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The first time he says it, it doesn’t sound like a confession. It sounds like a warning. Aemond watches you the way storms watch the sea; inevitable, restless, already claiming.
You feel it before you ever understand it. In the way the court quiets when he enters. In the way his single eye settles on you like a blade laid gently against your throat. Not cutting, no, never that.
Not yet.
You try to keep your distance. You should keep your distance. Everyone whispers about him—about fire and blood and the kind of vengeance that rots a man from the inside out. They whisper about how love, if it ever touched him, would not survive the encounter.
But no one ever warned you how it would feel to be chosen by him.
“You avoid me.” His voice comes from behind you, low and smooth as polished steel.
You don’t turn immediately. You’re standing on the balcony, overlooking the dark stretch of King’s Landing, the wind tugging at your sleeves like it knows you’re already in too deep. “I’m busy,” you say, which is a lie so thin it barely exists.
Aemond steps closer anyway. He always does. “You are many things,” he murmurs, “but occupied is not one of them.”
You finally turn, lifting your chin just enough to meet his gaze. That terrible, beautiful gaze—one eye burning with something far too intense to name, the other hidden behind sapphire and legend. “You assume much, my prince.”
“I know much.”
There’s a beat of silence. The kind that stretches tight, like something about to snap.
Then he tilts his head slightly, studying you like a puzzle he’s already solved. “And I know,” he continues, softer now, “that you feel it too.”
You laugh. You shouldn’t, but you do. Because if you don’t laugh, you might say something reckless. Something true.
“Feel what?” you ask, though your pulse has already betrayed you.
He steps closer again—close enough now that you can feel the heat of him, the gravity of him. Close enough that the world behind him fades into nothing. “This,” he says simply.
And then his hand is on your wrist. Not rough. Never rough. But unyielding.
Your breath catches—not because he’s hurting you, but because he could. Because everything about him feels like standing at the edge of something catastrophic and choosing not to step back. “You should let go,” you whisper.
He doesn’t. Instead, his thumb presses lightly against your pulse, feeling it race beneath your skin. “Your heart disagrees.”
You hate him for that. For seeing too much. For saying too little. For making something inside you twist into shapes you don’t recognize. “You mistake curiosity for affection,” you say, pulling your wrist free—not forcefully, but enough to prove you still can.
Aemond’s gaze darkens, not with anger, but with something sharper. Something hungry. “I do not mistake anything.”
“You do,” you insist, even as your voice falters. “Whatever this is, it isn’t love, Aemond.”
He goes very still at that. And for a moment—just a small moment—you think you’ve won. That you’ve pushed him back, drawn a line he won’t cross. Then he smiles. Gods, you wish he hadn’t. Because it isn’t kind. It isn’t amused. It’s knowing.
“Love?” he repeats softly. “You speak of it as though it is gentle. As though it is meant to soothe.” He steps closer again, and this time—you don’t move. “You think love should be kind to you,” he continues, voice dropping lower, quieter, until it feels like it belongs only to the two of you. “That it should bring you peace.” His hand lifts, hesitates for the briefest second, then brushes against your cheek. The touch is almost reverent. Almost. “But that is not the only kind of love that exists.”
Your breath stutters. “You’re wrong,” you say, but it comes out weaker than you intend.
He leans in slightly, close enough that you can feel his words against your skin. “No,” he murmurs, “you are afraid.”
He’s right. That’s the worst part. Because this—whatever this is—doesn’t feel like safety. It doesn’t feel like softness or warmth or any of the things love is supposed to be. It feels like falling. Like burning. Like standing in the centre of something you know will destroy you—and realizing you don’t want to leave.
“I should stay away from you,” you whisper.
“Yes,” he agrees immediately.
The answer startles you.
You pull back just enough to look at him properly. “Then why don’t you let me?”
Something flickers across his face—something raw, something dangerously close to honest. “Because I do not wish to.”
The truth lands heavy between you. Unapologetic. Uncompromising. Terrible.
“You would ruin me,” you say quietly.
His gaze softens, not with mercy, but with something deeper. Something far more dangerous. “I would claim you,” he corrects.
Your heart stumbles. “That is not better.”
“It is to me.”
Silence stretches again. The city below continues its restless hum, unaware of the quiet war being waged above it.
You should leave. You should walk away, draw your dignity around you like armor, and never look back. Instead, you ask the question you shouldn’t. “And if I let you?”
Aemond doesn’t hesitate. “Then you would never be free of me.”
There is no threat in his voice. No hesitation. Just certainty.
You swallow hard. Because something inside you—something reckless, something aching—wants that. Wants the intensity. The obsession. The way he looks at you like you are something inevitable.
“Your love…” you start, voice unsteady, “it would be a terrible thing to live with.”
Aemond studies you for a long moment. Then, finally—finally—he says it. Low. Quiet. Devastating. “Your love,” he replies, “is a hell I would gladly be damned to.”
Your breath catches. Because you understand, then. This isn’t something you survive. This is something you choose.
You step closer. Just once. Just enough that the space between you disappears. “Then perhaps,” you whisper, “we deserve the same fate.”
Aemond’s hand rises again, this time cradling your jaw with a possessiveness he doesn’t bother to hide. His forehead nearly touches yours, his voice dropping to something almost sacred. “Say it again.”
Your heart pounds. “This will ruin us,” you say instead.
Aemond smiles—slow, dark, inevitable. “Yes.” And then, softer he whispers, “Stay anyway.”
You do. And that is the beginning of everything.