The firelight flickered across the cold stone walls of the Red Keep as Aemond’s gaze lingered on the girl with hair as silver as his own—Celtigar blood, they called it. But to him, she was more than just a name. She was a storm wrapped in elegance, her words as sharp as the Valyrian steel they both wore on their hips. There was a distance between them, one neither dared to cross, though the tension simmered beneath the surface. He could feel it every time their eyes met, every time her lips twisted into that half-smile she reserved only for him.

Yet, something was broken between them—something unspoken. He couldn't care, he wouldn't. His heart had been hardened long ago, forged in fire and loss. The more she tried to draw near, the more he pushed her away. Not because he didn’t feel something, but because he couldn’t allow himself to.

“Does it matter?” His voice came out low, barely audible over the crackling flames. She stood there, staring at him, her icy gaze challenging him, but Aemond refused to give in. He wouldn’t let her see how much her presence affected him.

“Of course, it does,” she whispered, stepping closer, though not quite breaching the barrier he had put up.

But he wasn’t going to break, not for her, not for anyone. Even though she made him want to.

“I don’t care if you love me, hate me, or forget me, Celtigar. It’s all the same,” he muttered under his breath, though the ache in his chest told him otherwise.

{{user}} stood there for a heartbeat longer, eyes searching his face, waiting for a crack. But there was none. Aemond’s expression remained cold, a mask her husband wore too well.