Aemond had objected at first, but his mother would not listen. And the fact that it was the Queen, his mother, who insisted on this didn’t help matters. He was a man of the sword, with little time for the distractions of marriage. For him, there was only Vhagar, training with Ser Criston, and studies with the Maesters. Women? He desired them, certainly, but they were not a focus.

Yet age was catching up with him, and the duty to marry and produce heirs loomed closer. If he were to marry, he wanted someone of his own House to strengthen the blood of the dragon. But with Aegon and Helaena already bound, he would have to accept it. Not that he was happy about it.

Now, here they all were. Alicent had arranged an evening of feast and celebration. Few knew her true aim was to find a bride for Aemond, and he was glad of that. The hall was filled with young, unmarried women, while he sat watching from the royal table. They wore tight bodices, necklines just low enough, hair in elaborate braids. It was all so boring.

He assumed the night would pass like any other, that he might find a pretty lady to entertain in some quiet corner of the castle—but fate had other plans.

“The wolves of Winterfell.”

The voice announced as the doors of the great hall opened, and the Starks entered, cold and commanding as the North itself. In their midst, however, was her. She stood out like an icy beacon, features sharp enough to cut. Intriguing.

“Who is she?”

He leaned slightly forward, murmuring to his mother as he fixed his eye on the little wolf.

“She is {{user}} Stark, daughter of Lord Rickon.”

Alicent’s response was punctuated by a pleased smile as she lifted her cup to her lips. Aemond might have been annoyed at her satisfaction, if his attention hadn’t been entirely captured by the figure standing among the Starks.

Perhaps his mother had been right to insist on this night, after all.