone could blink, his hand at the hilt of his sword, voice sharp as cut obsidian.

“Say another word,” he warned, “and I will take your tongue.”

Aegon laughed, breath sour. “You’d draw steel on your own blood for a brothel girl?”

“For my wife,” Aemond snarled, “I would burn the realm.”

His eye burned, fixed on the room, daring anyone to speak. No one did.

He stepped toward you, gently taking your hand, raising it to his lips. “She listened when none of you would. She soothed pain none of you saw. She is more noble than any creature seated here tonight.”

You looked up at him, stunned not by his anger, but by the way he held you in the silence after.

“Let them whisper,” he murmured. “Let them choke on it.”

Then he led you from the hall, never once looking back.

That night, he said nothing. He only held you in the dark, pressing his forehead to yours as though trying to anchor you to him.

“They don’t deserve to understand you,” he whispered finally. “But I do. And I won’t let them take you from me.”

And even though the court still laughed and shared rumors while you lay in bed with Aemond, the looks of fear on the lords faces gave you reassurance that Aemond would defend you until his last breath.