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"Is this a jest, grandsire?"
"She is the heir to the Iron Throne," Otto said at last.
The Tower of the Hand was quiet at that hour.
Sunlight filtered through the narrow windows of his solar, falling across shelves lined with histories, ledgers, and maps of the Seven Kingdoms.
A fire crackled low in the hearth despite the mild morning, the only sound beneath the distant murmur of the castle beyond the thick stone walls.
He regarded the young prince with the same patience he afforded unruly lords and uncertain kings.
“Her husband has been dead these many years. The court already whispers of another marriage, and we cannot afford for her to choose unwisely. Lord Strong's son is no longer a consideration. "
"So you would have me court our enemy," Aemond replied evenly. "Parade myself before her like some lovesick fool."
"Aemond... your mother has long understood that duty does not always grant us the luxury of inclination. Do not force me to remind you what she has sacrificed for this family."
A flicker crossed Aemond's face before discipline buried it once more. The prince's fingers curled slowly at his sides.
"This is not the same."
"No," Otto agreed quietly, taking a slow step around the desk.
"Your mother was sent to comfort a grieving king. I ask only that you introduce yourself to a princess."
Aemond's hands flexed once before falling still. The words struck harder than any reprimand Otto had ever given him.
His hands curled until his nails bit into his palms.
"You ask a great deal of me, grandsire."
“I ask only that you do your duty, as your mother once did hers.” Otto's voice remained calm, almost fatherly.
“I have already arranged your ride to the Dragonpit. You will present yourself to Princess Rhaenyra, make her acquaintance, and earn her favor. Begin as men of court do.”
The words settled over the room like a sentence already passed.
His grandson was stunned, but it did the trick. Aemond was as loyal as a hound, and only did what his brother would not. Silence settled over the solar.
Aemond did not argue again. Without another word, the young prince turned sharply toward the door and snatched his sword.
He pulled the door open and disappeared into the stairwell, letting it swing shut behind him with enough force to rattle the iron latch.
The training yard became a battlefield.
He moved through the morning like a storm barely held in check. Every strike landed with deadly precision, yet each carried more force than the last, as though the practice sword in his hand had become the only acceptable outlet for thoughts he dared not voice.
No other guard volunteered to continue sparring with him after. By the time Ser Criston entered the yard, most of the guards had retreated to its edges.
Criston's gaze swept across the fallen guards before settling upon his pupil.
"Leave us," he said.
The guards did not wait to be told twice. They collected their weapons and withdrew, grateful for the excuse. Only when the courtyard stood nearly empty did Criston approach.
"That was not training."
The furious young prince remained facing the splintered practice post before him, his sword hanging loosely at his side.
"Your grandsire does not require you to take her to your bed,” the Kingsguard added.
Aemond's grip tightened almost imperceptibly.
"He means only to delay her," Criston continued. "Keep her occupied. Distracted. Long enough that no other man gains her favor."
Aemond let out a slow breath through his nose. "Speaking to her is offense enough. When does this end?"
"Soon enough." The older man folded his arms. "Play the game."
Aemond said nothing. His mind turned instead to the impossible task before him. How was he meant to approach a woman he had been taught to despise, a woman he scarcely ever saw within the walls of the Red Keep?
Unlike Aegon, who moved through the castle as though every door opened for him, Aemond had never known how to enter another person's world simply.
"She rides most mornings," Criston went on. "She often takes Syrax into the skies before the court has properly broken its fast. As you do."
Only then did Aemond glance at him. Criston held his gaze.
"You know the ways of dragons better than most men twice your age. Surely you can speak to one rider."
The wind tore through Rhaenyra’s hair as Syrax carried her above the city, but the flight offered little escape from the thoughts that followed her.
Her father’s words from the night before still lingered, sour and heavy in her mind. The gentle tone had done little to soften the weight of his request. Once again, she was expected to consider duty before herself.
And now Lord Lyonel and Ser Harwin were gone.
Their sudden departure for Harrenhal had disrupted everything she had carefully planned, leaving behind more questions than answers. She had lost a trusted ally, a companion, and the one man at court who had stood beside her without asking her to become something else. She wanted to marry him, only to wake up one morning to find him gone.
Rhaenyra tightened her grip on Syrax’s reins.
She leaned forward as Syrax began her descent toward the Dragonpit, allowing the familiar rhythm of her dragon’s wings to steady her.
A shadow passed across the clouds. Rhaenyra looked up.
Vhagar circled in the distance, the ancient dragon’s immense wings cutting through the sky. For a moment, she wondered if her brother had seen her.
Then she looked away.
Whatever reason brought Vhagar into the skies that morning, it was none of her concern.
The old dragon did not follow. Neither did her rider.
Almost an hour later, the Dragonpit swallowed Syrax's landing with a deep, echoing rumble.
The golden dragon lowered herself onto the worn stone with practiced ease, her claws scraping lightly against the ancient floor. The waiting dragonkeepers hurried forward, careful and respectful as they approached.
“Easy now, Princess,” one of the dragonkeepers called, holding out a hand as Syrax shifted restlessly upon the stone.
Rhaenyra slid from the saddle and landed lightly beside her dragon. She ran a hand along Syrax's warm neck, feeling the steady rise and fall beneath her palm.
“You flew beautifully today,” she murmured.
“My thanks, sweet girl. We shall take to the skies again on the morrow.”
Syrax answered with a pleased rumble, lowering her great head slightly toward her rider.
A faint smile touched Rhaenyra's lips despite herself.
She removed her gloves and accepted the waterskin offered by a keeper before turning her attention to Syrax's harness. She began loosening the straps, checking each buckle with familiar hands.
Another dragonkeeper approached carrying a fresh set of leather straps.
“Fresh breast straps for Syrax, Princess.”
“My thanks.”
Rhaenyra reached for them, then she stopped. A flash of silver caught her eye from across the cavern.
A tall young man stood among the dragonkeepers, dressed in black riding leathers that fit his lean frame with the precision of armor. He was not broad like a warrior carved from stone, but there was a sharpness to him.
Silver hair fell neatly around his shoulders before being bound back from his face. His features were unmistakably Valyrian: a strong jaw, high cheekbones, and a severe beauty.
He stood taller than she expected. Much taller. It could not be Aegon. Aegon would never be found here unless he wanted to see Sunfyre.
The only person it could be was Aemond.
He spoke quietly with one of the keepers while another handed him a bundle of supplies. Rhaenyra watched him carefully.
Too much interest in harnesses. Too many questions about saddle oil and dragon supplies. Her brow furrowed.
Vhagar was too large for the Dragonpit. If the prince needed anything for his dragon, he would have only to request it. Servants would bring whatever he required.
So why was he here?
She dismissed the thought and returned her attention to Syrax.
“Hold still.”
Syrax shifted impatiently beneath her hands and nudged her shoulder. Rhaenyra let out a quiet laugh.
“You have the patience of a hatchling.”
She tightened another buckle. Then she felt it again. That prickling awareness. Someone watching her. Slowly, she glanced over. Aemond was already looking.
His gaze lingered a heartbeat too long before he realized she had caught him. Their eyes met across the Dragonpit.
She could see the moment he understood his mistake.
The young prince, who carried himself like a warrior twice his age, suddenly looked as though he had been caught stealing from the kitchens. She looked away first, returning to Syrax as if she had seen nothing.
The last thing she wanted was to entertain whatever game the Lord Hand had decided to play. She adjusted another strap, pretending she had not noticed.
When she looked again—
Aemond was walking toward her.
Fuck.
The dragonkeepers exchanged quiet glances before making themselves scarce. They did not flee, but they knew when a conversation was not meant for them. Soon, only Syrax remained between the prince and princess.
Curiously, the dragon seemed unconcerned, unlike her rider. Aemond stopped several paces away and bowed.
“Princess.”
Rhaenyra paused, inclined her head.
“Prince Aemond.”
Aemond opened his mouth. Nothing came. He closed it again and cleared his throat. One hand briefly moved to the back of his neck before falling to his side, as though he regretted revealing even that small uncertainty.
“I...”
His eye flickered toward hers.
Then, despite his efforts, his gaze drifted lower for the briefest instant before returning to her face. Rhaenyra caught it.
She had not spent years at court without learning the language of men’s eyes. She knew admiration, desire, and calculation when she saw them.
But this was different.
This was a boy she had barely seen in years, standing before her in the Dragonpit pretending he had come only to ask after her day after glancing at anywhere but her face.
He had not come for supplies. He had come for her.
Whatever confidence had carried him across the Dragonpit seemed to abandon him entirely. He cleared his throat again.
“I-I wished to ask… how your day fared,”
What?
Suddenly, she thought of Otto Hightower.
“It is well enough,” Rhaenyra spoke sharply. “I must go. Farewell.”
She did not wait for his response.
Rhaenyra turned and walked away, leaving the prince standing alone amid the heat and smoke of the Dragonpit, his expression caught somewhere between confusion and embarrassment.
Of all the things she had expected from the youngest son of Alicent, that was not among them.
Aemond’s true nature was as ferocious, if not more so, than his dragon’s. So when the Lord Hand tasked the prince with pursuing Princess Rhaenyra, Criston believed it would prove a fitting arrangement.
A few kicks to his belly would not deter him. A few insults would not break him. Once given a command, he would follow it willingly.
But little by little, piece by piece, the warrior prince began to change.
In the span of mere days, Aemond went from addressing the woman as a cunt, to calling her princess in the span of several days and ending his visits to the Street of Silk.