Aegon comes to your chambers long after the Keep has gone quiet.

You are half asleep when you hear it. The soft scrape of the latch. The careful click of the door closing again. You sit up at once, heart racing, fingers curling into the sheets as the candle near your bed flickers.

“Aegon?” you whisper.

He steps into the light, pale hair loose, shadows beneath his eyes that have not been there long. He looks tired – tired in a way you have never seen before. Not drunk. Not bored. Just worn thin.

“Don’t scream,” he says softly. “I’m in no mood to be chased.”

You exhale, tension easing. “You can’t just come in here.”

“I can,” he replies, glancing at the door as though measuring the distance to escape. Then his gaze returns to you, lingering. “I needed somewhere quiet.”

He crosses the room slowly, stopping short of your bed. Up close, you notice the way his shoulders are tight, how his fingers flex and unclench as though he does not know what to do with his hands.

“They won’t leave me alone,” he says after a moment. “Councils. Audiences…forced to smile when I want to scream.” His mouth twists. “I feel like a dog paraded for show.”

You hesitate. “Why are you here?”

Aegon studies you, something unguarded flickering across his expression.

“Because you look at the walls the same way I do,” he says. “Like they might close in if you breathe too deeply.”

He straightens suddenly, resolve settling over him like a decision already made.

“Get dressed,” he says. “We’re leaving.”

You stare at him. “Leaving where?”

“Anywhere that isn’t here.”

He turns away, already moving toward the window. “Just for a little while.”

You should refuse. You know that. Instead, you pull the cloak from the chair beside your bed, hands trembling as you fasten it around your shoulders.

Aegon’s smile is quick when he notices.

The city greets you with warmth and sound. Lanterns sway above the streets, casting soft gold across faces and stone. Music hums somewhere nearby, laughter ebbing and flowing like the tidewater beyond the city walls. The air smells of spice and smoke and sugar.

You slow, overwhelmed.

Aegon stops too, watching you rather than the market.

“I wanted you to see it,” he says quietly. “Not the court’s version. The real one.”

He stays close as you move through the crowd, his hand settling briefly at your elbow, fingers warm and steady as he guides you around a pair of laughing strangers. Suddenly, he presses something warm into your palm without asking. It’s a piece of fried dough, golden and warm. Sugar and spice cling to the surface, melting slightly as you hold it. You take a bite and laugh softly at the sweetness and Aegon looks pleased, like this was exactly what he hoped for.

“See,” he says. “Worth it.”

At one stall, you linger over a ribbon dyed the deep blue of twilight. You lift it between your fingers, uncertain.

Aegon clears his throat. “You can have it.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t need to.” He places coin onto the vendor’s table.

He tucks it into your hair with a touch that is almost reverent. His hand lingers for half a breath too long before he steps back, expression carefully casual.

For a while, the world feels easy. You forget the Keep. Forget what you are supposed to be. You laugh, quietly at first, then without restraint. Aegon watches you, the corners of his mouth lifting as if your happiness has softened something in him.

“You look happier,” he says.

“So do you.”

He snorts softly. “Don’t tell anyone.”

You wander until the streets grow quieter and the lantern light softens. You stop beneath a hanging glow that turns his silver hair to gold. The moment stretches, no words are spoken.

Aegon shifts, suddenly uncertain. “I didn’t bring you out here for anything improper,” he says. “I just… wanted you to feel free...with me.”

The admission hangs between you, fragile and honest.

“You did,” you say gently. “Thank you.”

He smiles then, small and almost shy. “Good.”

Somewhere distant, a bell tolls. The sound makes him glance back toward the Keep, jaw tightening.

“We should go,” he says, reluctance heavy in his voice.

As he walks you back, he keeps closer than before, his hand finding yours as if by habit. Neither of you lets go. At your chamber door, he hesitates.

“Will you come again,” he asks, quieter now. “If I ask?”

You meet his gaze then nod shyly.

Relief flickers across his face, followed by something warm and hopeful.

“Good,” he says. “Then I’ll steal you properly next time.”

He gives your hand a tight squeeze then slips away before you can answer, leaving the echo of laughter and lantern light behind him.

You lie awake long after, the ribbon still in your hair, the city humming beneath your skin.

The chamber is warm. That is the first thing you notice when you wake.

The fire has been tended to recently—wood placed with care, not hastily, the flames steady rather than roaring. The curtains are drawn just enough to soften the light without keeping it out entirely. Even the air feels settled, as though the room has been arranged around you rather than simply occupied.

Your body feels heavy.

Not with sleep, but with the dull ache of having been unwell—your head thick, your throat dry, your limbs slow to respond. You stay still for a moment, taking in the warmth.

Then you feel the hand at your side.

Warm. Steady.

Aemond sits beside the bed, unmoving, as though he has been there for hours and intends to remain. His head is slightly bowed, one hand resting over yours, the other braced against the mattress.

When you stir, he looks up immediately.

“You’re awake,” he says.

Your voice is rough. “What time is it?”

“Early.”

You swallow. “Did I—”

“No.” He shakes his head once. “You slept.”

You watch him for a moment. Up close, the signs are harder to miss—the loosened sleeves, the faint shadows beneath his eye, the way his focus never leaves your face.

“You didn’t,” you say.

“I did,” he replies, too quickly to be true.

He reaches for the cup at the bedside and brings it to your lips. You drink because it’s easier than arguing. When you pull back, he lowers it and sets it aside.

“You should’ve gone to bed,” you murmur.

“I was fine.”

You glance at him. “Aemond.”

A pause.

“I didn’t want to,” he says finally.

You shift, uncomfortable, and immediately his other hand moves to your back, adjusting the pillows, lifting you just enough to ease the pressure before settling you again.

“Better?” he asks.

“Yes.”

He nods and reaches for the bowl warming near the fire. He tests it, then sits back beside you.

“You need to eat,” he says.

“I’m not that—”

He looks at you. Not sharp nor angry. Just steady.

You stop.

He lifts the spoon. You hesitate, then lean forward and take the bite.

The warmth settles slowly. You hadn’t realized how empty you felt until now. He waits between spoonfuls, unhurried, watching your breathing rather than your mouth.

“This is excessive,” you mutter after a few bites.

“No,” he says simply.

You huff quietly. “You’re hovering.”

That earns the faintest curve of his mouth but it’s gone almost immediately.

You study him for a moment. “You were worried.”

“Yes.”

The honesty surprises you.

“I’m okay,” you say. “There’s no reason to worry.”

He pauses. Then speaks, lowering his voice, slowly and tempered. “You’re my wife. You’re carrying my child. That’s reason enough.”

The words settle without spectacle.

You look away, throat tightening. “I don’t like needing this much help.”

“I don’t mind giving it.”

His hand settles over your belly without thinking. When he realizes, he doesn’t move it.

You rest your hand over his.

When the bowl is empty, he sets it aside and eases you back carefully, as he gently slips into bed next you; guiding you against his chest. His arm comes around you, solid and warm, his chin resting briefly against your hair once you’ve settled.

Neither of you speaks.

The fire crackles softly. His breathing evens beneath your ear.

He stays.

The antechamber is bright with afternoon light, the tall windows open to let in air scented faintly with the gardens below. Women gather beneath the painted arches, their voices low and unhurried, skirts brushing the stone floor as they move in and out of conversation. You sit among them with your hands folded loosely in your lap, listening more than speaking, letting the warmth of the room settle over you without quite reaching inside.

Lady Rhea sits opposite you, her posture straight, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She has been at court longer than most, trusted with matters that require discretion rather than warmth. It is her responsibility to oversee the ladies under the queen’s care, to see that futures are arranged sensibly, quietly, without unnecessary disturbance. She watches you for a moment before speaking, as though measuring something that cannot be rushed.

“There is a matter we need to discuss,” she says at last, her tone even. “One that concerns your future.”

The conversation softens around you, voices lowering without being told. No one looks surprised. You are aware, suddenly, of how small the room feels.

“A match has been proposed,” Lady Rhea continues. “The lord in question has pledged loyalty to the crown and has lands that require a steady hand. He has expressed interest, and the arrangement has been reviewed.”

She pauses, giving the words space to settle.

“He is prepared to offer you security,” she says. “An honorable position with a household of your own.”

You nod once. Your hands remain still in your lap.

“Do you consent to this engagement?” she asks.

For a moment, you cannot answer.

Your thoughts slip, unwelcome, to the night you have tried to put behind you. Not the romance of it. The aftermath. The way your chest had ached once you were alone, the way you cried quietly into your sleeve because you did not know what else to do with the feeling. You remember how Aemond had kissed you like he needed you, like holding back had finally become impossible, and how quickly he had withdrawn afterward, as though giving in had only proven his resolve to deny you.

You remember realizing, with painful clarity, that wanting you had never been enough for him to choose you.

The room waits.

You draw a steady breath. You look at Lady Rhea, at the careful patience in her expression, at the certainty already written into the moment.

“I…I consent,” you say.

The word comes out evenly. It surprises you.

Lady Rhea inclines her head, satisfied. “Very well.”

The ring is produced and placed in your hand. It is cool, heavier than you expect, and you close your fingers around it without looking down. Someone murmurs congratulations. Another woman reaches briefly for your arm, her touch gentle, approving.

Conversation resumes almost at once, folding neatly back into place. Someone remarks on the weather. Someone else mentions the hunt planned for the following day, already treating it as celebration rather than transition. Sunlight continues to spill across the room, unchanged.

Inside, something settles.

Not relief…nor grief.

Acceptance.

You glance down at the ring only once. You feel nothing at all.

Lady Rhea observes you quietly, then turns her attention elsewhere, already moving on to the next duty. The room continues on as though nothing irrevocable has just occurred.

And in a way, that is exactly what has happened.

——

You return to your chambers while the afternoon light still lingers, the warmth following you only as far as the doorway before giving way to cooler stone and shadow. The keep feels quieter here, the hum of voices softened by distance, and you welcome it. There is little time before dinner, just enough to wash your hands, smooth your hair, and steady yourself for the evening ahead.

You have only just set your things down when the corridor outside stirs.

At first, it is nothing more than hurried footsteps, too quick and uneven to be part of the usual rhythm of the keep. Then voices follow, low and urgent, pressed close to one another as though meant to stay contained. You move closer to the door without thinking, pausing as a maid rushes past, skirts gathered tightly in her hands, her face pale and drawn.

Another follows her, then another, all moving in the same direction.

Someone murmurs a name under her breath. Someone else says nothing at all, her eyes fixed ahead as though she does not wish to see whatever waits for her.

From farther down the corridor comes the sound of something striking stone. Not loud enough to echo, but sharp enough to carry. A raised voice follows it, muffled by distance and walls, the words indistinct but the anger unmistakable. You feel it in your chest before you understand it fully.

The maids slow as they near the end of the hall, exchanging quick, uneasy looks. One of them hesitates, then continues on, her shoulders set as though bracing herself. A steward appears moments later, his steps controlled, his expression tight, issuing quiet instructions that send the others scattering with practiced efficiency.

Doors are closed. Voices lower.

You do not need to ask whose chambers lie at the end of that corridor.

The sounds do not last long. Another sharp impact. Then silence, deliberate and heavy, as though the keep itself has decided to look away. When the maids emerge again, their movements are more careful now, their faces composed but pale, eyes averted as they pass.

No one speaks to you. No one needs to.

You step back into your chambers and close the door softly behind you. The quiet that follows feels different than it did moments ago, charged with an understanding you did not seek but cannot avoid. You wash your hands again, though they are already clean, and take a steady breath as you prepare for dinner.

Whatever composure Aemond shows this evening, you know now it will have been earned.

And the knowledge settles in your chest, heavy and complicated, as the last of the afternoon light fades from the floor.

——

Dinner is announced shortly after the bells ring, and by the time you arrive the hall is already warm with candlelight.

The long table has been set with care, polished wood gleaming beneath hanging banners, the scent of roasted meat and herbs lingering in the air. Servants move quietly between seats, pouring wine and adjusting plates, their presence unobtrusive. Conversation settles into place as people take their seats, voices kept measured, laughter brief and controlled.

You sit beside your betrothed, his posture relaxed, his attention outward rather than fixed on you. He speaks easily with those nearest him, thoughtful without being showy, his tone steady. When he turns to you, it is with quiet courtesy, asking whether you are comfortable, whether you would like more wine. You answer politely. He nods and returns to the conversation without pressing.

Across the table, Aemond sits perfectly still.

Whatever unrest stirred the corridor earlier has been buried beneath composure. His expression is calm, his movements precise, every gesture deliberate. If there is anger in him, it has been locked away carefully, leaving only sharp focus behind. He does not look at you at first.

Talk drifts from one subject to another. Trade routes. Weather. A brief remark about the hunt planned for the morning, framed as tradition rather than celebration. Someone comments that it will be a good way to mark the occasion. Your betrothed inclines his head, considering.

“It will be good to get out of the keep,” he says. “I’ve always preferred movement to ceremony.”

The comment earns a few murmurs of agreement.

“I’m told my future wife rides well,” he adds, glancing toward you with a faint smile that holds more curiosity than claim. “I imagine she’ll welcome the change.”

Before you can respond, Aemond speaks.

“She does,” he says. “She always has.”

The words are simple. It’s the way he says them that isn’t.

Heat rises sharp and unwelcome, memory surfacing without permission.

His hands at your hips. His voice close to your ear. The way he had guided you with quiet certainty, close enough that instruction had blurred into something else entirely.

You keep your expression composed.

Your betrothed looks to Aemond again, this time with open interest rather than courtesy. “You sound certain.”

Aemond’s gaze shifts to you, steady now, deliberate. “Some things…are learned through practice,” he says. “And consistency.”

Your pulse betrays you. You lower your gaze to your plate, forcing your attention elsewhere.

Your betrothed does not seem unsettled. If anything, he smiles faintly, as though amused rather than challenged. “Endurance,” he says, “is an underrated skill.”

Aemond’s mouth curves slightly, the expression fleeting and sharp. “It depends on what one is willing to endure.”

Silence brushes the table, brief and contained, before conversation resumes around you as though nothing has passed between the lines. A servant pours more wine. Someone laughs softly. The moment is swallowed by noise.

Aemond does not look at you again.

You are grateful for it. You are not sure you could meet his gaze without revealing too much.

When the meal draws to a close, your betrothed rises smoothly and offers his arm. You take it. His grip is steady, warm, entirely appropriate. As he guides you from the table, he leans closer, his voice low.

“You seem warm,” he observes. “Too much wine, perhaps.”

You manage a small smile. “Perhaps.”

Behind you, you feel Aemond’s attention like a held breath. He does not follow. He does not call out.

The restraint is unmistakable. And it leaves you unsettled in a way that no pursuit ever could.

——

The hunt begins early, before the mist has fully lifted from the grounds.

Servants move through the yard with quiet purpose, leading horses out from the stables and checking saddles with practiced hands. Leather creaks as straps are adjusted. Horses stamp against the damp ground and are steadied with low murmurs. Breath fogs the air, then fades.

You pause near your horse as a young groom approaches, reins looped neatly over his arm. He inclines his head, respectful and efficient.

“My lady,” he says, stepping closer to steady the stirrup.

You place your foot where he guides it and let him help you up, the motion familiar enough that it barely registers. He adjusts the reins once you’re settled, gives a quick nod to himself, and steps back without another word.

Your betrothed comes to stand beside you, glancing briefly at the mist before looking up at you instead.

“The ground will be slick farther in,” he says. “If you’d rather keep to the main path, I can stay with you.”

“I’ll manage,” you reply. “I’ve ridden in worse.”

A faint smile touches his mouth, more thoughtful than amused.

“I don’t doubt it. Still—” he reaches up to adjust a strap at your saddle, then lowers his hand again, “—there’s no need to push yourself today.”

“I don’t intend to,” you say.

He studies you for a moment, as though weighing something he decides not to voice, then inclines his head. “As you wish. I’ll be nearby.”

Riders arrive in small numbers rather than all at once, some already mounted, others pausing to exchange a few words before climbing into their saddles. There is little excitement in it, only routine. Cloaks are settled. Gloves are pulled on and adjusted again. The usual checks are made before anyone is asked.

A horn sounds from beyond the gate, low and distant.

The riders begin to move, the line loosening as horses turn toward the path. Knights settle into their saddles as the party shifts forward, armor and leather sounding softly in the damp air. Banners lift overhead as the horses pass beneath them, fabric snapping once before disappearing into the mist. Hooves strike wet ground, splashing lightly, and the yard empties as everyone moves on together.

You follow the riders ahead of you through the gate and out beyond the walls. The keep slips away behind you as the path carries everyone forward together, the mist closing in until there is little to see beyond the backs of horses and the steady line of movement ahead.

At first, everyone stays together. The pace is easy, unhurried, the sort that allows for quiet conversation and small adjustments as riders settle into place. Cloaks shift. Reins are loosened and gathered again. The morning feels orderly, almost routine.

Your betrothed rides near you for a time, close enough to be attentive without pressing. He says little, content to keep pace, his focus divided between the path ahead and the riders around him.

The forest begins to close in as the path narrows. Branches hang lower, brushing against sleeves and cloaks, and the ground softens beneath hooves where roots break through the surface. Riders drift apart without instruction, following bends in the trail or choosing paths that feel familiar. Voices thin, then fall away altogether, swallowed by distance and fog.

The path curves gently, then again, and something low along its edge draws your eye just long enough to slow your pace. You guide your horse aside and stop without quite deciding to, the quiet settling around you as the others continue on. By the time you lift your head, the mist has thickened and the riders ahead are already out of sight.

The forest feels smaller now, the path narrowing as it bends away. You remain mounted for a moment, listening to the soft shift of leaves and the steady breath of your horse, before swinging down and looping the reins loosely over a low branch. You kneel near the edge of the path, brushing aside damp leaves with ease, picking at the weeds without much thought.

Slowly, you rise from where you’ve knelt, brushing the damp from your hands as you turn back toward the path. The mist hangs low, close enough that the forest feels narrowed, contained.

Then, you hear the horse before you see him.

Hooves slow behind you, then stop. A moment passes, followed by the sound of boots on wet ground as he dismounts, unhurried and deliberate. You don’t turn right away. You don’t have to.

“Congratulations,” Aemond says. He speaks without warmth, the sound of his voice empty, as though there is no real sentiment behind his words.

You glance back then. He stands a short distance away, reins in one hand, his posture composed, his expression carefully neutral. If anyone were close enough to see him, they would think this nothing more than courtesy.

“Thank you,” you reply.

Another pause follows, longer this time.

“You’ll be well placed,” he continues. “It’s a sensible match.”

You nod once. “That seems to be the general opinion.”

His gaze flicks briefly to your face, then away again. “Your family will be pleased.”

“Yes,” you say. “They already are.”

The quiet stretches between you, thin and uneasy. Mist shifts at your feet, dampening sound, closing the space. Somewhere farther off, a horn sounds faintly, already distant.

“You shouldn’t linger,” he says at last. “The others have moved on.”

“I know.”

You turn slightly, as if to go, then stop. The words come before you quite decide to let them.

“It’s kind of you to notice,” you say. “I wasn’t sure it would concern you.”

He looks at you then.

Not sharply, just long enough that the space between the two of you tightens.

“You assume it doesn’t,” he says.

You meet his gaze. “Why would it?”

His jaw sets, the first real sign of strain. “You think I’d congratulate you otherwise?”

You shrug, a small, careless motion that you immediately regret. “You’ve been very good at standing by.”

The air changes.

Not suddenly, but enough that you feel it settle, heavier and closer than before. The quiet stretches between you, thin and uneasy.

Aemond does not look away. His gaze stays on you longer than courtesy allows, steady and intent, as though he is waiting for something you have already decided not to give him. When he steps forward, it is not sudden or forceful, but deliberate, the space between you shortening a fraction at a time.

“You speak as though I stood idle,” he says, his voice controlled, though something tighter runs beneath it now.

“You did,” you reply. “You watched.”

His jaw tightens, the muscle there working once before stilling again. “You mistake restraint for absence.”

“And yet, you said nothing when it mattered.”

The words linger between you, heavy and unresolved. He steps forward again, and you move back without meaning to, the mist shifting at your ankles as the distance disappears. The rough bark of a tree meets your shoulders, cold through your cloak, and you realize too late that he has guided you there without ever touching you.

He stops just short of you, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him despite the chill, close enough that there is nowhere left to retreat.

“You think this was easy,” he says quietly. “Standing there while they spoke of you as though you were already gone.”

“You let them,” you say. “You let me go.”

Something in his composure fractures then.

Not anger aimed at you, but something sharper, more personal, with nowhere to settle. His gaze drops briefly, then lifts again, darker now, stripped of the careful distance he arrived with.

“I did not lose you,” he says. “I restrained myself.”

“For what?” you ask. “For propriety? For patience?”

“For the belief that I still had time,” he replies. “That I could afford to wait.”

His hands come up to either side of you, bracing against the tree, trapping you there without touching you at all. The closeness is suffocating, deliberate, and you feel the weight of it immediately, the way the moment tilts beyond control.

“You were always mine,” he says, the words slipping out before he can stop them. “You still are.”

Your breath catches, but you don’t look away.

“No,” you hold your ground, feeling the anger begin to build in the pit of your stomach. “You lost that privilege.”

The words barely settle before the rest of them come rushing out, sharp and breathless, carried on everything you’ve been holding back.

“You stood there while they spoke over me,” you say, your voice tight but steady. “You let them bargain my future as though I were a thing to be passed from one hand to another, and you did nothing. Not a word. Not even a look.”

He draws a breath, but you keep going.

“You watched them claim me,” you continue, anger flaring hot in your chest. “You let them bind me to a man I do not want while you stood aside and called it restraint. If that is your honor, then keep it. I want no part of it.”

Your hands curl at your sides. Your voice wavers, just slightly.

“You had every chance,” you say. “You stayed close. You looked at me as though you meant something by it. You let me believe I mattered to you.”

Your throat tightens. You swallow, but the feeling does not ease.

“And when it mattered,” you go on, more quietly now, “…you never chose me.”

The words cost more than the others. Your breath stutters. Tears gather despite your effort to blink them back, spilling over and tracing hot lines down your cheeks.

“You let me hope,” you say, your voice breaking at last. “You let me fall into it like a fool.”

You shake your head, a quiet, helpless motion. Another tear slips free. Then another.

“I loved you,” you say, the confession tearing itself loose before you can stop it. Your voice cracks fully now, grief bleeding through the anger. “I loved you, and I thought… I thought it was enough.”

Your chest tightens, breath uneven as the truth presses harder than you can bear. You try to speak again, to finish it, to say his name.

“I love you,” you whisper, tears falling freely now. “I love you, Aemond Targaryen—”

He doesn’t let you finish.

His mouth is on yours, sudden and desperate, silencing the rest of your confession before it can leave you undone. The kiss cuts off your breath and your words at once, his hands firm at your waist as though holding you there is the only way to stop you from saying it aloud.

The kiss breaks only so he can breathe, his breath harsh against your lips, and then his mouth trails downward, slow and unthinking, along your jaw. The touch there is rougher and less restrained — his lips pressing to your skin as though he has lost patience with his own hesitation.

“I love you,” he murmurs against your skin, the words torn from him, painful in the way they leave his mouth. “Gods forgive me, I do.”

Your breath stutters as his mouth moves lower, lingering at your neck, his voice dropping as though he cannot bear to say the rest aloud.

“No man should touch what is mine,” he mutters, the words dark with fury rather than pride. “Not after I have known you. Not after this.”

His jaw tightens as if the thought alone enrages him, his breath hot against your throat.

“That lord,” he continues, bitterness cutting sharp beneath the restraint, “That— that stupid fool would not know you. He would not know where to place his hands, wouldn’t know how to touch you—how to please you, what it takes to make you come undone.”

The hand at your waist clenches, knuckles pressing into you like an anchor.

“I would see the world burn before I let him take what I should have claimed,” he says, low and unguarded, the admission sounding like something dragged from him against his will.

His mouth presses there again, harder this time, a kiss that feels like a vow he knows he has no right to make. His breath shakes against your skin, love and anger tangled together so tightly they are indistinguishable.

Then the horn sounds.

Low at first. Distant enough that it barely registers.

Aemond stills, his lips hovering against your skin, his breath shuddering out slowly as restraint crashes back into him. For a heartbeat, he doesn’t move. He doesn’t pull away.

His mouth lingers at your throat, breath hot and uneven, as though he has forgotten everything else entirely.

Your grip loosens, “We should re-“

His mouth returns to your throat, slower now, deliberate where moments ago there had been no patience at all. You feel the press of his lips first, warm and lingering, and then the sharper edge as his teeth catch lightly at your skin.

The sensation pulls a gasp from you.

“Aemond—”

He makes a sound at that, low and strained, as though hearing his name like that costs him more than he expected. His breath stutters against your skin as his mouth stays there, the pull firm enough to make your pulse jump, heat flaring beneath the cold air.

For a heartbeat, he falters.

You feel it in the way his grip tightens at your waist, in the way his breath turns uneven, the careful control he prides himself on slipping despite his effort to hold it. The contact seems to hit him all at once, like he’s made a mistake he cannot undo and cannot bring himself to stop.

“Gods,” he mutters against your skin, the word broken, almost pained.

He draws back then, just far enough to look at you, his chest rising too fast, his jaw clenched as though he’s fighting himself. His gaze drops to your throat, intent and unblinking, and whatever he sees there tightens his expression further, satisfaction tangled with something far more dangerous.

He lifts a hand, thumb brushing the spot once, not gentle, not apologetic. The touch makes his breath hitch again, like even that is too much.

“This was always going to cost me,” he says quietly.

The horn sounds in the distance, low and unmistakable.

Aemond stills, breath dragging in slow and controlled now, restraint slamming back into place with visible effort. His hand drops from you at last, though it takes him a moment longer than it should.

When he steps back, the cold rushes in between you, sharp and immediate. He doesn’t look away right away, as though leaving the sight of you costs him something too.

Then the horn sounds again.

Closer now. Insistent.

Aemond’s jaw tightens. Whatever is written on his face disappears behind discipline, behind duty, behind the version of himself the world is allowed to see. He turns without another word and goes to his horse, movements precise, controlled, as though nothing has happened at all.

You stand there a moment longer, breath uneven, fingers curling uselessly at your sides.

When you finally lift a hand to your throat, the skin there is still warm.

Hogwarts | 1891 | Year 6

The thing about Hogwarts was that it never stopped watching you.

You felt it most clearly at night, when the corridors emptied and the castle’s sounds changed—when footsteps echoed too long and torches burned lower, as if conserving themselves for whatever came next. The stone seemed closer then. Older. Less interested in whether you were meant to be where you stood.

That feeling had kept you awake long past curfew, seated at the edge of the Undercroft table while Sebastian paced.

He hadn’t stopped moving for several minutes.

“You’re going to wear a path into the floor,” you said quietly.

Sebastian halted mid-step and turned toward you, eyes sharp in the low light. “You’re not listening.”

“I am,” you replied evenly. “You’ve just said the same thing four times.”

Across the room, Ominis leaned against the wall, arms folded loosely. He hadn’t said much since Sebastian started talking, but you could tell he was listening closely—not just to the words, but to the room itself, the way the air shifted when Sebastian raised his voice.

Sebastian ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “This isn’t dark magic. Not like everyone thinks.”

“That’s usually how it starts,” Ominis said calmly.

Sebastian scoffed. “You haven’t even read the sources.”

“I’ve read enough,” Ominis replied. “Anything that promises control without cost tends to leave that part out.”

Sebastian turned back to the table and shoved a book toward you. The spine was cracked, pages warped slightly from damp, margins crowded with frantic notes written in a familiar hand. You recognized the title immediately—restricted, half-redacted, one of the texts Professor Fig had warned against even citing.

“They called it Imperium,” Sebastian said, tapping the margin. “But not like the curse. Not domination. Order.”

Ominis straightened slightly. “Order imposed is still force.”

“That’s not what this was meant for,” Sebastian shot back. “It was designed to stabilize people. To quiet fear before it turns into something destructive.”

You frowned, flipping through the pages. “That’s not how coercion works.”

“That’s not how it’s described,” Sebastian insisted. “It responds to intent. To need.”

Ominis’s voice lowered. “And who decides whose need matters?”

The room fell silent.

Instead, he said more quietly, “You’ve seen what fear does when it’s left alone.”

The room fell still.

You had seen it. You all had. Fear left to fester, fear turned inward until it hardened into something sharp and desperate. You thought of Anne—of the way Sebastian came back from visits pale and furious, hands shaking with the effort of not breaking something.

Sebastian looked between you and Ominis. “If something like this exists… something that could take that edge away—”

“You don’t get to decide which edge disappears,” Ominis said.

“I’m not talking about everyone,” Sebastian shot back. “I’m talking about people who are already drowning.”

You felt the pull then. Not toward power, but toward the idea of relief.

Sebastian must have mistaken your silence for agreement, because his shoulders loosened slightly, as if something inside him had settled. He didn’t look at either of you for long after that, already turning back toward the book, toward the certainty he’d decided to believe in.

Ominis didn’t speak.

Instead, his hand brushed yours where it rested against the edge of the table. It wasn’t accidental. His fingers barely touched your knuckles—just enough to be felt, just to ask a question without words.

You glanced at him.

His expression hadn’t changed, but his head was angled slightly in your direction now. A small, deliberate shift. A quiet acknowledgment.

I see it too.

You let your fingers curl once, lightly, before pulling your hand away. He didn’t stop you.

Sebastian straightened. “We go tonight.”

—

The castle felt different at this hour. Awake, but watchful. Every sound seemed to linger longer than it should—the soft scuff of boots, the faint brush of fabric, the quiet echo of your breathing.

Sebastian led the way with practiced confidence, weaving through passages that felt less like hallways and more like arteries. You passed tapestries heavy with dust, stone arches carved so low you had to duck slightly beneath them.

Ominis stayed close. Not crowding you, but near enough that you were aware of him without looking. Once, when the floor dipped unexpectedly, his hand settled briefly at your elbow to steady you before withdrawing just as quickly.

Neither of you commented on it.

The staircase appeared suddenly, half-hidden behind a narrow panel of stone you’d walked past countless times without noticing. It descended sharply, spiraling into shadow. Cold air rose from below, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and something older—metallic, almost.

Sebastian paused at the top, torch held low. “This is it.”

You hesitated for half a second longer than you meant to.

Ominis shifted beside you. His shoulder brushed yours as he stepped closer, his voice low enough that only you could hear it.

“If you want to turn back,” he said quietly, “say so.”

You shook your head. “I’m not alone.”

“No,” he agreed. “You’re not.”

And then you descended.

—

The steps were narrow and uneven, worn smooth by something older than students sneaking after curfew. Moisture clung to the stone, slick beneath your boots, and the further you descended the colder it became. The torchlight didn’t quite reach the corners of the stairwell, shadows gathering there as if they preferred to remain unseen.

The castle felt distant now. Above you, Hogwarts continued on—sleeping students, quiet corridors, the illusion of safety—but down here, it felt like you’d slipped beneath its awareness.

Sebastian moved first, one hand braced against the wall as he navigated the curve of the stairs. His confidence didn’t waver. If anything, it sharpened the deeper you went, as though the dark steadied him instead of the other way around.

You followed carefully, fingers brushing the stone for balance. The air grew heavier with each step, carrying the faint hum you’d noticed earlier—subtle but persistent, like something breathing just out of sync with you.

Ominis stayed just behind your shoulder.

You didn’t need to look to know he was there. You felt it in the way his steps matched yours, in how he adjusted his pace without a word whenever the stairs dipped or narrowed. When your foot slipped slightly on damp stone, his hand caught your wrist immediately, firm but gentle, steadying you before you could even react.

“You’re alright,” he murmured.

You nodded, pulse settling. “Yeah.”

His hand lingered a fraction longer than necessary before withdrawing. This time, neither of you pretended not to notice.

The stairwell ended abruptly, opening into a narrow passage that sloped downward at an angle that felt deliberate. The walls here were rougher, unfinished, the stone darkened with age and moisture. Water dripped somewhere ahead, the sound echoing too clearly in the confined space.

Sebastian slowed, lifting the torch higher. The flame flickered, reacting to something in the air.

“You feel that?” he asked quietly.

“Yes,” you said.

Ominis didn’t answer, but you could feel the tension in him now. His posture had shifted, shoulders squared, attention fixed not on the walls but on the space itself—as though he were listening for something beneath the sound of your footsteps.

The passage opened suddenly.

The chamber was circular, carved directly from the rock, its ceiling low enough to press down on your awareness. Runes spiraled along the walls in uneven rings, etched so deeply they seemed part of the stone rather than markings laid upon it. The air inside was colder, sharper, and the hum you’d been feeling resolved into something clearer—still quiet, but undeniable.

You stopped just inside the threshold.

Not fear.

Recognition.

Your breath caught before you could stop it.

Sebastian stepped in fully, awe softening his expression. “It’s here.”

At the center of the room stood the pedestal.

Black stone, smooth and unadorned, rising just above the floor. Embedded in it was the artifact itself—smaller than you’d imagined, dark and simple, its surface absorbing the torchlight rather than reflecting it.

Imperium.

The name surfaced in your mind without invitation, settling there as though it had been waiting.

Ominis halted beside you. His hand brushed the back of your arm, subtle but grounding. “Don’t move too quickly,” he said.

Sebastian didn’t listen.

He approached the pedestal slowly, reverence replacing the restless edge he’d carried moments before. The closer he got, the quieter he became, as though the chamber itself demanded it.

“Can you feel it?” he asked, not turning back. His voice was low, almost awed. “It’s not… threatening.”

“It doesn’t need to be,” Ominis replied, his voice low and warning.

Sebastian’s mouth curved faintly. “You always assume the worst.”

He reached out.

The moment his fingers brushed the surface, the chamber reacted.

The hum deepened, vibrating through the stone beneath your feet. Runes along the walls flared once—sharp, blinding—and pressure built low in your chest, tight and insistent, stealing the air from your lungs.

Sebastian staggered. “Merlin—”

You moved forward without thinking.

Ominis caught your wrist, his grip firm this time. “Wait.”

“He’s hurt,” you said, panic creeping into your voice.

“No,” Ominis’ fingers dug tightly into your skin and for a moment you felt his fear. “It’s…binding.”

Sebastian straightened slowly, breath uneven, one hand braced against the pedestal. “I’m fine,” he said, though his voice wavered. “It’s just… loud.”

The artifact pulsed again.

The pressure crawled higher, settling beneath your ribs like a weight you couldn’t shake. You took a step back, chest tightening.

Ominis noticed immediately. He moved closer, his hand sliding from your wrist to your forearm, steady and warm. “Breathe,” he said softly.

You did. Slowly. The pressure eased, retreating just enough to let your lungs expand fully again.

Sebastian turned toward you, eyes bright with something unreadable. “It’s reacting to us.”

“No,” Ominis said, his voice strained. “It’s reacting to you.”

Sebastian scoffed, though the sound lacked conviction. “You think I’m special?”

The artifact answered.

A thin vein of dark light extended from its surface, reaching toward Sebastian’s hand. It pressed there briefly—testing, measuring—before snapping back into the artifact itself.

The hum fractured, then collapsed inward.

Sebastian inhaled sharply, stumbling back a step.

The chamber settled slowly, the pressure easing in increments rather than vanishing outright. The runes dimmed, their glow fading into the stone. The artifact remained exactly where it had been—unchanged, silent.

For a moment, none of you moved.

Then, breaking the silence, Sebastian laughed under his breath. It was short, brittle, and didn’t quite reach his eyes. “See?” he said lightly. “Nothing.”

He turned his hand over once more, flexing his fingers as if daring something to happen.

You didn’t move.

Your gaze stayed fixed on his skin, half-expecting to see something surface — a mark, a shadow, anything that would make sense of the way your chest still felt tight. The pressure had faded, but the air in the chamber hadn’t fully settled. It felt thinner now. Wrong.

“That…that doesn’t mean nothing happened,” you said quietly.

Sebastian looked at you then, really looked, and his expression softened. “You’re overthinking it.”

“I don’t think I am.”

Ominis remained still, head angled slightly as though listening past Sebastian’s words. His posture had changed — subtle, but unmistakable. Less relaxed. More alert.

“It’s quiet,” he said slowly. “Too quiet.”

Sebastian frowned. “You said it wasn’t active.”

Ominis didn’t look at him.

“I said it wasn’t doing anything yet,” he replied. “That’s not the same thing.”

That landed differently.

Sebastian glanced back at the pedestal, then at his hand again. “You’re both acting like it did something.”

You swallowed. “It reacted to you.”

“So?” he said. “It didn’t hurt me.”

“No,” Ominis agreed. “It didn’t.”

There was a pause.

“And that,” Ominis continued, carefully, “is what concerns me.”

The chamber seemed to close in around you then — not physically, but in the way silence does when it’s listening. The runes along the walls no longer glowed, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that they were watching, waiting for something that hadn’t arrived yet.

Sebastian straightened, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the moment. “You’re both being dramatic.”

He stepped back toward the pedestal, curiosity flickering again.

Ominis moved before you could think to stop him.

His arm came out across your path, not forceful but firm, a quiet barrier. “We’re leaving.”

Sebastian stopped. “You don’t get to decide that.”

“I’m deciding it anyway,” Ominis said.

The air between them tightened.

You stepped closer to Sebastian, lowering your voice. “Please. Just — not tonight.”

He hesitated.

For the first time since you’d entered the chamber, doubt flickered across his face. Just for a moment.

Then it hardened into resolve.

“I’m fine,” he said. “You saw that.”

You had.

That was the problem.

As you turned away, the artifact remained exactly as it had been — dark, still, unremarkable. And yet the hum hadn’t disappeared entirely. It had simply receded, slipping beneath your awareness like a memory you didn’t want to examine too closely.

The climb back up felt longer.

Sebastian walked ahead again, confidence restored too quickly, his steps lighter than they had any right to be. You watched him closely, noting the way he moved, the ease in his shoulders, the absence of hesitation.

It scared you more than if he’d been shaken.

Ominis stayed beside you, closer now than before. When the passage narrowed, his hand settled briefly at your back, guiding you through without comment. You noticed the way his fingers tightened slightly, then loosened again, as if he were reminding himself to breathe.

Neither of you spoke until you reached the top of the stairs.

When you finally emerged into the upper corridor, the warmth of the castle felt unreal — too normal, too unchanged.

Sebastian turned toward you both, smiling. “See? Nothing to worry about.”

You forced a nod, but your gaze lingered on him as he walked away, unease pooling low in your stomach.

Ominis didn’t look at Sebastian at all.

His attention was fixed on the stairwell behind you, head tilted, listening.

After a moment, he spoke quietly.

“It didn’t take anything from him,” he said.

You waited.

“But it didn’t let him go either.”

Your breath caught.

Ominis finally turned toward you, his expression controlled but tight around the edges. “Whatever that was meant to do,” he said, “it recognized something in him.”

“…And that’s bad?” you whispered.

“Yes,” he replied. “I think it is.”

The corridor remained empty. Silent. Ordinary.

But as you walked away, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted — not in the castle, but in Sebastian.

And whatever had answered him in that chamber hadn’t needed to follow.

Stone walls were draped in the banners of House Targaryen, black and red hanging heavy beneath iron sconces where torches burned low and smoked faintly. The air was thick with roasted meat, wine, and heat trapped beneath the vaulted ceiling. Laughter rolled across the hall in waves — too loud, too practiced — each voice trying to be heard over the others.

The feast was not meant to be enjoyed.

It was meant to be endured.

You stood near the lower tables, fingers circling the stem of your goblet, watching the room with careful detachment. Court required it. Feeling too much here was a liability, and you had learned long ago how to soften your expression, how to appear content even when your chest ached with things you did not dare name.

Your eyes betrayed you anyway.

Aemond sat nearer the high table, dark against the torchlight, his posture composed and immovable. He looked carved from the keep itself—unyielding, sharp-edged, his attention fixed on everything and nothing all at once. When the woman approached him, it felt inevitable rather than surprising.

She moved with confidence, her silver-threaded gown catching the light as she leaned close to speak. Her laughter carried, light and deliberate, and when her hand brushed his arm, it lingered just long enough to be intentional.

You waited for him to stop it.

He didn’t.

He listened, inclined his head, answered her calmly, allowing her presence with the same distant courtesy he extended to half the court. He did not encourage her. He did not dismiss her either. The restraint—measured, polite—felt somehow worse than outright interest.

Something tight and painful settled low in your chest.

He had never promised you anything. That truth had followed you for months now, quiet and insistent. Whatever lived between you and Aemond existed in the margins—late conversations in shadowed corridors, shared silences that felt heavier than words, the way he always seemed to find you without ever seeking you out.

You had learned to survive in that space.

…And you had mistaken it for safety.

Watching him now, so unmoved as another woman smiled up at him, that fragile understanding felt suddenly humiliating.

“My lady?”

You turned, startled.

A young knight stood close, his armor newly polished, his expression open in a way that felt almost foreign here. He smiled easily, without calculation, as though wanting you were the simplest thing in the world.

“Will you dance?” he asked, gesturing toward the open space forming as the musicians shifted into a slower, measured tune.

You hesitated, the question hanging between you like a dare.

“…Yes,” you said finally. “I will.”

The knight’s hand was warm at your waist as he guided you forward. Around you, skirts brushed stone, laughter rose and fell, bodies turning in practiced steps. You let yourself move with the music, let the knight spin you once, his smile bright and uncomplicated.

You did not look toward the high table.

Not at first.

But you felt it—attention sharp enough to prickle at your skin. When you finally glanced up, Aemond was watching.

He had not moved. He had not spoken.

Yet his eye tracked you with frightening focus, jaw set, expression unreadable as the knight’s hand settled more confidently at your back. The woman beside him was still speaking, still smiling, but she had already been forgotten.

Aemond remained composed.

That was what hurt the most.

You laughed—too loudly, too brightly—and allowed the knight to draw you closer, the warmth of his presence a brief balm against the cold discipline you had grown used to. You told yourself this meant nothing. That you were allowed this much.

The dance ended with polite applause. The knight bowed, smiling, and the moment his hand left yours, the weight of everything rushed back in.

You murmured a hurried thanks and turned away before your resolve could falter, leaving the hall without looking back.

The corridors beyond were cooler, the heat of the feast falling away into damp stone and torch smoke. Your steps quickened, breath uneven, the sound of music dulling behind you until it felt distant and unreal.

You almost made it to the stairwell, before you heard echoed footsteps behind you—measured, deliberate, and unmistakable.

You turned just as his hand closed around your wrist.

“Aemond—”

He didn’t slow.

He pulled you into the shadow of a narrow passage, trapping you between his body and stone — torchlight flickering across sharp lines of his face, his expression carved from restraint. The silence between you felt taut, stretched thin enough to snap.

“You enjoyed yourself,” he said.

It was not a question.

You laughed softly, the sound breaking despite your effort to control it. “I danced. But you… you seemed occupied.”

His eye darkened. “You wanted me to watch.”

“Perhaps,” you looked away, the truth cutting even as you spoke it. “I wanted to know if it would matter.”

The corridor seemed to close in around you.

“You made a spectacle,” Aemond said finally, voice calm and cruel in its precision.

“And you sat there and let another woman touch you,” you shot back. “Tell me—what part of that was meant for me?”

His jaw tightened. “You confuse tolerance for intention.”

“And you confuse restraint for kindness,” you replied, heat rising fast. “You keep me close, just close enough, and then look at me as though I’m foolish for wanting more.”

The words hung between you, heavy and irreversible.

“I owe you nothing,” Aemond said.

The corridor fell silent after his words, the torch behind him sputtering softly as if even the flame hesitated. For a moment, you simply stared at him, the sound of the feast muffled behind stone and distance, your chest tight enough that breathing felt like work. All the restraint you had practiced for months — every swallowed question, every quiet hope — collapsed under the weight of it.

Your hand moved before you could stop it. The sound of the slap cracked through the passage, sharp and unmistakable, echoing off the stone walls. The impact turned his head slightly, a short breath tearing from his chest as he absorbed it. For a heartbeat, Aemond didn’t move at all.

Then he looked back at you.

Not furious.

Not shocked.

Unraveled.

Your fingers trembled where they hovered between you, heat rushing up your arm as tears blurred your vision.

“You don’t get to say that to me,” you said, your voice breaking despite your effort to keep it steady. “You don’t get to keep me close when it suits you and then pretend I’m nothing when it doesn’t.”

Aemond’s jaw tightened, the mark already blooming along his cheek. His control wavered visibly now, breath uneven, eye dark with something conflicted and sharp. He stepped toward you, closing the space too quickly, forcing you back until cold stone met your shoulders.

“Do not strike me,” he said, but the words lacked their usual certainty.

“Then don’t speak to me like I’m disposable,” you whispered, tears spilling over at last, hot and humiliating as they traced down your cheeks. “I loved you quietly. I did everything quietly. And you still found a way to make me feel foolish for it.”

Something broke then — not loudly, but completely.

Aemond’s hand came up to brace against the wall beside your head, fingers digging into the stone as though he needed the anchor, while the other closed around your waist with sudden, aching force, gathering your skirts in his fist. His breath hitched, a low, frustrated sound torn from him before he could stop it.

“You think I don’t feel this?” he said, voice rough, torn between anger and want. “You think it doesn’t tear at me to watch you look at someone else like that?”

“You let me,” you cried. “You watched and you let me.”

His mouth found yours then — not gentle nor careful — the kiss driven by fury and need tangled so tightly they were indistinguishable. It was heated and desperate, his grip firm at your waist as if he were afraid you would disappear if he loosened it, as if wanting you were the only honest thing left in him. The kiss tasted of wine and restraint and everything he refused to name, his breath uneven, a strained sound escaping him like a confession dragged unwillingly into the open.

You sobbed softly into it, hands curling into his tunic, heartbreak and longing crashing together until it hurt too much to sort them apart.

When he finally pulled back, he stayed close, forehead resting against yours, both of you breathing hard. His hand remained at your waist, grip loosened now, thumb brushing your side in a touch so tender it felt like cruelty all its own.

Tears slipped freely down your face.

Aemond closed his eye, as if the sight of them cost him something.

“I want you,” he said at last, the words heavy and raw, pulled from him with effort. “Gods help me, I do. But I cannot give you what you are asking for. And I will not lie just to keep you here.”

The admission hurt more than the slap ever had.

Slowly…deliberately…he let go.

Control slid back into place over him like armor reforged, leaving you pressed against the cold stone with the echo of his touch still burning on your skin and the knowledge that wanting him would always mean wanting more than he was willing to give.

The gardens were bright with afternoon light, trimmed hedges holding the warmth of the sun like a secret. Women gathered beneath the flowering trees, skirts brushing stone paths, their voices rising and falling in easy conversation. You sat among them, hands folded loosely in your lap, listening more than speaking.

Then you saw him.

Aemond moved along the far path, dark against the pale green of the garden, his presence cutting cleanly through the softness around him. His cloak was fastened too tightly for the weather, his steps sharp and purposeful. He looked… unsettled. His jaw was clenched, gaze distant, as if his thoughts were already elsewhere.

Without thinking, you lifted your hand.

Not a wave meant for anyone else—just a small motion, familiar. Something only he would recognize.

Aemond’s eye flicked toward you.

For a moment, your heart skipped a beat, thinking he might come over.

Instead, his expression tightened. He looked away, pace quickening as he passed beyond the trellis.

Your hand lowered slowly.

“He always looks angry,” one of the women murmured nearby, watching him go. “I don’t know how anyone stands it.”

You said nothing.

You knew better.

But before you could sit back down, voices rose near the stone archway bordering the garden. Too sharp to ignore. The chatter around you faltered as attention turned.

Aemond stood there now, facing his brother.

Aegon’s posture was loose, careless even in tension, but his voice carried irritation. “You always look at me like that,” he said. “As if you’re waiting for me to fail.”

Aemond’s reply was low, controlled—but edged. “You do not need my help in that.”

A few women gasped softly. You felt your chest tighten.

Aegon scoffed, stepping closer. “Careful. You forget who wears the crown.”

“I forget nothing,” Aemond replied, stepping forward in turn. His hand curled at his side—not raised, not threatening, but tight with restraint. “You forget what it costs the rest of us when you refuse to care.”

Aegon laughed, sharp and bitter. “And what would you have me do? Be more like you?”

Aemond’s eye darkened. “I would have you remember that duty is not optional.”

The moment stretched—fragile, yet dangerous.

Then a voice cut through the air, calling Aemond’s name. The tension broke just enough. Aemond turned away without another word, cloak snapping behind him as he left the garden entirely.

You watched him go, heart heavy.

—

By the time you reached his chambers, rain had begun to fall. Not sudden or violent—just steady, soaking the stone and cooling the air. You clutched the small wrapped bundle you carried closer to your chest as you knocked.

Once. Soft.

There was a pause.

Then, “Enter.”

Warmth greeted you immediately.

A fire burned low in the hearth, casting soft gold across the stone walls. Candles flickered on the table, their light gentler than the torches lining the corridors outside. Aemond stood near the window, rain streaking down the glass behind him. His eyepatch lay abandoned on the table beside his gloves.

He hadn’t turned yet.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said quietly.

“You didn’t come to supper,” you replied.

That made him look at you.

His gaze lingered—searching, tired, and familiar. You crossed the room without waiting for permission and set the bundle down on the table, unwrapping it carefully.

Warm bread. Salted cheese. A small dish of honeyed figs—his favorite, though he’d never admitted it aloud.

“You remembered,” he said.

“I always do.”

He exhaled slowly, tension easing just enough for you to notice. You poured him a cup of watered wine, setting it within reach before he could ask. Only then did you look at him fully.

“You’re soaked,” he observed.

“So are you.”

That earned the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth—gone almost as soon as it appeared.

He removed his glove, then the other, setting them aside with care. When he reached for the bread, his movements were slower than usual, deliberate. You watched him eat, knowing better than to interrupt.

“You saw,” he said after a moment.

“Yes.”

He didn’t ask what you thought of it. He never did. Instead, he stepped closer, stopping just in front of you. Close enough that the heat of the fire warmed you both.

“I don’t like when you look at me like that,” he said quietly.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re worried.”

You lifted your hand and brushed rain-dampened strands of silver hair back from his temple. He went still—but he didn’t stop you.

“I care,” you said simply.

That did it.

Aemond reached for you, his bare hand finding yours. He drew you closer—not hurried, not demanding—until your foreheads rested together. His breath was warm, steadying.

“This,” he murmured, “is not something I share.”

“I know.”

You slid your hand to his chest, feeling the quiet strength beneath. His hand moved to your back, firm and protective, anchoring you there.

“You shouldn’t have to carry everything alone,” you said.

His thumb brushed your knuckles once—gentle, unconscious.

“And yet,” he replied, “you are here.”

You leaned into him then, letting your weight rest against his. He accepted it without hesitation, chin resting lightly atop your head. Outside, the rain fell harder, drumming against the windows—but inside, the chamber remained warm and still.

After a while, he spoke again.

“You looked upset in the garden,” he said.

You hadn’t realized he’d noticed.

“It wasn’t easy to watch,” you admitted.

His hold tightened slightly. “I didn’t mean for you to see that.”

“I know.”

Silence settled comfortably between you, filled only by the fire’s crackle and the rain beyond the walls. When you finally pulled back, just enough to look at him, his gaze softened—unguarded in a way he allowed no one else to see.

“You steady me,” he said quietly.

You smiled, small and real. “You do the same for me.”

He leaned down then, pressing a careful kiss to your temple—nothing hurried or beyond what was already understood.

Outside, the storm passed on.

The rain had settled into London the way it always did when the city wanted to feel older than it was—steady, cold, unhurried. It slicked the cobblestones and softened the street into something quieter, lanternlight stretching thin across the wet stone before breaking apart.

The carriage slowed, wheels grinding faintly as it came to a stop.

Rain tapped against the window beside you, a constant, low percussion. Across the street, the building glowed warmly despite the hour. Its windows spilled uneven light onto the pavement, the wood of its façade darkened by rain but sturdy all the same, like it had weathered worse and carried on.

A crooked sign hung above the door, its gold lettering dulled by time but unmistakable.

Weasley’s Wonders.

Ominis stepped down first. He didn’t rush you, but you felt the shift in his attention the moment you followed, his awareness adjusting instinctively to your presence. Rain caught the hem of your coat immediately, cold seeping in before you could stop it.

He held the door just long enough for you to pass close. The bell chimed overhead—bright, cheerful, deeply unserious for the hour.

Warmth met you at once. Not heat, exactly—comfort. The shop smelled faintly of sugar and parchment, layered with something sharper beneath it. Metal. Smoke. The lingering trace of magic that had misbehaved recently and survived the correction.

The space was narrow but deep, shelves stacked high and crowded with objects that resisted order. Labels rewrote themselves as you passed. A row of tin figurines marched along the windowsill, boots tapping in rhythm. Somewhere overhead, something ticked without any interest in keeping time.

It was chaos.

But it was a living chaos—busy, clever, unapologetically alive in a way few places were anymore.

Your shoulders eased before you realized they’d been tense.

A voice drifted from behind a curtain of dangling charms.

“If you’re here to sell me something cursed, I’m not buying it unless it’s interesting.”

A beat.

“Actually—if it’s cursed and interesting, I’ll consider it.”

There was a clatter, a sharp curse, and then the curtain was shoved aside.

Garreth Weasley emerged like a man who had been arguing with an object and lost. Sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair a mess that looked intentional until you noticed the singed streak near his temple. Soot smudged one cheek. His grin was bright, familiar, and unapologetic.

His eyes found you first—quick, warm, and recognizing.

Then they flicked to Ominis.The grin sharpened.

“Oh,” Garreth said. “So it’s that kind of night.”

“Hello, Weasley,” Ominis replied evenly.

Garreth’s gaze moved between you, interest sparking as he took in the rain still clinging to your coats, the hour, the lack of pleasantries. “You wrote like you were being chased.”

Ominis’s mouth tilted slightly. “We may be.”

Something in Garreth’s posture shifted—not fear, but focus. He jerked his chin toward the back of the shop. “Back room. Less chance of someone overhearing. Also less chance of something exploding near the customers.”

As if summoned, a glass orb on the nearest shelf sputtered and released a small puff of glittering smoke.

Garreth pointed at it without looking. “That one’s on probation.”

He disappeared behind the curtain without waiting.

The back room felt quieter the moment you stepped into it—insulated from the shop, the street outside suddenly distant. A single hanging lamp cast steady light over a wide workbench crowded with half-finished projects: brass fittings laid out carefully, parchment weighed down by mismatched tools, a dismantled pocketwatch whose hands lay scattered near a shallow tray.

The air smelled faintly of ink and warm metal.

Garreth sealed the door with a flick of his wand. The latch clicked softly, followed by a faint tightening in the air that raised the hair along your arms. He hesitated, glanced toward you, then added a second charm—slower this time, deliberate.

The room settled around it.

“Habit,” he said, shrugging. “Some things listen.”

You took one of the chairs he indicated. Ominis sat beside you, close enough that you were aware of the warmth at his side when he shifted, though he never touched you outright.

Garreth leaned back against the workbench, arms folding loosely. The lamp overhead hummed quietly.

“All right,” he said. “Tell me what you didn’t put in the letter.”

Ominis angled his head slightly, listening—not just to Garreth, but to the room itself. To the wards settling. To the shop beyond the curtain.

“They’re meeting again,” he said.

Garreth’s brows lifted. “Who.”

“Old families,” Ominis replied. “The sort that prefer closed doors and conversations that never quite say what they mean.”

Garreth let out a quiet breath through his nose, thumb tapping once against the edge of the workbench. “So they’re being careful.”

“They’ve moved past hypotheticals,” Ominis said. “No more discussions about what could happen. They’re planning as if it already will.”

The lamp overhead gave a faint hum as Garreth straightened. “Meaning they think they’re close.”

“Yes.”

Garreth reached for his notebook, hesitated, then left it where it was. “And Viktor’s the one steering this.”

Ominis’s jaw tightened. “He is.”

“That tracks,” Garreth muttered. “He always liked being just ahead of the conversation.”

Ominis’s cane shifted slightly against his leg. “He was older than us. Briefly at Hogwarts. Long enough for people to notice him—then gone before anyone could decide what to make of him.”

Garreth nodded slowly. “Selwyn money. The kind people remember even when the person disappears.”

“He learned when to step back,” Ominis said. “And when to return.”

Garreth’s mouth flattened. “That doesn’t make him subtle.”

“No,” Ominis agreed. “It makes him patient.”

The lamp flickered once, then steadied.

“They mentioned an artifact,” Ominis continued.

Garreth’s fingers stilled where they rested on the bench. “What kind?

“It's an old coercive artifact,” Ominis said. “Not a curse you cast but something designed to persist. It feeds on fear that already exists and reinforces it unitl resistancee stops feeling like a choice. People will obey not because they've been forced false belief...people will obey because pushing back becomes unbearable.”

"Merlin's sake..." Garreth exhaled slowly, gaze drifting over the scattered tools. “So it's not exactly an embodiment of the Cruciatus.”

“No,” Ominis replied.

"You know exactly what's being done to you. This-" Garreth shook his head slightly. "It settles in and convinces you as if it's your own idea, even while it's wearing you down."

Your pale haired companion nods grimly.

“And they think it answers to blood,” Garreth asks closely.

“They believe authority follows lineage,” Ominis said carefully. “That those of pure blood decent are the ones who can use it.”

Garreth scoffed under his breath. “They always think that.”

“They don’t need certainty,” Ominis said. “Only enough confidence to act.”

Garreth closed the notebook with a soft tap. “...Did they name it?

“No.”

“Smart,” Garreth muttered. “Names leave trails.”

“Though...they spoke as if it’s already been moved,” Ominis added.

Garreth looked up sharply. “Moved where.”

Ominis didn’t answer.

Rain struck the window harder for a moment, the sound filling the space where the question lingered. Garreth studied him. “You’re being careful.”

“Yes.”

Garreth nodded once. “Good.”

His nod lingered for a moment longer than necessary. He pushed off the workbench and moved a few steps away, boots scuffing softly against the floor as he crossed the room. One of the brass fittings near the edge of the table rattled faintly as he brushed past it, then settled again.

“All right,” he said at last. “Then here’s the problem.”

He turned back to face you both, hands braced against the bench now, shoulders squared—not theatrical, just focused.

“If they’re confident,” he continued, “it’s because something’s already moving. Either the object itself or the people who think they can control it.”

“I don’t believe Viktor plans around being wrong,” Ominis said.

“No,” Garreth agreed. “He plans around being first.”

The lamp overhead hummed softly as if in agreement. Rain slid down the window in uneven tracks, blurring the street beyond into streaks of muted light.

“I’ve heard things,” Garreth went on, voice lower this time. “Not enough to be certain. Just patterns. Objects changing hands without record. Private collections suddenly relocating. People asking the wrong questions and acting like it’s coincidence.”

Ominis leaned forward slightly, cane shifting with him. “Where?”

Garreth shook his head. “Still confirming. If it’s what you think it is, it won’t leave a clean trail.”

You felt Ominis shift beside you. His sleeve brushed against yours—brief, deliberate, grounding. The contact was gone almost as soon as you noticed it, but it left you more aware of how close he was, how carefully he held himself.

Garreth noticed the movement. His mouth twitched, but he didn’t comment.

“Still,” he said lightly, easing the tension just enough to keep it from snapping, “it’s nice to see you both alive.”

You frowned. “Alive?”

Garreth waved a hand. “Last time this bloke showed up, something melted.”

You turned slowly toward Ominis. “Melted.”

He didn’t answer.

Garreth grinned. “Sebastian was involved.”

Understanding clicked—not the details, just the shape of it. So that was the kind of help Ominis Gaunt occasionally needed from Garreth Weasley.

You bit back a smile.

Garreth continued, waving his hands about, clearly enjoying himself. “There was smoke. There was yelling. There was—”

“Weasley,” Ominis sighed.

Garreth laughed. “Short version. Got it.”

He glanced at you. “Sebastian brewed something he shouldn’t have. Ominis cleaned it up.”

“That sounds like you were protecting someone,” you said quietly, hiding a smile.

Ominis’s posture stilled just a fraction, the line of his shoulders tightening before easing again. “It was an impractical situation.”

Garreth snorted. “That’s one way to put it.”

The humor thinned naturally, settling back into the room like dust once the laughter faded. The ticking from the shop beyond the curtain seemed louder now, more insistent.

Garreth leaned forward again, palms flat against the bench.

“So,” he said. “Here’s the real question.”

He looked between you, gaze steady, measuring.

“Do you want to stop them from finding it,” he asked, “or do you want to find it first?”

The words hung there, heavy but unembellished. But before either of you could answer, the bell at the front of the shop chimed.

Once.

Then again.

Garreth went still. “I locked that door.”

Ominis didn’t move. Not even slightly.

The air shifted—not panic, but attention drawn tight. Somewhere in the shop, glass chimed softly as if something had adjusted itself without permission. Rain continued to tap against the windows, steady and unbothered. The warmth of the shop felt thinner now, stretched just enough to let the cold press closer.

And whatever Viktor believed would decide things for him was no longer distant.

It was already near.

Your heels struck the stone path with sharp precision as you descended the front steps. The sound echoed too loudly in the open night, each step a reminder that distance did not always mean freedom. Somewhere behind you, the doors of the manor closed—slow, deliberate—sealing the space you’d just left with a finality that felt intentional.

You didn’t turn around.

The grounds stretched outward in manicured submission. Hedges trimmed into obedience. Gravel paths laid with careful intention, discouraging deviation. Even the darkness here felt curated—only allowing what served it.

Ominis walked beside you, cane tapping softly against the stone. He didn’t offer his arm. Didn’t reach for you. But his presence stayed close enough to register, his pace adjusting subtly to yours without comment.

You noticed that.

The carriage door opened with a muted creak. Ominis stepped aside, allowing you in first. As you passed him, his hand brushed briefly against your lower back—not guiding, not possessive. Just there. A fleeting reassurance, or perhaps a reminder that he was paying attention.

It vanished almost immediately.

You straightened instinctively, a faint warmth rising beneath your skin, and stepped inside; Ominis following closely behind in pursuit.

The carriage smelled faintly of leather and old magic—something polished but worn, like a place that had heard too many secrets to bother remembering them all. Lanternlight cast long, shifting shadows across the interior as the door closed behind you. The thestrals shifted, wings rustling softly, and with a lurch that settled quickly into a steady rhythm, the carriage lifted into motion.

Only once the manor lights disappeared behind the treeline did you exhale.

“They mentioned Ranrok,” you said at last. Your voice was calm. You had learned how to make it so.

Ominis did not answer immediately. The pause stretched—not in avoidance, but with consideration.

“I didn’t expect them to,” he said evenly. “Not so plainly.”

A beat.

“They’re growing impatient.”

That tracked. You could still feel it beneath your ribs—the way the room had shifted the moment the name was spoken. Polite language abandoned in favor of something sharper. The past, dragged forward and used as justification.

The carriage banked slightly, descending rather than climbing.

You frowned. “We’re not going back to Hogwarts?”

“No.”

The word settled, heavy.

Your first thought was immediate and unwelcome—isn’t that where it was?

Ominis folded his hands loosely over the head of his cane. It was a familiar posture—controlled, deliberate. One he used when he was arranging his thoughts rather than reacting to them.

“I didn’t want to speak freely until we were clear of the grounds,” he finally broke the silence.

“And now?” you asked.

“Now,” he replied, “they’re no longer listening.”

Something in his posture shifted—subtle, but deliberate.

“It isn’t there,” Ominis says calmly. “And it hasn’t been for some time.”

You exhaled through your nose. Of course he would notice what you’d been thinking without needing you to ask. He always did. You glanced toward the window. The night beyond was open and dark, the manor far behind you now. Whatever enchantments had wrapped that estate had thinned, replaced by the ambient hum of the wider world—London’s magic, crowded and restless.

“They wanted you there,” Ominis continued. “Not as an observer.”

You let out a quiet breath, staring at the faintly glowing city lights below. “I gathered.”

“They were testing me,” you said after a moment. “Through you.”

“Yes.”

“And me?”

Ominis hesitated—not long enough to betray himself, but long enough that you noticed.

“They believe you’re persuadable,” he said carefully.

You laughed once, softly. There was no humor in it.

The lantern flickered as the carriage passed through a pocket of turbulent air, shadows warping briefly before settling again.

“They don’t know what you believe,” you said.

“No,” Ominis agreed. “They believe I’m indifferent.”

You tilted your head slightly. “And are you?”

He turned his head toward you—not fully, but enough that his attention settled squarely in your direction.

“Indifference,” he said, “is a useful misunderstanding.”

You studied his profile in the lanternlight. His hair was no longer slicked back the way it had been at Hogwarts; platinum strands fell loose now, catching softly in the glow as they brushed his temples. His eyes were still pale, unfocused in that way that reminded you he wasn’t looking at the room so much as listening to it—but somehow that only made the way he turned toward you feel more intentional.

He wore a dark suit, tailored close, the fabric sitting broad across his shoulders when he shifted. Sitting this close, you were painfully aware of him—the warmth at your side, the near-touch of his knee to yours, close enough that you could feel it every time the carriage moved. He never closed the distance, never pulled away either. It felt deliberate. Controlled. And for a brief, unwelcome moment, you wondered if he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

“And here I thought it was just your natural charm,” you murmured.

A pause.

The corner of his mouth lifted—not quite a smile, but close enough to feel intentional.

“Careful,” he said quietly. “People might start thinking you enjoy my company.”

Your gaze lingered on him a second longer than necessary.

“I wouldn’t want to give them the wrong idea.”

Something in his posture shifted—not away from you, but closer. Not touch. Just awareness.

“And Viktor?” you asked, breaking it before it could sharpen further. “Does he believe that too?”

Ominis’s jaw tightened, just perceptibly.

“Viktor believes most things can be leveraged,” he said. “Including people.”

You thought of Viktor’s gaze. Measuring. Patient. The way he’d spoken about certainty as if it were mercy.

“He knows about my father,” you said quietly.

“Yes.”

“And my mother.”

“He suspects,” Ominis corrected. “That is not the same thing.”

The carriage dipped lower now, the air growing warmer, heavier with layered enchantments. You could feel it—the city’s magic bleeding upward, crowded and alive.

“He called it inevitable,” you said. “That artifact.”

Ominis’s fingers stilled against his cane.

“They believe it removes uncertainty,” he said.

He paused, as if choosing his words with care.

“Not by changing what people believe,” he continued, “but by changing what they’re willing to endure.”

His voice remained even, but there was something deliberate beneath it now.

“It responds to fear that hasn’t been named,” he said. “The exhaustion people carry quietly. The point where resistance begins to cost more than compliance.”

Your chest tightened as your mother’s face rose unbidden in your mind—the way her voice had softened over time, not from persuasion but because she grew tired.

“It doesn’t issue commands,” Ominis went on. “It limits perspective. Until every choice but submission feels irresponsible.”

A pause.

“By the time someone gives in,” he added quietly, “it feels like relief.”

Your fingers curled against the seat.

“And blood?” you asked softly.

“They believe it requires a pure-blood,” Ominis said. “To them, lineage means compatibility. Those can approach —wield—this artifact without being harmed.”

You swallowed.

In the hands of someone like your father—unyielding, righteous, convinced of his own authority—it would not be restraint. It would be justification.

And someone like your mother—

You didn’t finish the thought.

“My mother didn’t change because she believed,” you said quietly. “She changed because it became easier not to resist.”

Ominis did not interrupt. His silence felt intentional.

“They would call that order,” he said eventually.

Order. The gravity of his words settled uncomfortably in the pit of your stomach. How twisted it was—to make something so cruel sound reasonable.

The carriage slowed, wheels brushing stone as it descended. The subtle jolt of landing reverberated through the frame.

“You still haven’t told me where we’re going,” you said.

Ominis turned fully toward you now.

“I wrote to Weasley,” he said.

You blinked. “Garreth?”

“Yes.”

“That’s… odd.”

Ominis’s mouth tilted slightly, not quite a smile. “Only if you assume this is the first time I’ve needed his help.”

You wondered what kind of trouble Ominis Gaunt had ever found himself in that called for Garreth Weasley of all people. Whatever it had been, you suspected it wasn’t a story he intended to tell easily.

The carriage rolled to a stop. Rain tapped steadily against the window, blurring the warm light that spilled onto the street below. The shopfront glowed warmly, familiar even through the downpour. A crooked sign hung above the door ahead, its gold lettering flickering faintly in the rain.

Weasley’s Wonders.

“You trust him,” you said, staring at the glowing sign.

“I trust his instincts,” Ominis replied. “And his discretion.”

“And why involve him?”

Ominis’s posture tightened—just slightly.

“Because Weasley knows how artifacts move,” he said. “Who trades in them. Who asks the right questions when something dangerous begins to circulate.”

You understood then.

Not a movement. Not yet. But an informal alliance of people who recognized the same warning signs and acted without drawing attention.

“And because,” Ominis added, “he is not afraid of making enemies he cannot see.”

The carriage door opened. Warm air rushed in, carrying the faint scent of sugar and smoke.

“You don’t think it’s surfaced yet,” you said, the thought settling uneasily as the conversation replayed itself in your mind.

The artifact.

“No.”

“But it will.”

“Yes.”

“And when it does?”

Ominis stepped down first, then turned back toward you. He offered his hand—not because you needed it, but because the moment asked for something grounding.

“Then,” he said quietly, “we will need to know who reaches for it first.”

You took his hand.

Not for balance.

And as your feet met the stone, the awareness lingered—not just of the danger ahead, but of the fact that he did not let go immediately.

Just long enough.

Whatever that thing was—whatever name it would eventually be given—it wasn’t meant to convince.

It was meant to decide.