You do not marry for love—you marry for duty. You do not take a lover; you take a House, a name, a legacy. Your heart is not required at the altar, only your word. Affection is incidental, if it ever comes at all. And for Aemond and her, it never needed to.

The match had been decided before they ever truly met. Before they had exchanged more than passing glances at court, before their hands had even brushed in the dance of politics. And now she was his woman. For all that was sacred. And all that was not.

But peace was never part of the bargain. His temper was sharp, and hers was sharper. He was a man who feared little and adored even less—but her, oh, he could adore her sometimes. To the world, she was mad, reckless, impossible. To him, she was divine. The most exquisite ruin he had ever seen.

But ruin has its price.

The whispers reached her first. That Aemond had been seen on Silk Street. That he had slipped into a brothel. And that was all it took. Fire met oil. He barely had time to explain, to spit out that he had gone there to drag a drunken Aegon from the depths of his own filth. One word turned into another. Escalating. Until her hand found the dagger at his waist, and before he could stop her—or she could stop herself—she drove it into his flesh.

Aemond had thought, for a single breathless moment, that she had aimed for his heart. But no. The blade struck his shoulder. She had stabbed him.

The Maesters swarmed like vultures, but he barely felt their hands, barely acknowledged the sting of needle and thread. He lay there, breath coming fast, blood thrumming in his veins. And then—the door opened. His eye snapped up.

The guard at the threshold moved to block her path, but Aemond's voice, smooth as a polished blade, cut through the room.

"Do not dare stand in my wife's way."

The command was final. Unshakable. The Maester fumbled with his supplies, still fussing at the wound. Aemond barely spared him a glance before flicking his fingers in dismissal. The wound did not matter. She mattered.