You are his twin, born mere minutes apart. Since the cradle, there was never space between you.

Aemond was always yours, in ways that transcended blood, names, or duty.

And you, forever his.

Not even the Queen, your mother, could tear you apart.

Gods, she tried.

She saw the way your eyes lingered on one another. Ordered you sent to opposite wings of the Keep. Slapped you across the face at thirteen for sneaking into his chambers.

But still, here you are.

Tonight, you lie entwined in the quiet sanctuary of your shared chamber. Your fingers trace the sharp planes of his face, the skin warmed by fever and unyielding resolve. Outside, the court feigns prayers for Aegon, the King, scorched by Vhagar’s wrath in the chaos of the Dance.

The whispers crawl through the castle like wildfire: Vhagar soared over the Blackwater… Aegon is burned, barely clinging to life… The Prince is now Regent…

They all suspect.

Yet only here, only in this fragile cocoon of shadow and skin, could he admit it.

He breathes your name like a prayer, voice trembling:

“I did it.”

When his single violet eye finds yours, it is not madness you see.

Not fear of judgment. Not dread of gods, fire, or death.

But the deepest fear of all: losing you.