Aemond hated when his father —the King, had decided that he should marry you that night in Driftmark. Viserys’s senility had reached its peak when he suggested that a marriage between the two of you would be enough to close the rift that had opened within the family when your brother had blinded Aemond. He had nothing but contempt for his half-sister’s bastards.

Every time he looked into your eyes, he remembered the day he had lost his eye and all the mockery he had suffered at the hands of his nephews. Not that you were to blame, but it was you who would have to pay the price.

He made a point of insulting you, his words always full of hatred and contempt. Whenever you were in public, Aemond would put on his famous cold, cruel face and make sure you were as humiliated as possible, but when you were alone, he could be pleasant and even tender when it came to fulfilling his marital obligations, as long as you were an obedient and dutiful wife.

Yet he had no idea how to be a good husband or lover, and had little interest in being one. Even now, in the birthing chamber, where your cries of pain and pleas echoed through the silence of the night. The prince stood there, watching your young body lie on the bed, sweaty and disheveled, your hair tangled and damp. Your face was flushed and your expression clearly distressed as the midwives rushed back and forth, bringing you clean, damp cloths, trying to give you some comfort.

When the next wave of pain broke with the force of a storm and your back arched, he hurriedly approached, receiving a nod from the maester who stood between your legs.

You gripped his hand, digging your nails into his palms. It was the first real gesture of connection you had shared, despite everything.