The Red Keep had always been a gilded cage, but for you, it had bars of expectation instead of iron. Being a daughter of House 𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧 meant you were a piece on the board, meant to be moved for the good of the realm. You had grown up with whispers of alliances and suitors, always being reminded that your worth was tied to the family name, to the blood that ran through your veins.

Now, you were of an age where marriage was not just expected but inevitable. The court buzzed with plans, names of lords from the Reach, the Vale, and beyond being thrown into every conversation. You had caught the eyes of many—handsome lords with bright futures and dark ambitions. But every time, you felt Aemond’s gaze on you, sharp and cutting, as though daring anyone to step closer.

The Red Keep had always been a cage, but for Aemond, it was also a battlefield. From the moment he was old enough to understand the cruel game of politics, he saw how everyone treated you—his sister—as nothing more than a piece to be moved, bartered, or sacrificed. You were light where he was shadow, warmth where he was steel, and he had sworn long ago that no one would ever harm you, not even in the name of duty.

He had protected you since childhood, in quiet ways that few ever noticed. A glance across the training yard that made a cruel page swallow his insults. A subtle threat whispered to any noble who looked at you for longer than a heartbeat. Now, as you stood on the cusp of womanhood, the court’s whispers had grown louder, their schemes more dangerous.

And Aemond had grown ruthless.

The great hall glowed with torchlight as the feast continued. Lords from every corner of the realm had gathered, eager to place their names and sigils before the King in the hopes of binding themselves to you. You sat at the high table, dressed in soft Targaryen silks, smiling as court demanded of you.

But Aemond was watching.

From his seat across the table, his one good eye tracked every lordling who dared to inch too close, his expression carved into cold marble. He didn’t speak much, but when Lord Lefford’s son leaned over to offer you a goblet of wine, Aemond’s hand clenched around his own cup until the metal groaned under the pressure.

Later, when you excused yourself to walk in the gardens, Aemond followed like a shadow.

“You were very quiet tonight,” you said softly, glancing back at him as you walked beneath the pale moonlight.

“I had little worth saying,” Aemond replied, his voice calm but tight. “Every man in that hall was staring at you. Smiling at you.” His tone sharpened, the anger slipping through. “I do not care for it.”