The feast was meant to be a celebration—a show of unity and strength beneath the Green banner. The great hall of the Red Keep had been transformed for the occasion: long velvet banners in deep emerald and gold hung from the stone arches like regal serpents, catching firelight as it flickered across iron sconces. The musicians played with fervor near the far wall—harps, flutes, and drums weaving together in a stately, warlike rhythm. Laughter rang from every corner, goblets clinked, and courtiers pressed close to share whispers sharp as daggers.

You moved through it all with practiced grace, a smile poised at the corner of your lips. As the wife of Prince Aemond Targaryen, no one dared speak out of turn in your presence. Even the bolder noblemen—heirs in dark brocade and silvered rings—offered their greetings with respectful restraint. It was rare to hold a man’s gaze without it becoming a threat. Rarer still to be spoken to as an equal, without needing to remind anyone whose name you bore.

For a brief time, the evening felt almost… pleasant.

That was, until the air changed.

You didn’t hear his footsteps. Aemond Targaryen did not stalk—he arrived, sudden and silent, as if drawn by instinct alone. His fingers wrapped around your wrist with a grip that felt more like iron than flesh, and you startled, your breath catching as he pulled you sharply toward him. No words. Not here. His face gave nothing away—one violet eye cold as moonlight, the other a sapphire shard burning in his scarred socket, glinting like something ancient and wrathful.

He said nothing as he led you—no, dragged you—through the hall, past the courtiers who dared not intervene. Down a narrow stone corridor behind a green-stitched curtain. The music dimmed. The scent of wine and roasted boar gave way to cold stone and torch smoke. One of the old drawing chambers—unused, quiet, forgotten. Until now. The door slammed behind you.

You barely had time to speak before he shoved you back against the wall, not roughly enough to bruise—but not gently, either. His hand gripped your jaw, forcing your head to tilt up toward him, his thumb brushing the edge of your cheek, too tight to be tender. You could feel the tension rippling through him—not rage unleashed, but contained, like a coiled serpent forced into stillness. His voice, when it came, was low and clipped. Dangerous in its quietness.

“You find them amusing?” Each word deliberate. Surgical. “You like the way they look at you?”

His eye searched yours—not for an answer, but for guilt. For proof. For the smallest sign that you enjoyed being seen. His breath was steady, but his jaw ticked—a single twitch betraying the storm beneath his skin. He didn’t shout. He didn’t need to.

You opened your mouth, heart pounding, confusion and indignation mingling on your tongue—but he was faster.

“Don’t defend it.” A pause, long enough for his grip to tighten, sapphire eye gleaming like a god’s judgment. “Remember who you belong to. I will not suffer the sight of you laughing with another man. Not again.”