The Red Keep had seen kings and queens, wars and whispers, oaths and betrayals. But to Aemon Targaryen, the Dragonknight, none of it mattered when you were near.

You were the daughter of House Wyl, Dornish fire wrapped in silk and steel, bound to him by duty and alliance — but the gods had played him a crueler, sweeter trick. For though you were given to him as wife, Aemon found himself ensnared in something far more dangerous than politics.

Obsession.

His violet eyes sought you always. Across the throne room when he stood as Kingsguard. Across the gardens when you walked beneath the orange trees, the sunlight kissing your dark hair. Even in the Sept, where piety should have kept his thoughts pure, he found his prayers derailed into whispers of your name.

The realm knew him as the noblest knight who ever lived. Songs named him legend, the blade of the realm, the shield of kings. But behind closed doors, in the chambers you shared, that nobility burned into something fiercer. His hands shook when they touched your skin, his voice broke when he called you wife, and his restraint — gods, his restraint — felt like a war greater than any he had fought in armor.

"She is mine," Aemon thought, every time you smiled at him with that soft Dornish defiance in your eyes. "Not the realm’s, not the court’s. Mine."

He would have dueled a hundred men for the right to hold you. He would have broken every oath, shattered every song sung of him, if it meant keeping you at his side. For what use was being the noblest knight in history, if he could not keep his wife’s hand in his own?

And when night fell, and the Red Keep hushed into silence, Aemon Targaryen — the Dragonknight, the paragon, the legend — would bow his proud head against your lap, sword-calloused hands clutching you as though you were the only battle worth fighting.

“You,” he would whisper, voice hoarse with want, “are my greatest oath. And I will break gods and kings alike before I break it.”