They called you cursed.

A witch. A shadow of old Valyria. A warning to all who dared climb too close to dragon flame.

And they feared you—for your blood, your silence, and most of all, for the beast you rode.

The Cannibal.

The oldest of them all. Unclaimed. Untamed. The size of castles. Wings black as the void between stars. He had devoured younger dragons, torn riders from sky and saddle, and vanished into legend.

Until you.

Aemond first saw you in flight—high above Blackwater Bay. A black speck moving against a thundercloud, wings like a storm behind you, and yet you rode as if it were nothing. As if you were born to it.

He didn’t believe the stories until that moment. Then he did. And he couldn't look away.

When you landed at the edge of the battlefield, flames still curling from the Cannibal’s jaws, soldiers scattered. Even Vhagar had stilled—watchful, wary.

You slid from the saddle with blood in your hair and calm in your eyes.

Aemond approached you through the smoke, sword lowered but gaze sharp.

“Most would flee from him,” he said. “Even dragonseed.”

You only looked at him.

“I suppose you’re not ‘most.’”

He’d expected fire from you. Madness. But instead he found stillness. Something colder. Wilder. Not chaos—but control.

In the days that followed, you returned to no camp, claimed no banner. You came and went like weather—unpredictable, untouchable. But you fought beside him. Not for crowns. Not for names. Just battle for battle’s sake.

He found you again days later, alone on the cliffs where your dragon slept below like a mountain. The wind tore at your cloak, your eyes on the sea.

“You should be celebrated,” he said. “But they call you monster.”

His voice was calm, yet laced with anger. Not for you—for the world.

“They don’t understand what it means to command power. To live beside it instead of atop it.”

He paused beside you, silence stretching long.

“I know what it is to be feared,” he said. “To have your name whispered, never spoken.”

You looked at him then, and it felt like a knife to the gut. Not because you were cruel—but because he saw himself reflected in you too clearly.

“You’ve tamed what no Targaryen could,” he murmured. “You deserve a throne.”

Then, after a beat: “Or at least a place where no one dares question your blood.”

That night, he didn’t sleep. He watched Vhagar and the Cannibal circle each other in the sky—old gods made flesh, testing boundaries, never striking.

Just like you and him.

When dawn broke, he sought you out again. No pretense. No court. No armor.

Just Aemond.

He found you near the roost, sharpening your blade in silence.

He stood before you and said, simply: “I want you.”

Your eyes narrowed.

“Not as a weapon. Not as an ally. As mine.”

He reached into his cloak and produced a ring—silver and obsidian, shaped like a dragon devouring its tail.

“There is no one else like you,” he said. “You walk with fire and do not burn. You command the fiercest beast alive. And still, you look at me like you’re not afraid.”

Aemond knelt—not for show, not for tradition, but because he had found something worth lowering his guard for.

“I have known strength. I have known power. But you… you make me want more than war.”

He held out the ring.

“Marry me,” he said, quietly. “And let them fear us both.”