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i.
The Red Keep looms large as always, a castle of shadows and whispers, but there's a familiar charge in the air tonight. You feel it as you step through the winding corridor, the night breeze caressing your skin, making your feet nearly silent as you pace on the stone floor.
It’s nights like this you’re unable to find sleep, too preoccupied filling your head with duties of the day ahead. And it’s nights like this you’ve noticed that prince Aemond leaves the urgent late-night meetings of the council around the same hour.
It’s a ritual at this point. A ritual that you’ve grown to be quite fond of. You would rather die than admit it, of course, but it thrills you knowing that Aemond passes by your corridor to head to his before calling it a day. What started as a way to ease your mind, ended up being the reason you stay awake in the first place.
And it always goes like this: you trade barbs — sharp words laced with deeper meanings that neither of you dare to confront outright. It’s strange how easy it is to exchange insults when it’s clear that you both have cultivated something more than feigned animosity. You can see it in the prince’s intent gaze as well, he knows too .
You are not of Targaryen blood, not a dragon-rider, as exciting as that would’ve have been. Your father, a highborn lord, has served as Hand of the King for as long as you can remember. Thus, you found yourself living at the Red Keep from a young age, allowed to weave yourself into its intrigues. However, as safe as it might be, it does not shield you from the most dangerous flame of all—Aemond Targaryen. Not that you need it to, anyway.
You meet him at the entrance of the library this time. His silver hair gleams even in the dim light, and as he spots you, his single eye narrows.
“Ah,” Aemond drawls, his voice smooth and taunting, “…here to read something above your station?”
You roll your eyes but can’t help the slight tug at your lips. “Maybe. Shouldn’t you be stabbing something? Since your reading skills are questionable…”
His lips curve into something that could almost be a smile, but it’s too sharp, too full of challenge. “I save my blades for those who warrant it. You’ve never been important enough to see any of it.”
You scoff, stepping closer to him, close enough to see the flicker of amusement in his eye. “No? And here I thought I kept you awake at night, my prince.” The word drips from your lips with a mockery that only you can get away with—well, almost.
Aemond's jaw tightens for a fraction of a second, and you see the fire ignite behind his composed mask. He steps towards you, and for a split second, you think he might actually close the distance. His face is so close to yours now, his scent—a mix of leather and smoke—filling the space between you.
“You think far too highly of yourself,” he murmurs, his voice low. “Tell me, what could you possibly do to keep me awake?”
Your heart pounds in your chest, a rhythm that slightly betrays the composed expression you’re trying so hard to maintain. His eye flickers to your lips, and for a moment, just a mere heartbeat, the air between you burns with a heat that neither of you wants to openly embrace. And though fierce, you’re no stranger to its burning. You both always keep a safe distance behind the heated stares and dance of words.
The tension is broken as quickly as it comes. You can’t let it overcome you, not yet at least. If someone is to break first, let it be him. You will never be merciful enough to give him the satisfaction of victory. So, you take a step away with a smirk, your pulse still racing.
“One day, you shall find out, in case you are not aware of it already, that is…” you manage to reply before walking away, your heart still racing in your chest.
ii.
A few days later, you find yourself in the training yard, watching with interest as Aemond spars with Ser Criston. His movements are precise, deadly. He’s all grace and fire, every swing of his sword like pure poetry. And you hate that you notice it, you hate that you can’t take your eyes off him. You hate the way his presence is enough to hypnotise you.
As if sensing your gaze, Aemond looks over mid-swing and meets your eyes. You raise an eyebrow, trying not to smile. “Missed a step there, prince.”
Aemond's lips twitch into that infuriating yet attractive smirk again. “If you think you could do better, you’re welcome to try. Though, I imagine your skill in combat matches your intellect—woefully lacking.”
You glare at him, and without giving it a second thought, you step into the training yard. “Hand me a sword and we’ll see. Unless you're too frightened to be bested by someone woefully lacking. ”
Ser Criston senses the tension between you two and with a hesitant nod your way, he steps aside, giving you a wooden practice sword. You barely have time to grip the hilt before Aemond lunges, his speed catching you off-guard. But you recover quickly, deflecting his blow with a sharp clang. The impact rattles through your arm, but you don’t falter.
“Careful, my prince,” you hiss, your face inches from his, “if you lose, they might start calling you the one-eyed fool .”
His eye blazes as you trade blows, the clang of metal echoing through the yard. It’s not the most graceful fight you’ve ever had, but it’s the most exhilarating. The air around you is electric, charged with the tension of every unspoken word, every look, every insult you’ve ever thrown at each other.
Aemond’s sword swings wide, and you duck beneath it, twisting to bring your own blade up to meet his. His arm catches yours, and suddenly, you’re chest to chest, your breaths coming fast as your swords clatter to the ground.
“Call me a fool again, and I’ll—” he growls, his breath hot against your face, but the words are swallowed by the closeness of your bodies, the overwhelming pull between you.
For a few moments, neither of you moves. His gaze drops to your lips again, and this time, it’s harder to ignore the fire blazing between you. But before either of you can cross that final line, you shove him back with a scowl.
He cannot win.
“Get over yourself,” you mutter, turning on your heel before you can give in to the storm inside you.
iii.
The night before Aemond is to leave to deal with some unrest in the Riverlands, you find him alone in the godswood. The moon casts a pale glow over his features, making him look even more breathtaking, as if that’s somehow possible.
“I see you’re brooding as always,” you say, crossing your arms as you approach him.
“And you’re still insufferable,” Aemond replies without looking at you.
You roll your eyes but can’t help the pang in your chest. “You’re leaving.”
“It’s only a mission,” he says, his voice cool. “Don’t tell me you’ll miss me.”
“Hardly,” you scoff, though your heart says otherwise. “I just want to be here when you inevitably return defeated. Then I can gloat properly.”
Then, Aemond turns to you, his eye burning with something you don’t quite understand. “You’ve always talked too much.”
“And you’ve always been an arrogant ass.”
His lips quirk into a smirk. “Perhaps. But you like it.”
Before you can hurl another retort, Aemond closes the distance between you. His hand finds your jaw, his thumb brushing your cheek in a way that sends a shiver down your spine. Your breath catches as his lips crash against yours, fierce and consuming. It’s as if every unspoken word, every insult, every stolen glance suppressed over the years is poured into that kiss.
And you let yourself fall. You fall for the way his hand is resting on your burning skin. You fall for the way his lips move in perfect sync with yours. You fall for how good he tastes, for how good he makes you feel when you go back and forth each time.
When he pulls away, you’re both breathing hard, your heart beating hard in your chest. “Be careful,” you whisper, the words slipping out before you can stop them.
Aemond's expression softens. “I always am.”
And with that, he turns and walks away, leaving you and your glistening lips already anticipating for the next time.
In a way, Aemond Targaryen has won.