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The fifteenth of February is not a date.
It is a petty response to capitalism.
That is what Rhaena tells Baela when she comes home with two overstuffed bags from the shop full of tacky red and pink packets. That is what Aemond tells Aegon when his idiot brother shows up unannounced that morning to steal a jacket and surveys the pile of half price heart shaped boxes on Aemond’s kitchen counter with a smirk.
It is absolutely not a date.
If anything, it's a coincidence - because what were the chances that they would both get dumped in the same week three years ago?
Garmund at least had the decency to break up with Rhaena in person - a long walk along Blackwater Bay, a whole monologue about needing to find himself and how they wanted different things, which was news to Rhaena.
She’d heard from Helaena that Floris broke up with Aemond over text.
So maybe hers wasn’t that bad.
The first year was an accident, obviously.
Rhaena ran into Aemond in the big supermarket near the university, both of them standing in front of the aggressively pink Valentine’s display that had unceremoniously been tossed into a bargain basket with a fluorescent yellow sign screaming HALF PRICE.
He had been holding a box of dark chocolate truffles and a bottle of scotch so cheap it would make their ancestors cringe. She was shoveling heart shaped sour gummies into her basket in sunglasses hiding her puffy eyes. They had both been reaching for the same multipack of sherbet love hearts.
“Ah,” Aemond said finally. “You too?”
Rhaena curled her lip. “I refuse to pay full price on a day I can’t participate.”
His cheek twitched briefly. “Same.”
They’d ended up at his flat because it was closer. The plan, it had been decided, was simple - eat discounted chocolate, drink something strong, and watch the worst horror film they could find.
It turned out they both have strong opinions about horror.
Rhaena likes the messy ones, too much blood and stupid teenagers who made catastrophic decisions. She heckles them loudly.
Aemond prefers slow-burn psychological horror. He claims gore is lazy.
They compromised that year by watching both - The Texas Chainsaw Massacre and Hereditary.
At some point during a particularly terrible tense scene, Rhaena had thrown a gummy worm at Aemond’s head. He’d thrown a wrapped truffle back.
It was good. It felt good.
The second year, Aemond texts her at 9am on the fifteenth.
My place or yours tonight?
Rhaena had stared at the message for a full minute before replying.
assuming you mean to watch a film…only if i get to choose
Aemond bought the candy this time and made his opinion very apparent about Sour Patch Kids. Rhaena rolled her eyes and said they’d split the cost next time.
They watched 28 Days Later and A Quiet Place. Aemond had to walk her to her car afterwards, though Rhaena insisted she was not afraid of the dark, thank you very much.
This year, he doesn’t even text her.
All the couples had a Valentine’s brunch; Alicent and Rhaenyra, Jace and Baela, Luke and Oscar, Aegon and whoever he’s sleeping with this week, Helaena and Cregan, and Daeron and Addam. Meaning Rhaena and Aemond are once again, the only single ones in their cluster of siblings and cousins.
Well, and Joffrey, but he’s more interested in video games than anything.
They all had Valentine's day - Rhaena and Aemond have today.
Rhaena gleefully dumps her haul on Aemond’s counter with a “ta-da!” Sour belts, worms, cola bottles and other various arrays of alarmingly neon coloured sweets.
“Your dentist must hate you,” Aemond muses, picking up a bright blue packet like it’s radioactive.
Rhaena scoffs, brandishing a bar of 80% cocoa and sea salt. “And you have the palate of a Victorian factory owner who chews tobacco.”
Aemond raises a brow. “I have standards.”
“You drink supermarket scotch once a year out of spite.”
“So do you, it’s tradition.”
She grins at that. Because it is, now.
He’s already cleared space on his coffee table for the loot. There’s a bottle on the side, not the cheap one from that first year. He doesn’t comment on it and neither does she.
Rhaena spots the films queued up on the television and lets out a low whistle.
“Ready or Not and Midsommar?” she says. “Festive.”
Aemond doesn’t look up from the glasses he’s setting down. “One is about a disastrous marriage, and the other is about a cult.”
She drops onto his sofa, toeing off her boots. “So on theme.”
“Well, they feel appropriate for our family.”
She laughs, and it’s easy. It’s always easy.
Rhaena insists on starting with Ready or Not because she wants to see Samara Weaving covered in blood. She talks through the opening scene, predicts every betrayal incorrectly, and gasps far too loudly at the first absurdly violent moment. Aemond pretends to be annoyed but doesn’t actually tell her to stop.
Halfway through, she pelts him with a cola bottle sweet when he mutters, “That’s not how crossbows work.”
“You don’t know that,” she says.
“I absolutely do.”
“You absolutely do not - everyone knows you’re the best at fencing out of all of us.” Rhaena pauses. “Don’t tell Jace I said that.”
He catches the sweet mid-air without looking at her.
By the time the credits roll, they’ve demolished most of the sour belts and are working through the dark chocolate, though Rhaena only manages two bitter squares before giving up. She chases it down with the scotch and Coke that Aemond grits his teeth at the same way Daemon does at cheap cola ruining perfectly good alcohol.
Rhaena doesn’t want to think about her father right now.
“Your pick was solid,” Aemond concedes, interrupting her thoughts.
Rhaena presses a hand to her chest. “Can I get that in writing?”
“Not a chance.”
They switch to Midsommar. Rhaena lasts exactly five minutes before shifting closer to him while hugging a pillow. Aemond notices and says nothing.
Rhaena watches with her chin tucked over the top of the pillow. “It’s horrible,” she mutters halfway through. He almost jumps - neither of them have said a word since the opening. “But I sort of get it.”
Aemond glances at her. “Get what?”
“Wanting to be wanted so badly you ignore the red flags. And ritualistic murder.”
He studies her profile in the pale wash of Scandinavian daylight. The film is all open fields and white dresses and nowhere to hide. It makes everything feel exposed.
“That’s not romantic,” he says. “That’s how you end up in a wicker structure.”
She gives him a look without turning her head. “I didn’t say it was wise.”
A beat passes. On screen, someone sings.
“Garmund liked the idea of me more than he liked me,” she says. “I think.”
Aemond doesn’t ask for details. He nods once.
“Floris said I was intense,” he says after a moment.
“You are intense.”
“I’m well aware.”
“But that’s not a flaw,” she continues, shifting to look at him. “You can be intense and difficult and occasionally insufferable. But you’re not unlovable.”
He huffs, quiet. “Glowing endorsement.”
“You know what I mean.”
He does.
They fall silent again. On screen, Dani sits in a dress of flowers, condemning her terrible boyfriend to burn to death.
“You are wanted,” he says, too quiet, too honest. “You are loud and opinionated and impulsive and impossible to ignore. That is not the same thing as being unwanted.”
The words hang there, heavier than the smoke on the television.
Rhaena’s grip tightens on the pillow. “That’s very un-fifteenth-of-February of you.”
“Don’t ruin the moment.”
“I’m not,” she says. Then, softer, “thank you.”
The wood temple burns. Dani screams and grins at the flames.
“Honestly,” he says after a moment as the credits roll, “you would absolutely join a cult.”
She turns to him, scandalised. “Excuse me?”
“You’re susceptible to theatrics. Someone gives you a flower crown and tells you you’re special and suddenly you’re chanting in Swedish.”
“I would not.”
“You would.”
“I have critical thinking skills.”
“You cried at a marketing email last week from my mother.”
“It was very well written.”
He almost smiles, turning on the lamp beside him. “My point stands.”
Rhaena throws the last cola bottle at his shoulder. He doesn’t dodge this time. It bounces off his collarbone and lands in his lap.
“You are unbelievable,” she says.
“And yet,” he replies calmly, picking the sweet up and eating it, “you keep coming back.”
Her heart does something deeply inconvenient.
“It’s not a date,” she says, because she has to, even as she’s moving her legs to shift closer to him.
“No,” he agrees.
Rhaena is close enough now that she can see the faint smear of chocolate at the corner of his mouth. Without thinking, she reaches forward and swipes her thumb over it.
“You missed a bit,” she murmurs.
Aemond’s breath changes. Barely, but she feels it.
“You’re the one who talks about standards,” she says softly.
Her thumb lingers a second too long. He catches her wrist.
“Rhaena,” he warns gently.
Maybe it’s the scotch. Maybe it’s three years of fluorescent bargain bins and horror films. Maybe it’s the way Aemond told her she was wanted.
She leans in first.
It’s not graceful. Their noses knock slightly. She huffs a laugh against his mouth and then his hand is at her jaw, steadying her, and the second attempt is deliberate. She tastes like sugar and citrus; he tastes like dark chocolate and smoke. It’s messy at first, teeth bumping, her giggle pressed into his mouth because of course.
He pulls back half an inch. “You’re getting sugar everywhere.”
“You started it,” she murmurs, already chasing him.
“That’s debatable.”
He kisses him again before she can say something snarky. His hand settles at her waist, her fingers curl into the fabric of his jumper like a lifeline.
Rhaena rests her forehead against his. “This is inconvenient.”
Aemond smiles, small and rare and real. “Same time next year?”
She exhales a laugh, his favourite sound. “I don’t think we’re waiting a year.”
She makes him watch When Harry Met Sally after the family Valentine’s brunch next year. He doesn’t hate it.
They keep the fifteenth horror date, though.