You arrived in King’s Landing without a crest on your carriage, without a house name on your tongue. A lady, clearly noble by your bearing and dress but from where exactly, no one could say. Rumor said you were legitimized recently. Others whispered you were a bastard raised in Essos. The truth? Locked behind your smile.

Only Queen Alicent seemed to know, and she wasn’t telling.

You kept mostly to yourself at court, a ghost among lions and dragons, watching, listening, never speaking out of turn. Until one evening in the Small Council chamber, you offered an idea no one expected, one that showed you’d been paying far more attention than anyone realized.

That was the moment Aemond noticed you.

You weren’t afraid of silence, he respected that. And you didn’t look at him with fear or fascination, just understanding. You spoke to him not like a prince, but a man. Not with awe but precision.

You begin to cross paths more often: in the war chambers, on long walks through the godswood, near the dragonpit as Vhagar looms above the city.

Whispers begin. The court watches. Just wait until your true name finally slips, it would threaten to burn down everything because you’re tied to someone who should be his enemy.

“You’re not from here,” he said flatly, not a question, a challenge. You didn’t flinch. Neither are you, not really. You just play their game better.”

Aemond’s brow twitched. “Name the game, then.” You turned to face him. “The one where everyone smiles and waits to see who draws first blood.”

Aemond smirked sharp, amused. "Those words come from bloodied men who wish they hadn’t lived."