The fire in Aemond’s chambers had long since burned low, throwing the room into a dim amber glow. Outside, the wind howled against the stone walls of the Red Keep, rattling the windows like an omen. But inside, the only sound was the slow scrape of leather against steel as Aemond removed his gloves finger by finger, jaw tight enough to crack bone.
Another council meeting. Another lecture.
“An heir would strengthen your claim, Prince Aemond.”
“The realm must see stability.”
“You and your lady wife have been married long enough.”
As though you were not sitting three feet away while they spoke of your body like breeding stock.
Aemond set the gloves down harder than intended. His sapphire eye gleamed in the firelight while his remaining eye slid toward you where you sat near the hearth, wrapped in a thick grey fur from the North. Stark colors suited you too well—dark hair spilling over your shoulders, hazel eyes reflecting flame instead of fear.
You had been quieter these last few weeks. He noticed it because Aemond noticed everything.
“You have not spoken a word since dinner,” he finally said.
Your fingers tightened around the goblet in your lap. “I had nothing pleasant to say.”
A humorless breath escaped him. “Neither did I.”
Silence stretched again.
Most men would have left it there. Aemond did not.
He crossed the room slowly Even without trying, he was imposing—tall, silver-haired, draped in black leather like a warrior carved from winter itself. Yet his voice lowered when he spoke to you.
“You are troubled.”
You looked away first, which told him enough already.
Aemond’s brow furrowed. “Did my mother say something to you?”
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
His hand moved beneath your chin before you could avoid him, tilting your face upward.
“Do not lie to me.”
Your expression cracked then, not with anger but fear. Genuine fear.
And suddenly he understood.
Aemond went still.
“You think I would accuse our children of bastardy.”
The words sounded almost offended coming from him.
You stood abruptly, pulling away from his touch. “Can you blame me?” Your voice wavered despite your effort to steady it. “I have seen what happens in this family. I watched your mother tear Rhaenyra apart for years because her sons favored Harwin Strong. Brown hair, brown eyes—and suddenly they were monsters in the eyes of the court.”
Your breathing hitched.
“What if our children look like me?”
Aemond said nothing.
That silence only made the anxiety claw harder at your chest.
“What if they have dark hair?” you continued quietly. “Hazel eyes? The council already whispers because I do not look Valyrian enough for them. What happens when the babe does not either?” Your eyes glistened now, hurt slipping through every careful wall you tried to keep standing. “Will they poison you against me too?”
The question struck him harder than any blade ever had.
Aemond stared at you for a long moment before stepping closer again, slower this time, as if approaching a wounded creature.
“You think so little of me?”
“I think very little of this court.”
Fair answer.
His jaw shifted.
He remembered the first moment he saw you—standing in the godswood with snow tangled in your dark hair, looking more like something born of old Northern magic than a lady of the South. You had never feared him.
You loved him before Vhagar, before power, before fear made men bow their heads.
Aemond reached for your hand, large fingers swallowing yours whole.
“When we have children,” he said quietly, “they will be mine because they are yours.”
“I do not care if they come out with silver hair or dark hair. They could have your eyes, your stubborn Northern scowl, even your miserable talent for arguing with me.” The corner of his mouth twitched faintly. “They will still be my blood.”
Emotion flickered across your face so fast it almost hurt to witness.
Aemond stepped closer until his forehead rested against yours.
“And if anyone questions that,” he murmured, voice turning cold as winter steel, “I will feed them to Vhagar myself.”