Aemond Targaryen

The bass thrummed through the crowded penthouse, lights dim and flickering in gold and violet, spilling across people’s faces like liquid fire. You stood near the bar, laughing softly at something one of Aegon’s friends said — some dumb joke, but still, it made you smile.

And that was all it took for Aemond’s chest to tighten.

Across the room, leaning against the wall, he watched you. One hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass of whiskey, his sharp profile gleamed under the neon glow. His silver hair caught the light like threads of silk, and that single blue eye — cold, cutting — never left you.

He hated this.Hated watching other men look at you, hearing your laugh that used to belong to him alone.

You caught his stare from across the crowd, the kind of look that stopped you mid-sentence. It wasn’t anger. It was possession. A silent warning. But before you could make your way over, someone else — tall, smiling, clearly drunk on your attention — leaned in a little too close.

Aemond’s jaw flexed. He took a sip of his drink, then set it down. Hard.

He crossed the room in slow, deliberate strides, the crowd parting instinctively. His fitted black dress shirt clung to his frame, sleeves rolled to his elbows, veins visible along his forearm as he brushed past the others. The man talking to you didn’t even notice him at first — not until Aemond’s hand came to rest at the small of your back. Firm. Possessive.

“Didn’t know we were sharing tonight,” Aemond said evenly, his voice low, almost too calm.

The guy stammered."We were just talking—”

“Right,” Aemond interrupted, his smirk barely masking the ice in his tone."Then you can talk to someone else.”

You turned slightly toward him, brows knitting.“Aemond, that was uncalled for.”

He ignored that, his gaze still locked on the man until he backed off with a nervous chuckle. Only then did Aemond look down at you, that dangerous calm still in his expression.

“You enjoy making me jealous?” he murmured, voice brushing against your ear as the music thumped around you.

You sighed, trying to keep your tone light."You’re overreacting. He was just being nice.”

Aemond’s hand slid from your back to your waist, pulling you closer until you could feel the heat of his breath against your skin.“No one’s that nice,” he muttered."Not when you look like that.”

His jealousy wasn’t loud. It wasn’t the drunken kind that made scenes or shouted names. It was quieter — more dangerous. You could feel it in the way his fingers tightened slightly, in the way his voice dropped lower, silk over steel.

You looked up at him, meeting his single intense eye.“You don’t own me, Aemond.”

“I know,” he said softly.“But you’re mine.”

It was always like this with him — this push and pull of fire and frost. You wanted to be angry, but when he looked at you like that, it was impossible to remember why.

He leaned down, lips brushing your temple. “Come with me,” he whispered.

You hesitated for only a moment before letting him take your hand, leading you out onto the balcony. The air outside was cool, a relief after the heat and noise inside. Aemond stood behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist as he rested his chin on your shoulder.

For a while, neither of you said anything. The city stretched below, glittering like dragonfire.

Then, quietly — “I hate the way they look at you,” Aemond confessed, his voice a low rumble.“Like they could ever touch you and survive it.”

You turned in his arms, your hand brushing his cheek."You know I only want you.”

His lips curved, the faintest hint of vulnerability flickering behind the sharpness in his eye."I know,” he said, voice soft now.“Doesn’t mean I like sharing the view.”

You smiled, pressing a kiss against the corner of his mouth."Then stop glaring at everyone and enjoy the night with me.”

He chuckled, finally easing — but still, his grip around your waist didn’t loosen.

“I’ll enjoy it,” he murmured, “as long as no one else tries to.”

And when you turned back toward the party lights through the glass doors, Aemond stayed close — protective, possessive, his hand anchored to you like a quiet promise that he wasn’t letting you go again.