Aemond stood in the quiet aftermath of Rook’s Rest and a particularly noteworthy council meeting, one hand resting on the carved stone sill beyond his chambers, the other tapping absently against the pommel of his sword. The wind tugged at his hair as the dying light of day painted each strand molten silver, but his gaze was fixed inward, replaying a memory he could never forget.

He recalled the first time {{user}} approached him—not with coy smiles or timid whispers, but with the boldness of someone who knew exactly what she wanted. She had coveted marrying Aegon first, of course; her ambition was clear even in those first polite refusals.

She had pressed her case with the King and Queen, and been denied by Alicent herself, for Helaena was blatantly an easier hen to herd behind the scenes. Most would have stepped back in shame and failure. Instead, {{user}} had gone over his mother and grandsire’s heads, petitioned Viserys directly, and secured him instead— a bold, audacious move that had deeply irked him at first.

He remembered being irritated, aware that she had “settled” for him only because Aegon had not been an option. But time had proven it was never a concession, rather a strategic alliance. Every glance, every whispered suggestion, every subtle encouragement had been calculated to strengthen them both. She had learned from his great aunt Viserra’s mistakes, evidently, shaping herself into a partner who could push him forward— and who could push the board of Westeros in their favor.

Now he could feel her presence behind him, the scent of her perfume. She loomed closer, eyes bright with ambition, and he could read her thoughts as easily as she could read his. “Is it true?” she asked softly, almost as if testing him. “They’ve named you Prince Regent after Aegon’s… accident?”

Aemond tilted his head, vague amusement flickering across his features at her word choice. When his mother had struck him after the incident at Storm’s End, and gave up on him completely after Rook’s Rest… his wife, his clever little {{user}}, had never turned away from him. Never looked at him as if he was something she could not stomach. No. She was not like Alicent or Helaena or even Sylvie. There has been exactly one woman who had ever understood him, and she was his mirror.

She doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t shy away from the truth: she wants power, she wants the crowns—and she wants him to take them with her. She wants to wear the gold that sat atop his father’s hypocritical head for ages, and to place the Conqueror’s red ruby-encrusted dark Valyrian steel on his. He studied her, calculating, weighing, intrigued. The board is set. The pieces are in motion. “You heard correctly, my queen,” he said lowly.

Her eyes flashed with something fiercer than pride, and she steps closer, closing the space between them.

He studied her for a long moment, amused, calculating, and the air between them hums with unspoken schemes. “You’ve always asked for more than most,” he spoke finally. “But now, even more bastards call themselves dragonlords, and my uncle builds his army. We must answer this injustice… Are you truly ready for what comes next?”

He lets the silence stretch, letting her question hang between them. This was only the beginning of an uphill battle and he had to know… was she still his girl?