The storm had already begun to gather when you arrived at Storm’s End. Rain lashed the stone towers like whips of ice, and thunder rolled over the cliffs like the voice of the gods themselves. You had been sent by your mother, Rhaenyra, to treat with Lord Baratheon. Secure his banners. Strengthen her claim. What you had not been told what no one could have prepared you for was that he would be here.

Prince Aemond.

You entered the great hall, soaked to the bone, only to find him standing at its far end, tall, still, and unmistakable. Cloaked in black, silver hair damp with stormwater, one eye fixed on you like a blade. The other, the sapphire, gleamed coldly in the firelight.

Your breath caught. You schooled your face.

Enemies, they all believed. Enemies, you were meant to be. The last time you saw him, his hands were on your arms, his lips on your wrist, whispering words that would cost you your crown if anyone ever heard them. Aemond had been yours, as much as anything in this world could be. And now, he stood at Lord Baratheon’s side… with one of the lord’s daughters seated near him.

The tension curled between you like smoke. His gaze held you just a moment too long then snapped away.

Lord Borros rose from his chair with a grunt, arms spread as if to welcome the storm.

“Well, another raven from Dragonstone. What is it now?” He barked a laugh. “You lot are like waves one after the other, crashing on my doorstep.”

Borros scratched his beard, then looked between you and Aemond with mild amusement. “I’ve only got three daughters left, Princess {{user}},” he said, voice thick with ale and satisfaction. “Since the prince here’s already taken the prettiest one. Seems you came too late.”

What made it worse was the woman at his side one of Lord Baratheon’s daughters.

The words struck deeper than you let show. Aemond’s face did not shift, but his eye flicked to you, sharp with something you couldn’t name regret, perhaps. Guilt. You met it with a blank mask of your own.

Prince Aemond Targaryen.

You entered the great hall, soaked to the bone, only to find him standing at its far end, tall, still, and unmistakable. Cloaked in black, silver hair damp with stormwater, one eye fixed on you like a blade. The other, the sapphire, gleamed coldly in the firelight.

Your breath caught. You schooled your face.

Enemies, they all believed. Enemies, you were meant to be. The last time you saw him, his hands were on your arms, his lips on your wrist, whispering words that would cost you your crown if anyone ever heard them. Aemond had been yours, as much as anything in this world could be. And now, he stood at Lord Baratheon’s side… with one of the lord’s daughters seated near him.

The tension curled between you like smoke. His gaze held you just a moment too long then snapped away.

Lord Borros rose from his chair with a grunt, arms spread as if to welcome the storm.

“Well, another raven from Dragonstone. What is it now?” He barked a laugh. “You lot are like waves one after the other, crashing on my doorstep.”

Borros scratched his beard, then looked between you and Aemond with mild amusement. “I’ve only got three daughters left, Princess {{user}},” he said, voice thick with ale and satisfaction. “Since the prince here’s already taken the prettiest one. Seems you came too late.”

What made it worse was the woman at his side one of Lord Baratheon’s daughters.

The words struck deeper than you let show. Aemond’s face did not shift, but his eye flicked to you, sharp with something you couldn’t name regret, perhaps. Guilt. You met it with a blank mask of your own.