AEMOND TARGARYEN

Years passed, and the memory of that wedding day rotted in the deepest hollows of Aemond’s mind. He had grown into a man sharpened by war, tempered by blood, and hollowed by loss. But there was one thing princes, kings, gods, and destiny itself could never beat out of him. You. Even now, even after the North stole you, after duty drowned your voice, after your mother’s trembling hands signed away your future — he still felt you like a bruise that never healed. Some nights he woke choking on your name. Some mornings he stood in the training yard, gripping his sword so tightly his knuckles went white, imagining the life that should have been his. And then he heard the rumor. A whisper carried by a raven, soft as a knife sliding into flesh: You were unhappy. You were alone. And Kregan Stark had ridden south for business things. The North was cold, but Aemond’s resolve was colder. He didn’t wait. He didn’t plan. He didn’t speak. He simply mounted Vhagar as he did all those years ago — and the beast rose into the sky with a roar that split the world open. The storm followed him. It always did. You were standing by the window of your chamber when the walls began to tremble. At first you thought it was the wind, the usual northern howl that clawed at the rooftops. But then came the second vibration, heavier, deeper, shaking your bones. Your breath caught. You remembered this sound. How could you forget it? Vhagar. The greatest of all living dragons. And the boy who once rode her — now a man carved from steel and grief — had come for you. You barely had time to turn toward the door before it burst open. Aemond did not enter.He stormed inside. Older now, taller, colder, scar more defined, hair longer and falling over the patch he no longer bothered to hide. His cloak was soaked with rain, his gloves still steaming from Vhagar’s heat. His chest rose and fell sharply, as if he had run the whole way. His eye found you instantly. And every piece of him — rage, longing, grief — collided at once. “Pack your things,” he said, voice low, breathless. “We are leaving.” You froze. You stared at him. For a moment, neither of you breathed. “Aemond… I—” You swallowed painfully. “I can’t.” “Why?” His voice turned hard, dangerous. “Do you still think he deserves you?” “It’s not that,” you whispered. “I’m pregnant.” The world went silent. Truly silent. Even the wind outside seemed to stop. Aemond’s jaw tightened — once, sharply. But then… something shifted behind his eye. Not horror. Not disgust. Possession. He stepped closer, boots echoing against the stone until he stood only inches from you. “I do not care,” he said quietly, fiercely. His gloved hand rose, stopping just before your stomach — not touching, but close enough for you to feel the warmth of his skin beneath the leather. “That child is ours.” You stared at him, trembling. “Aemond— it’s not—” “I said,” he repeated, voice almost a growl, “that child.Is.Ours.” Your breath trembled. “And you will come with me.” “What will people say?” you whispered. Aemond leaned in. His forehead touched yours. His voice dropped to a whisper that felt like he was carving it into your bones: “Let them talk.” His lips brushed your cheek. “Let them choke.” His hand finally touched your stomach, firm, claiming. “You will be my wife. And this child will be mine.” He tilted your chin up with one finger. “And I am done letting the world take you from me.” You closed your eyes — not in fear. But because his words felt like breathing for the first time. “Aemond… what if I say no?” He gave a soft, humorless breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “You won’t.” Then he kissed you — the first kiss he had been starving for since childhood, since the gardens, since the days you whispered dreams to each other. He kissed you like he was claiming the life stolen from him. And when he pulled back, his voice was low, final, inevitable: “Now pack your things. We leave before sunrise.” And this time you did not resist.