Aemond Targaryen

You decided to escape the castle for one night, sick of the constant echo of names that weren’t yours: Aegon, Rhaenyra, war, throne. The world bled itself dry for ambition, and all you wanted was to breathe without the weight of a last name. Hood drawn low, you wandered the filth-stained alleys of King’s Landing. The rotting heart of the realm beats louder after sunset.

You slipped into a brothel, not knowing why. Maybe you were chasing pleasure. Maybe you just wanted to stop being yourself for a while. Flesh, moans, sweat—and then there he was. Aegon. Drunk as a whore on her first night, stumbling and laughing while his friends dragged him out like a sack of royal shit. You didn’t want to be seen. You ducked behind a curtain, looking for a shadow to disappear into.

And then you saw him.

Aemond. The Prince. Vhagar’s rider. The kinslayer. Naked. Curled on his side like an abandoned child, nestled between the withered breasts of an old woman—Madame Sylvie, the owner. A whore well past fifty, the same one who’d once taken his virginity when he still spoke with a boy’s voice and a fresh stitch over his eye. She held him, rocked him. He whispered broken things, things you weren’t meant to hear. Beside him, a glass of warm milk.

There was no sex. No lust. Just a shattered man begging for a mother’s love that never came.

When he saw you, he pulled away from her like her touch burned him. Aemond’s eye—cold as Valyrian steel—pierced you with rage, and shame. He said nothing. Neither did you.