The Red Keep at night was a different kingdom altogether. Its marble corridors breathed secrets, the wine-slick air heavy with laughter from distant halls. But Aemond Targaryen had abandoned those halls hours ago. He preferred the quiet—preferred you.

You sat on the balcony of your chambers, the Stormlands’ chill clinging faintly to your skin even here in the capital. A lamp burned low beside you, its glow gilding your curls in amber fire. You leaned over ledgers, lips pursed in that sharp little way you always did when numbers tangled. Even now, even with a realm’s war debts still unsettled, you worked with the quiet efficiency of someone born to reckon balance sheets.

Aemond leaned against the archway, arms crossed, watching you. The smirk tugging his lips was deliberate, a mask—but the ache in his chest at the sight of you was not.

Gods, look at her. So intent, so maddeningly serious. A betrothed fit for a king, and yet she’s mine. Mine to tease, mine to torment, mine to—

“You’ll bankrupt yourself from boredom if you keep at those ledgers, betrothed,” he drawled at last. His voice carried that half-mocking lilt, warm with wine though he hadn’t drunk tonight.

You looked up sharply, brown eyes flashing round and intense. That flash always thrilled him. You tried so hard to mask your reactions, but he lived for them.

“I’d sooner bankrupt myself than let you touch the finances,” you retorted, smooth, practiced—your skill in acting plain even in simple banter.

Aemond laughed, low and dangerous, stepping out onto the balcony. His cloak spilled behind him like a shadow. He leaned down, bracing a hand on the railing beside you, his single eye gleaming, his sapphire catching the lanternlight like a shard of flame.

“Is that jealousy I hear? Afraid I’d squander your precious coin on wine and women?” His grin was wicked, teasing, but there was something else beneath it—something heavier, fragile. Say yes. Gods, say yes. Tell me you care enough to be jealous.

Your lips pressed into a thin line, the barest flicker of a blush rising under his gaze. And Aemond’s chest tightened with triumph, with terror, with need.

She blushes. She feels it. She feels me. And she doesn’t even know how that saves me, how it keeps me from drowning in the weight of this cursed bloodline.

“You dislike drunkards,” he murmured suddenly, softer now, his teasing tempered. “Then you need not worry. You’ll be the only intoxication I require.”

It was foolish. It was far too earnest for the mask he wore. So before you could answer, before he could be made a fool of by his own sincerity, Aemond tilted his head and smirked again.

“Unless, of course, you’d prefer me drunk. That way you could balance both my books and my body.”

You huffed, half-exasperated, half-flustered, pushing his shoulder with a slender hand. The touch lingered longer than you meant. His eye darkened, hungry, boyish, vulnerable all at once.

She touches me and the world stills. Seven hells, I’d burn this keep to cinders if she asked. Does she know? Does she know what power she has over me?

He leaned closer, lips near your ear, his whisper both playful and pleading.

“Two weeks,” he said. “Two weeks, and you’ll be mine in truth. Gods help you then. I won’t let you escape.”

And though he smiled like a rogue prince, like a boy half in jest, the fire in his gaze betrayed him. He wasn’t joking. Not at all.

Because in that moment, for the first time in a long time, Aemond Targaryen felt alive—and it was because of you.