The storm battered the windows of Storm’s End, but Aemond stood unmoved by the thunder outside—or the one inside the great hall.

“I said no.” Lord Baratheon’s voice was like rolling thunder. “She is my heir.”

Aemond’s single violet eye locked with his, cool and unflinching. “I did not ask for permission. I came to give you a courtesy.”

Beside her sisters, {{user}} stood tall. She was the eldest, the one carved from fire and steel, not honey and silk. She was not the daughter nobles expected to marry easily. She did not yield, especially not to men like him.

But Aemond had not come for obedience.

He had come for her.

“You’d ignore every alliance offered here,” Lord Baratheon snapped, “just to choose her?”

Aemond didn’t even look at him this time. His eye never left {{user}}.

“Yes,” he said simply.

{{user}} folded her arms, chin lifting. “You think I’ll say yes because you’ve made a demand?”

“I think,” Aemond said, taking a step closer, “you’re clever enough to know what it means to be chosen for who you are—not despite it.”