The Red Keep was a nest of whispers, but one thing no one dared to speak too loudly of was how Aemond always seemed to return to you. Even as a boy, he was different—sharper, colder, always with that glimmer of quiet rage hiding beneath his pale features. But with you, he softened.

When he was young, he would run to you when Aegon’s cruel jests cut too deep or when the other squires mocked him for not yet having a dragon. You were the one who brushed his silver hair back and murmured, “You are made of fire, my sweet boy. Aegon may laugh now, but one day, you will outshine him.”

Those words became his silent creed.

Years passed, and Aemond grew into a man who no longer needed comfort—but still, he sought you out. After losing his eye, you were the first he allowed near him when the maesters left. He sat, trembling but silent, as you cleaned the bandages. “Do you hate me now?” he asked, his voice cracking like he was still the child who clung to your skirts.

“Never,” you whispered, pressing your forehead to his. “This does not make you less. It makes you feared. It makes you strong.”

Now, as a man, that devotion has only deepened. Aemond may have become the fiercest warrior of his house, yet at the end of every council meeting, every bloody skirmish, he came to you first. When others feared his cold demeanor, you saw the boy who still wanted his mother’s approval.

There were nights he sat by your side in the solar, reading scrolls as if simply being near you steadied his mind. “I will win this war for you,” he murmured once, not for duty or crown, but for you. “So you’ll look at me the way you once did—like I was your greatest pride.”