gentle soul | fearsome heart

“Oh,  I haven’t posted this photo on Facebook…” Her lashes, thick with black mascara, flutter with the realization. “Will you give me a second?”

“Sure,” you answer flatly, stepping back and leaning against the counter. You wonder if saying “no” would make a difference.

Her loud, cheerful “HAH” is followed by the rapid tapping of her thumbs, making you wonder if she’s already replying to comments. She must be retired by now, yet she’s one of those people whose age is difficult to guess. If only you could be that carefree. So many things wouldn’t matter. Your mind wouldn’t spiral. Perhaps your head wouldn’t have turned into a battlefield.

You can feel your phone watching you from across the kitchen table, curious too about what you’re going to reply to Cregan’s message: “I’ll be at our place tonight, at 7 PM. Join me?”

The moment he sent the first text weeks ago, part of you lit up, as if whispering, finally. As if this moment had always been meant to come. You hadn’t planned to talk about your writing progress, but message by message, you eventually opened up about your novel, set to be published at the end of the summer.

When he responded with “Glad your stubbornness persists,” it felt like a happiness injection. Unfortunately, it wasn’t long-lasting. The teddy bear, still sitting on the floor where you’d left him, no longer looked cheerful, like something in his buttoned eyes had dimmed.

“Done!” she announces proudly, as if she might’ve just been cast as Leonardo DiCaprio’s girlfriend. 

“Cool, um—Mrs. Silvi, would you like to see the flat?”

The question stumbles from your mouth, an awkward attempt to bring the conversation back on track. The abrupt transition triggers your inner people-pleaser to press the red panic button: SHE’LL EVICT YOU.

Luckily, she doesn’t seem to notice.

“Oh, sure! Let’s see it!” she chirps, and for a second, you swear, if you hadn’t reminded her, she’d leave without inspecting a thing.

You trail behind her, your slippers making a soft shuffle. If it weren’t for the height difference, you could’ve mistaken yourself for her shadow. Her perfume, sweet and oriental, wafts through the corridor, swallowed eagerly by the faded beige walls. The same scent that haunted the air for weeks after your move-in.

She abruptly pauses at the living room threshold, causing you to almost bump into her.

“Jeez!” she exclaims, her hand dramatically flying to her chest. She couldn’t have spotted the cigarette spots on the windowsill from that far.

“What a lovely thing!”

You come up beside her to follow her gaze, unsure of where this is heading. Relief sweeps through you when she lifts a teddy bear so delicately it might be mistaken for a brittle antique.

You hover at the threshold awkwardly, as if it’s your first time in the flat.

“Where did you get it?” she asks, brushing off some invisible dust from his fur.

But before your lips even part, she resumes, “Oh, I know!”

Her sly smirk makes you furrow. By now, you know better than to try inserting a word into her monologue. It’s pointless. Even if you do speak, she’ll just talk right over you.

“It must be your gentleman.”

Your mouth forms a silent O, which prompts her to giggle. She clearly interprets it a “yes”. Sylvi settles onto the sofa, the plush toy in her arms like a newborn. When she nods to the side, you have no choice but to sink down beside her.

“How I miss those times when I was younger,” she says, her voice laced with longing, her confession aimed at Ewan. “I mean, I am still young, but back then... I had a whole parade of gallants fighting over my heart.”

Weirdly or not, you have no doubt about that.

“They would’ve done anything for me. Bombarded me with presents, flowers, skipped classes just to walk me home after the conservatory. But I was always waiting. Waiting for the one. You know?” She pauses, and the conversation seems to have taken a turn you weren’t ready for. “The right one.”

Her gaze lands on you, expectant. You nod, perhaps too quickly, a gesture meant to mask the unsettling twist in your chest. The idea of the right one feels foreign. You thought you knew it back then, with Cregan. But now… things are messier than ever.

Gazing down at the teddy bear only fuels the guilt further.

If you agree to meet Cregan tonight, you’ll end up betraying… Aemond.

“Of course you know!” she continues, misreading your silence, her large, round Cleopatra-style earrings jingling as she nods her head. Her gaze flicks down to Ewan, then back to you. “You’re the writer,” she adds, her hand gently covering yours, pulling you back to the present. Her skin is slightly wrinkled but warm and soft. “These things must come naturally to you.”

You force a smile, clearly not planning to share your concerns about your ex and the demon.

Her eyes narrow, just a flicker. It’s a look of knowing, of recognition, as if something gave you away. It prompts her to open up further.

“My husband—” You brace yourself, anticipating a long story about him.

“—passed away two years ago.” Her hand twitches, then withdraws, as if through the touch she could reveal more than she’s willing to.

You blink, caught off guard by the revelation. “Oh God, I’m so sorry.”

“I married him… God knows why, to be honest.” She shakes her head, a weak smile tugging at her lips. Her gaze drifts, not quite seeing the teddy anymore, but something else, someone else.

“He didn’t meet half the criteria for the man I thought I was waiting for. And yet… he was the most real thing that ever happened to me. Drove me terribly mad.” The way she stresses the word is supposed to showcase her anger, but it seems like the only reason for the emotion is his absence.

“Why?”

The most intentional question you’ve asked her. A small part of you, perhaps a naïve one, wonders if this conversation might help you make up your mind. But the answer, as always, isn’t what you expect.

She smiles, but not at you.

Her gaze is hazy, clouded with memory.

“Because he’s always been on my mind.”

She silently passes the teddy to you, and your breath hitches, just like the day Aemond first placed it in your hands. Suddenly, you understand what the button eyes have been trying to tell you.

What started as a “flat inspection” has drifted so far from its original purpose that the word almost feels absurd. After a few more moments of chatting about exes and travels, she declares that she’s seen enough and announces that she’s late for a visit with an old friend.

“I’m so late!” Sylvi says, slipping on her heels. You can’t help but admire her energy. Her babbling personality manages to soothe your ache.

“Oh—almost forgot! I brought you a present!”

“For me?” you echo, watching her dig through her giant tote bag with such enthusiasm that you wouldn’t be surprised if she pulled out a puppy.

“Ta-dam!” She holds out a small green frog statue. It’s heavy in your hands, oddly so for something so small. The frog’s mouth is parted in a smile, and its body is speckled with a few white dots, like someone added a final touch just before placing it on the shelf.

Before your brain can dive into the connection, she explains, “It’s from a sacred place I visited! Said to bring good luck and scare evil spirits away,” she adds, leaning forward with a wink.

After she leaves, you place the frog on the windowsill. Its small, cheerful figure looks serene, fitting into the interior effortlessly. In the mirror, you catch your gaze and the conspicuous questions. A blessing or a warning?

The light purple dress hugs your curves perfectly. The silk showcases you with the kind of grace that makes you pause, stunned by your own reflection.

Sunset light spills across the room, gilding everything in soft amber. Funny, this small, unremarkable apartment that once felt like a stopgap now glows with the warmth of something earned. Something lived in. It’s still small, yes. But now, it feels like you. Like home.

You spin, just like you used to as a child, your hem fluttering in the golden light. Back then, moments like this made you believe you were a princess, and your story could only end one way: happily ever after.

Life had… other plans. For every problem resolved, another one waits in the wings, and not every battle ends with you victorious.

You’ve made up your mind. It’s time to win the battle with Cregan. No meeting. That book is closed and put aside into the depths of your mental library. The bitter truth has finally come into focus: even if you got back together, things wouldn’t be the same.

You don’t owe him a message, or an explanation. Not even a line. He’ll figure it out.

And nothing, nothing, can stop you from going out for a light stroll in this beautiful dress, grabbing takeout from anywhere but that café he called “our place.” It was always his favorite, never really yours.

The inner sense of triumph settles into your chest, and for the first time, in what seems forever, it feels like you’re doing things right.

Suddenly, a sound. The phone is ringing. You glance at the screen.

Unknown number.

The vibration ripples through your hand, intensifying the anxiety within you. Your mind is like a beehive, each thought a stinging bee ready to attack no one but you. Could it be Cregan? A new number, a new tactic to reel you in?

You pick it up. You don’t speak right away. Neither do they. The silence on the other end is eerily still. You hear them breathing, waiting for you to make the first step, or rather, say the first word.

“…Hello?” Your voice is low, hoarse with hesitation.

No answer. Instead, something rustles. A faint sound like fabric brushing too close to a microphone. Your own “hello” comes back to you, faintly distorted, half a second later.

Your thumb hovers over “end call,” every instinct screaming to press it. You see the duration of the call, seconds ticking by, and with them, the silence. This isn’t Cregan. It’s not even close. And yet… something about the way the line hums, the strange rasp of their breath, pulls you in. You feel like your ears are pressed against the very mouth of something living, and if you’re patient enough, it’ll pour its secrets into your ear.

Then—

“Finally.” The voice bursts through the line so abruptly you jolt, your fingers fumbling as the phone nearly crashes to the floor. “I feared you’d never pick up!”

The reproachful tone in the feminine voice gives you a flashback to your lousy boss from a year ago.

“We close in 35 minutes. This is your last chance to pick it up.”

You blink. Pick up what?

“Hello? Miss, are you there?”

“Yes. Um—who is this?”

“LOTUS.”

“Who?”

“Dry cleaning service.” Her exhale is sharp. She’s clearly someone counting down the minutes before she can leave. “You’d better hurry.”

“It must be some sort of mistake…”

“Are you Miss Y/N?”

“…Yes.”

“Then no mistake. The item’s paid for. Urgent cleaning. Ready today.”

“I—I never gave anything in.” 

“We’ll be closed all weekend,” she stretches out her words, creating an image of a teenage girl, bored to death with her part-time shift. “You’d better hurry.”

“Check the number again,” you say, sharper than intended.

That’s definitely a prank, you think, ready to pull the phone away and switch it off. Then it comes again. A low, thin buzzing sound, not quite static. Like another line clicking in. Another listener. Your pulse quickens.

“It’s your errand,” a different voice rasps, a mechanical one, as though the words are being pulled through a walkie-talkie.

Your heart skips a beat. “What did you say?”

Breathing again. Not just heard. Felt warm against your skin. Like the line between the call and your room has blurred.

The static cuts off.

“It’s your errand.” The reply is firmer, and definitely human this time. “Are we clear now?”

The silence is shorter this time. Like a self-preservation instinct tells you to act on your best behavior.

“…Yes.”

You only have time to use the bathroom before you’re slipping into your Converse. Great. You look like a prom queen who ran away the last second. Your hands are shaking as you reach for your keys, they fall on the floor with a clatter, as if yelling, “hurry up!”

17:43. Thirteen minutes left. You’ve never been to this place. It’s impossible. “Shit.”

To your surprise, the GPS says it’s a 10-minute walk, which doubles your odds. But apparently, navigating a map while shaking with nerves isn’t your forte. Right in the middle of a pedestrian crossing, you realize you’re headed in the wrong direction and spin around.

Brake screeches. A car stops inches from you, close enough to see the Mercedes emblem.

“ARE YOU FUCKING DUMB?”

“Sorry!” You jog back, dragging your embarrassment with you.

The navigation arrow keeps switching directions like it’s toying with you. But then you see it—the sign: LOTUS. A simple black sign in white letters, tucked between a pharmacy and a pet store.

You rush inside, like a robber who decides to commit the crime at the last minute.

The manager shakes his head at you, his gaze revealing doubts about whether you can be trusted with whatever you're supposed to pick up.

Eventually, he hands you the suit. You assume it’s the one, judging by the black garment bag. You have no idea how to carry it. It’s heavier than expected, and definitely meant for someone much taller. You try lifting your arm to keep the garment bag from dragging on the pavement, but its weight pulls you down as your muscles quickly burn. You wonder if carrying a dead body would be easier.

The address attached to the suit cover tells you nothing. But AEMOND TARGARYEN, in capital letters, does.

Cars rush past, horns blaring at slow pedestrians and mindless drivers. Yet, amidst the noise, one thought rises louder than everything else: There’s no way three weeks have passed since the previous errand. What the hell is going on?

The taxi crawls through the gridlocked street so slowly, you start thinking you’d have made it faster on foot. The road is a graveyard of idling engines and quarreling drivers, each urging the others to move faster, stuck in a city that refuses to move.

The suit lies next to you, sagging and folded in a way that would probably make the dry cleaner flinch. You’ve violated the “carry upright” instruction in every imaginable way. He’ll know. Of course, he will. Do demons know how to iron?

The label taunts you. Not just the address, but the name.

Aemond Targaryen.

Isn’t that what Alys called him back then? Before you fell into the fog of nothingness. You were pretty sure it was his powers pulling you away from the conversation.

Something about this situation doesn’t feel right. All your feelings, thoughts, doubts, and concerns related to Aemond, the idea of what you could tell him, the desire to talk, it feels like it’s not going to be met halfway.

Vhagar. And now… you glance down at the garment bag again.

If he wanted an explanation or to talk, he would’ve already dropped by. No, what he’s after doesn’t seem like reconciliation, but rather what you asked for. Errands. Nothing more than that. To satisfy his pet, and now to fetch dry cleaning.

The sky is overcast when the taxi finally pulls up to the curb. A skyscraper looms in front of you. The glass-faced building already has a few lit-up windows, its rooftop disappearing into the clouds above. You squint upward, trying to count the windows. Impossible in such weather.

People come and go through the revolving doors, engrossed in their usual routine. But you hover on the pavement, feet nailed to the ground. That light, confident feeling blooming in your chest from earlier, the pride, the closure, has withered.

The mind-blowing sex might have been enough to blur your judgment, making you cultivate a false hope. But it was silly to assume it’d be the same for a demon. All your well-thought-out explanations to reconcile with him now disperse into the air. You need those. Aemond doesn't.

You shove yourself into the revolving door before you let yourself change your mind. It spins, and your heart races with it. You emerge into the lobby, blinking as though you’ve stepped through a portal. Another world.

The marble floor shimmers beneath your feet, reflecting the gilded glow from above, making it feel like you’re walking on water. Chandeliers are shaped like twisted vines; some coil into ouroboros loops—symbols of endless cycles. Even the air here seems burnished, gold-laced, as if you’ve wandered into a sacred place where nothing imperfect can survive.

You glance toward the guards as you cross the threshold, adjusting your grip on the suit. At this point, you’re not even sure you could come up with an adequate explanation of why you’re here. They're statues dressed up like men, carved in black and gray and glued to the entryway. Sphinx-like. You’re not sure they even breathe.

Each step toward the reception desk feels heavier than the last. The floor mirrors your hesitation, every reserved Converse-clad footfall echoing into a soft thud against the marble. Are they real? You wonder, scanning the rows of tall orange-hued trees by the main path, each one in a massive pot that likely cost more than your rent.

You don’t notice the moment you straighten the suit in your arms again, careful to hold it upright. The setting itself urges you to be perfect, like everything else in here. The ache in your bicep spreads, a quiet throb, but your face is composed like never before.

Congratulations. You wanted an errand. You got it.

“Um, hello…” you murmur as you near the desk, your words small against the vastness around you. The rich pink peonies glance your way, polite, graceful, as if they’re here to greet you most exquisitely.

The receptionist doesn’t move. Her gaze is fused to the screen, her fingers dancing in perfect tempo. For a moment, you’re unsure if you spoke at all.

“Elevators are to your left, miss,” she replies without looking up. Her French-tipped nails tap in a rhythm so precise you wonder if she once played piano. 

You glance toward the elevator. The number above it glows 1. Waiting. Inviting. Something about this place pulls at you, soft and glittering. Like a mermaid song. Sailors know better than to follow it.

“I—I don’t need the elevator.”

You drag your gaze back to her, shifting the suit to your other hand. Not the numb one. The fabric sticks to your palm. You're ready to curse the universe for this day. Because, of course, when your ex shows up and arranges the meeting, nothing goes well.

She finally looks up. Her hazel eyes skim your face, calculating, as if reading your entire history in one breath. Then her gaze softens. Sympathy, maybe. Though you utterly hope you don’t look half as bad as you feel. Her features are so symmetrical that it unsettles you.

“How can I help you then?”

“This is for apartment… 1099.” You squint at the label, though you repeated the number a dozen times in the taxi. You could probably say it if someone shook you awake in the middle of the night.

She types swiftly, clearly has been in this job a while, then says, “Aemond Targaryen.” It’s not a question, yet you nod cautiously.

Hearing his name aloud rattles something loose in your chest. You feel it behind you, a flicker of shadow just past your shoulder, but when you glance, there’s nothing. Only marble.

The building is too quiet. There should be so many residents, and yet it’s only you. You swallow, trying to keep your worries at bay.

“Do I leave it here?” you ask, trying not to sound rushed.

Her eyes narrow with a hint of suspicion. “Why not go up and give it to the owner?”

The question takes you aback, like you’re a cat caught up on the owner’s dining table. A soft ding sounds from the elevator, as if it, too, thinks it’s time.

“I—I can’t.”

She raises a brow, her nails tapping lightly against the table. A musician, for sure.

“Aren’t you the delivery?”

“No, I’m not,” you reply, biting your inner cheek. Once, you thought making a pact with a demon meant freedom from suffering. Turns out it’s just double hell.

“Well,” she shrugs, slipping seamlessly back into her customer-service smile, “there’s no note from Mr. Targaryen authorizing any delivery.”

“And?” you ask, gaping at her blankly.

The air thickens around you, faintly perfumed, like someone must’ve lit a candle somewhere nearby.

Her gaze locks onto yours, like this is some kind of contest, a challenge. Let’s see who blinks first. Before the silence turns any more awkward, she speaks. “I’m not allowed to accept it.”

There’s no mockery or cruelty in her tone. If anything, she sounds like someone who’s memorized protocol down to the footnotes. But it doesn’t help.

You feel yourself fraying. The pressure in your arm finally wins. The suit dips, grazing the pristine floor.

Your eyes snag on the neat little nametag pinned to her crisp blouse.

Floris.

“Excuse me—um—Floris, but I can’t and I won’t go to his apartment.”

You see her lips part in an attempt to object, but you act first, placing the suit firmly on the reception desk. Floris’ eyes widen, as if you’ve disrupted a sacred cathedral. You narrowly miss a slim porcelain vase, pale and trembling like it resents the disturbance, too.

“Miss, you can’t leave it here!” Floris snaps, halfway out of her chair now. To your strange relief, she looks human after all. She’s certainly not someone who chases rule-breakers. Still… if it came down to it, sneakers beat heels.

“Too bad,” you mutter, already turning away. You cradle your aching elbow like it’s a wound from the battle you’ve just won. “Guess Mr. Targaryen will have to bring his ass downstairs himself.”

You don’t wait to hear her outburst. The Sphinxes guarding the door stay still.

Good.

You can feel the tiny raindrops in the air, not quite a rain, more like a damp breath on your skin that carries the notes of relief. The droplets gather on your hair strands too, as if the weather is trying to calm the rage within you.

You take deep inhales and exhales, trying to return to your senses. The building is right behind you, but it doesn’t hold such power over you anymore.

The plan to take a taxi flops the moment you realize your phone has died. It was exactly 7 p.m. when it switched off. Maybe it’s for the better. No one will reach out to you this evening anyway. Though you doubt Cregan would be texting, “Where are you?” His ego wouldn’t let him do that.

People pass you in different directions. You close your eyes, imagining there’s no one but you. But it’s not that easy, not when a familiar voice sends goosebumps across your skin.

“Figured you wouldn’t drop by.”

Aemond’s voice is like a gentle kiss pressed against your cheek.

He’s right beside you, standing as if he’s always been there. Head tilted back, eyes lifted to the sky like he, too, is trying to make sense of the weather. Not a footstep. Not a sound. Just there. Classic demon style.

His outfit is simple— jeans, a black t-shirt. Something like a snake chain glints in the light, half-hidden under the fabric. He could never pass for a casual passerby. Not with that regal posture, quiet confidence, those never-blinking eyes, like he can’t afford to miss a second of life.

“Just like you,” you retort, trying to calm your silly, racing heart, which beats in hectic excitement.

Something in the air shifts, the way it always does when he’s near. Like someone drapes an invisible coat over your shoulders on a chilly day.

A low, velvety hum follows, almost a purr. He turns to face you, and when your eyes meet, it’s like those excruciating weeks of distance wash away.

Your anger simmers down, like sand slipping through fingers. You want to clench your fists to hold onto it, but you can’t. Not when he’s looking at you like that. Like it’s the first time.

His expression is unreadable. At first, almost bored. But then something shifts, a faint warmth seeps into that sapphire cold. Like staring at a blurred face in a crowd, only to recognize, a moment later, that it’s the dearest person in the world.

You’ll never understand how looking at someone can stir so much. Feelings bloom in your chest, drowning out reason, swallowing up words. The script you mentally rehearsed, the beeping of cars, the noise of the street…they all dull around him.

Suddenly, there’s a thought. Words spill out before you mull them over. Before you assess whether they align with your carefully crafted plan.

“Why didn’t you come?” It’s reproachful. Raw. Telling far more about your feelings than you’d like.

There’s not even a flicker of surprise on his face. It makes you wonder if the same question has been haunting him.

“I’m nothing but a name away.”

One day, you’ll reflect on that line — the aching beauty of it, the absolute devotion it implies. Yet today, the simplicity makes you frown. You feel like a child asking a huge, existential question, only to be met with an unoriginal adult response. 

Would you ever understand how it’s possible to want someone so much and still want to run?

His face stays neutral, the enviable calm of someone who’s either figured everything out, or is wise enough to never try.

I want to tell you so much, I don’t know where the first sentence starts and the last one ends.

A crease forms between his brows, faint but visible in the wash of headlights from the street. You might’ve missed it in daylight. A hint that he struggles to understand you just as much as you struggle to understand yourself.

At one point, it feels like someone turned up the heat. Your cheeks grow warm under his gaze. It’s too much. Now you understand why the waiter was so nervous in the café last time.

You haven’t practiced blinking—you want to say aloud, but given the time and circumstances separating you, you opt for a question instead.

“Are you trying to burn a hole in me?” you ask, folding your arms, fully aware of how defensive the posture is.

He tilts his head slightly, and now, somehow, he looks even more curious than before.

“Why would you say that?”

“God, not literally,” you mutter, shifting your weight. The idea of explaining figurative language to a demon is… oddly résumé-worthy. “It’s just… a phrase.”

“That’s a strange one.”

“Not really.” You shrug, pushing away the part of you that’s also wondering why anyone would come up with it. “Feels fitting for moments like this.”

He hums as if deep in thought, but his look carries a trace of disbelief. Does he think you’re mocking him?

Then his lips curl into the ghost of a smile. A loud tell that the menace is coming.

Before you can mentally prepare, he’s already a step ahead. And a step closer. His gaze, as hypnotic as ever, freezes you in place as he towers over you.

“Am I not allowed to admire you?”

Your lips part slightly, stunned by the casual audacity. By the proximity. By the way his eyes shamelessly track your mouth. Your strict no-kissing policy is now hanging by a thread.

His chest lifts with a deep breath, like he’s trying to stay in control, to hold on to the remnants of self-restraint.

First, he ghosts you. Then sends you on literal dry-cleaning errands. Now he’s shamelessly flirting?

Thoughts collide inside you like moths against a lit-up window at night.

“Goodbye, Aemond,” you say, turning sharply. Your sneakers squeak faintly against the wet sidewalk. Each step is an echo of your thundering pulse. You dodge a man in a business coat, slip around a couple tangled in PDA, heart hammering as if you’re outpacing sirens.

Don’t turn around. Don’t turn around. A silent mantra. Doomed to be interrupted.

“Would you like to take a taxi?”

Of course, he’s right behind you. His voice cuts through the traffic noise.

You glance sideways, he’s barely trying. One of his strides for every four of yours. For him, this is a stroll. For you, a sprint.

“I’ll walk,” you mutter. Then correct yourself mentally. Sprint.

“Good choice.”

The way he says it stirs a memory: that same shade of praise in his voice as that night. Of all times for that image to flash: you’re on all fours, panting under him, his eyes devouring you in the mirror. This is peak appropriate.

The pressure against your chest is incredible, as if the flashback knocks all the air out of your lungs. Getting hit by a car doesn’t sound like such a terrible alternative right now. Instead, you nearly miss a step and almost collide with a garbage bin, but his hand catches your wrist, pulling you closer in a smooth, automatic gesture, like he saw it coming all along.

You only cast him a look, as if to say: I’m still angry. But his gaze is fixed on the path ahead.

A new tactic?

Neon sighs. Laughter. Siren.

You mentally name each sound, each sight, just to drown out the noise inside your head. To calm the feelings in your chest.

You pass a kiosk, where the mingling scent of greasy meat and fried onions curls around you. The combination is far from appealing, but your stomach tightens. Right. You skipped dinner.

“You don’t have to walk with me, you know?” You say it without turning. God knows what might be in his eyes.

He stays silent a bit longer than usual, as if your question deserves careful consideration before being answered.

“I thought you’d want to compensate for my absence,” he finally says, slipping behind you and brushing past a woman steering a baby stroller.

A cluster of people waiting at the traffic light clogs the path ahead, funneling you both into a narrow gap, pinned by his presence. He stands close behind you, his taller frame pressing warmth against your upper back. You swear you can feel its steady rise and fall.

You lift your gaze. Yep, he’s that close.

“What’s that even supposed to mean?” Your brow furrows.

“You pointed it out,” he says, leaning closer. You can practically feel his breath against your ear. A familiar scent, forest after rain and cigarettes, engulfs you. Soothing, grounding, even amidst the smog and street food.

“Minutes ago,” he adds, clarifying.

“That was just an observation. Not… an invitation.” You bite the tip of your tongue.

“Mmm.”

You shoot him a sharp look. He clearly interprets it in his own way. If only you could peel that smugness off him and kick its ass.

You resume walking, only to pause at the corner, hesitating.

Were you meant to pass the bakery? No? Then this way is—

“Left,” he says, effortlessly correcting your course, or rather, prying into your thoughts. “Unless you’ve changed apartments.”

You curse under your breath, but Aemond is already heading in the right direction, unbothered, clearly enjoying the walk. At one point, you understand those poor kids who throw toys at their parent’s back.

“The night wandering random neighborhoods, or a walk with me?” he calls back, now walking backward, so elegantly it’s like he’s on a catwalk. The playful smirk decorates his bow lips, his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his dark jeans. Yes, the audience would drool over him. “Your choice.”

You check your phone. The screen stays black when you press the button. Just your reflection stares back—a lost puppy.

“Why do you even bother?” you ask, catching up. Your breath is uneven, of course, he didn’t slow down to wait for you. Half a step separates you, but the pavement narrows, the crowd surges, and you bump into him lightly. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even glance back. Still, you can’t shake the feeling that something else is on his mind, something he’s carefully keeping you shut out of.

“Weren’t you the one who wanted my ass downstairs?” he replies, amusement blooming across his face, easing your suspicions. Of course, he’d been nearby, listening in.

You click your tongue. “I knew you relished my suffering.”

“On that, we disagree,” his voice dips, just like it always does in the most intimate moments. “Your pleasure tastes better on my tongue.”

The double meaning hits like a sucker punch. Your breath catches.

One thing is certain now: you could never play by the rules you’ve set. The “just an errand” clause only works when he’s not around. His presence short-circuits your logic. When a match meets gasoline, fire is inevitable.

“The errand’s earlier than three weeks,” you say, a weak attempt to change the subject. To regain control.

“Is it?”

You glance at him, trying to gauge the sincerity of the question. His face is unreadable. Just a glint in his eyes, unrelenting, like a storm. Could a demon lose track of time?

“Aha,” you mutter, shifting closer as a noisy group of teenagers passes. Your hands brush. And for a moment, his broad palm turns outward in a silent, warm, irresistible invitation.

A gesture? Or a trick of your mind?

You can’t tell what’s real anymore, what’s conjured by your fantasies.

You cross your arms over your chest, pulling back like a scaredy-cat. The cringe flares through you, but not Aemond. He’s poised. Only his fingers twitch slightly, an unconscious attempt to reach for something already gone.

The stairwell smells of stone and old paint, slightly damp. Too narrow for two to walk side by side. His footsteps echo behind you. Gods, you can feel his warmth, draping over your back like delicate lace.

You don’t ask what he wants. You wouldn’t be surprised if he vanished the moment the door clicks open.

But a small part of you hopes he doesn’t.  Maybe, just maybe, he harbors unresolved matters, too.  Maybe now’s the time to confront them.  To dot all the I’s.

Aemond slips past you, a fleeting brush, like a cat too proud to ask for pets. Ironic, you think, as the key clinks against the shelf. This might be the first time he’s truly entered through the door.

He pauses at the threshold of the living room. One shoulder leans into the doorframe, gaze slicing through the dark like it’s searching for something already known. You flick on the hallway lamp. The dim glow spills outward, casting fractured shadows like veins across the walls.

You toe off your shoes slowly, almost hesitantly, as if trying to win some time before the inevitable. Your stomach tightens unpleasantly, your whole body anticipating the conversation. Do you launch into your rehearsed speech? Or hold your ground, demanding answers?

Why is it so cold?

Steam rises from your parted lips. Before the words can leave your mouth, a sound registers from the living room.

Once. Twice.

A scrape. A rustle. Muffled. Something faintly reminiscent of the noise on that line.

You stand beside Aemond, frowning toward the dark. The forest-dark has seeped in through the windows, swallowing everything.

Again, a rustle.

A bird?

You go still. That animal stillness, the kind that comes when your brain is calculating: fight or freeze. Your hand inches closer to Aemond's, seeking protection.

Something’s wrong. You glance at Aemond.. Whatever’s waiting in the dark doesn’t seem to faze him, and probably poses no threat to you.

“Go ahead,” he says, chin tilting toward the switch. His voice is calm. Too calm. Not smug, not mocking, just… off. Almost like the very first night you met.

You hesitate, fingers hovering over the flicker like you’re about to touch a hot stove.

Flick.

You close your eyes. The light is too bright, or maybe this is just one of the ways you try to protect yourself from whatever is in there.

But nothing prepares you for it.

You cover your mouth with a hand, but the gasp escapes anyway.

In the center of the room sits a man, bound to your chair. His head lolls forward, swaying slightly, like a broken pendulum trying to remember how time moves. His eyes, still clouded, scan the room in jittery bursts, as if everything blurs and flows.

Then his gaze snags on yours.

Cregan.

The man you used to love.

You’re the catalyst, the final wake-up call that makes his eyes widen in horror. The plot twist in a nightmare he never imagined you’d be part of.

Chains wrap around his chest, arms, and legs, metal gleaming as he jerks against them in a futile attempt to break free. His protests die in his throat, stifled by the gag; his screams reduced to the muffled bellowing of a wounded animal calling to a pack that’s already left it behind.

There are moments in everyone’s life when the body moves faster than the mind. When instinct overrides thought. When there's no time to read the room, only to act.

“Oh gods, Cregan!”

Adrenaline kicks into your system like a punch. You drop to your knees before him, tugging at the chains. The metallic rustle fills the room, clinking sounds too cheerful, like a parrot that won’t shut up during a funeral.

The knots are savage. The locks, iron-heavy. A collar, thick and tight, clasps around his throat like a leash.

Sweat drenches his skin. His dark hair clings to his forehead in damp strands. His chest heaves with sharp, rasped breaths like he’s just run a marathon. You haven’t seen him in almost six months, and in all that time, he’d always been composed.

The calmness is now washed away.

“Aemond!” you cry. “Help me!”

You yank at a lock, knuckles whitening. A chain jerks taut with a creak, and Cregan groans behind the gag, flinching. One wrist is bleeding beneath the metal, the skin broken. You’re only making it worse.

Sweat, iron, and now blood fill your nose, sharp and acidic. And under it all, a sour rot: fear.

“Shit, hold on,” you whisper, trying to swallow the nausea rising in your throat. “We’ll get you out, okay? We’ll fix it, just—”

You reach out for the gag. Your hand freezes midair. Inches from Cregan’s mouth.

At first, it feels like invisible needles prick your skin. But then... nothing. Your arm goes numb. Paralyzed. You stare at your fingers, willing them to move, but they don’t. It’s as if your brain has forgotten how to perform the simplest command. Nothing comes but a reluctant twitch.

Cregan’s eyes go wide, darting past you over your shoulder, toward Aemond. He shakes his head in tight, panicked jerks, humming a warning you can’t understand. But the desperation is unmistakable, like he’s just realized something you haven’t.

When your arm finally responds, it recoils violently, curling into your chest. Your skin is cold. If you didn’t know better, you might think you’d plunged your limb into a bucket of ice water.

What the hell...?

You rise slowly, turning to face the only explanation possible.

Aemond hasn’t shifted from the doorway, but his posture has changed, no longer relaxed. Arms folded. Muscles drawn taut beneath black fabric. His lips pressed into a flat, unforgiving line, like he’s enduring the scene that revolts him.

“This isn’t funny.” You barely recognize your own voice, your hand still clutched to your chest.

“Why not?” His gaze drifts lazily between you and Cregan. “You and your long-lost love. A touching reunion.” There’s not an undertone of sincerity, more like he’s studying two insects trapped beneath a glass.

Your mind stutters, fails to form questions; every possibility is too grotesque to voice. The world’s logic breaks down. You clench your fists until your nails bite into your skin. If it’s a dream, panic will wake you up. Your skin prickles, but the vision doesn’t break.

“Aemond, did you—”

He tilts his head, a serpentine movement, without a blink. He patiently waits for you to voice the question he already knows, he can hear it ringing in your mind.

“Did you do this?” You ask, nodding toward Cregan.

A muffled cry bursts through the gag. Cregan thrashes in the chair, chains clattering like bones. He answers for Aemond, panic and fury pouring from him in wordless rage.

A nervous laugh bubbles up from your chest as you press your hand against your forehead. Only now do you notice Cregan’s wearing your favorite t-shirt. He clearly thought you’d meet. Sadly, the circumstances are different.

“This is insane,” you mutter, scanning the room, hoping to find confirmation of your suspicion. This can’t be real. Your shoes, your coat, the dresses. The teddy bear lies on its side, its back turned to the chaos, like it can’t bear to watch.

“Unclasp those.” You point at the chains. Aemond is painfully still.

“Now,” you add louder, but the word comes out desperate.

Cregan strains against the bindings, chair legs screeching across the floor. Futile. If he keeps this up, he’ll tip and split his skull open.

“Cregan, don’t.” You reach for his shoulder in a soothing gesture.

And Aemond...

There it is. That smile.

Not wide. Not obvious. You’ve known him too long not to see it. Just a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth, savoring the moment, feeding off the suffering.

It ignites something in you. A rush of anger, impossible to ignore.

Before you can even process it, you’re at his side, grabbing his forearm with every ounce of strength you can muster, tugging him toward you. You can’t stand him standing there, motionless, detached, like a theatre spectator or a twisted statue crafted solely to haunt you in sleep and waking life.

“Why are you doing this?”

He looks down at your hand. Small, thin wrist, too weak to make a difference. Then his eyes lift to yours, and for the first time, you feel it. A look that makes you recoil, a look that speaks louder than words.

Pathetic.

Your hand falls limp by your side, still burning with the warmth of his skin, a mark you can’t rub off.

You trace the familiar facial features that have become so dear to your heart. The twitch of his lips, a movement he might have learned from another human once, or maybe something wholly his own. You’ve come to understand that it means something, some flicker of emotion within him. And now, more than ever, you ache to know what it means.

“Aemond…”

Your voice trembles with every memory, every warm feeling you ever had for him. Does he remember the teddy bear? The pineapple pizza argument? The sleepless nights? This room is filled with fragments of you, and now pieces of your heart are scattered across the floor beneath you as you appeal for his mercy, while he remains silent.

But his face betrays nothing. It’s as though the Aemond you once knew is no longer there but sealed behind walls, leaving only a stranger in his place. Aemond, who could once read your thoughts, can’t even see the pain written in capital letters all over your face.

He straightens, taking a step toward you. His thumb gently nudges your chin, guiding your gaze to his. The touch is soft. Yet it hurts.

“Don’t you know, my little dove?”

Your chest tightens. That name, said in that voice, soft, slightly hoarse. You hadn’t realized how much you missed it until now. You lean into his touch, giving in, instinctively. Foolishly.

Only to be met by the cold, controlled realm of his reign.

“I’m doing it for you.”

For me?

Your lashes flutter. Tears fall, uninvited, like rain from a sky that didn’t mean to cry. They land on his hand. Aemond stares at the droplets, inspecting them like they’re something foreign, something wrong. The touch you leaned into, sought comfort in, recoils. His hand jerks back, and his face shifts, not with compassion, but with something else: unease, or is it aversion? Like your tears burn him.

He doesn’t wipe them away. Instead, he shakes his hand with a quick, dismissive flick. As though your pain is something to be rid of, something filthy.

Aemond brushes past you without so much as a glance, as if you’re no longer worth his attention. His shoulder grazes your hand. The contact is fleeting, yet it stings.

You’ve never been in control. That’s a statement.

Cregan abandons his futile struggle the moment Aemond approaches. Whether it’s fear, or some inhuman force pulsing off Aemond’s very skin, he goes still. Not a twitch. Not a word. Only a sharp, ragged breath betrays that he’s still here.

“I don’t understand,” you whisper, your throat burning, as though you’ve just swallowed glass.

Aemond reaches for the chains. One touch, and the metal groans. The links uncoil, loosening like a serpent unwrapping itself from its prey, just enough to let Cregan draw breath. He leans back, spine pressed hard to the chair, as if trying to retreat into it. He doesn’t know what Aemond is. But he knows it’s not something human.

“We wouldn’t want him to choke, would we?” Aemond could sing a lullaby in that voice.

He begins to pace behind the chair, hands clasped neatly at his back, as if measuring the room from the mirror to the far wall. Each step stretches Cregan’s agony, each step a cruel echo of the final moments before a judge pronounces the sentence. A judge who takes his time, savoring the weight of the punishment.

For mercy shall not be found here.

He halts behind the chair, sudden as a stopped clock. The time has come. His long fingers, once delicately tracing the curve of your waist, the softness of your thighs, now clutch the top rail like a weapon.

His shadow swallows Cregan whole, dark, unnatural. A reminder that whoever stands before you is something other.

You take a deep breath, only to inhale more dread. You search for words, for an explanation, for this madness to end. With every passing second, your headache grows, as if ivy is coiling inside your skull, its thorns piercing deeper.

“That’s who you wanted, isn’t it?”

Aemond’s voice cuts through the haze in your mind, meaningless. His mouth pulls tight at the sight of your blank stare, a flicker of distaste crossing his face as his gaze drops to Cregan, like he can’t quite believe that this trembling figure is the man you could have sold your soul for.

“Before we made the deal, you wanted him.”

“But—” you move forward, just a step, and the world tilts. The floor lurches, or maybe it’s just your mind fracturing. Yes, you wanted Cregan. But why would Aemond do this? Why now?

“You said I had to choose,” you manage, grasping at the fading thread of reason.

Aemond shrugs.

“I’ve changed my mind.”

His answers are simple, quick, businesslike. Let’s get it done. Nothing in his posture or voice suggests he might be bluffing, or telling the truth. Yet if all feels like a meticulously staged performance, like everything around you is designed to make you believe this twisted story is real. Or is it not?

Aemond stands there, perfectly still. An unyielding, unnatural force. A grace that feels too perfect for this world. Someone who stands above all that is mortal, all that is petty and fragile.

How can someone so beautiful be so lethal?

“He’ll be yours. Just say it.”

Demon speaks in a sweet, luring voice that could make one follow him straight into hell.

“Why?” A question, no more than a whisper.

The silence stretches out like a field of scorched flowers.

But your entire body trembles, the delicate fabric of your dress offering no shield against his relentless presence.

Just give me the truth. Please.

You’re not sure if he hears you, but then there’s the faintest glimmer that something softer stirs within him. A spark, warm, familiar. Aemond’s gaze dips for a brief moment, and a subtle spasm tugs at his features, as though your pleas have become crows in his mind—loud, shrill, their croaks mocking: See. See what you have done.

His fingers rise to his temple, brushing it like he might scare them off. In that instant, you feel the crushing weight of your headache ease, as if part of your agony has passed to him. Like a crack in the dam letting the river flow, leaving you momentarily lighter.

But the shadow of softness is fleeting, dissipating before you can grasp it. Like a hangman remembering the gallows. His sapphire eyes darken, as though the sea is being smothered by ice, the depths concealed, sealed beneath a frozen surface.

Ice that would shatter your bones.

Ice that would leave blood in the snow.

No one survives winter like that.

“All those excruciating feelings of yours…” The confession, or rather a verdict, is announced, cold, detached. There’s no hint of sympathy, no trace of remorse. “I’m fed up with them. With you. I don’t want to feel your longing anymore.”

Longing.

That bitter ache that has filled your days, your nights, these endless, hollow weeks. It wasn’t just a feeling. It was like radiation dust, clinging to your insides, poisoning you with every breath. It burned through your lungs, lodged in your bones, dulled every dream, and infected every thought with a hopeless ache. A torture, without him. 

Hell. 

You feel like you’re drowning in it, and all you want is to pull him back into the warmth, share it with him.

But Aemond? He wants nothing of it. He wants you out of his veins.

The next blow lands with brutal finality, before you can even form a word, a protest, a plea. He can’t afford you taking the reins, can’t risk you disrupting the plan he’s so meticulously crafted.

“I figured Cregan should suffice.”

His words come out flat. Matter-of-fact.

Everything clicks into place. Aemond has twisted it all, misinterpreted your longing in the most cruel, distorted way possible. Like in a math equation, he’s taken your numbers out of it, replacing them with his own.

You might be the one who sentenced both of you to this end. But he... he’s the one here to pull the guillotine.

“You… you made him contact me?”

Aemond laughs, but it’s no longer the laugh of a god, or a devil. It’s the laugh of a madman. A wild creature handed matches in a world soaked with gasoline.

You glance at Cregan, a silent plea in your eyes, but his gaze offers nothing, only regret.

“Oh, the bastard wanted it,” Aemond spits, his teeth grinding. Fingers, or something sharper, dig into the chair’s back. The wood creaks beneath his grip. It might be the chair that will break now or Cregan’s neck.

Tears blur your vision again, but this time they sting as they streak down your cheeks. This time, no one is there to catch them.

Cregan’s interest and sincerity you fell for was just a… performance. A trick. Curated by Aemond.

Whether you’d said yes or no, it didn’t matter.

Cregan was always going to end up here. A twisted early birthday present, rewrapped in chains. Not a man with agency. A trick to fill in the blank in Aemond’s story. The story he’s made for you.

Aemond doesn’t see your heartbreak. He chooses not to.

He leans down beside Cregan, as though he could tear his throat apart with his teeth.

“Didn’t you want it, Cregan?”

Cregan has thought about you. The warmth of your body. The softness of your touch. You’ve crossed his mind more than he’ll ever admit.

Whatever Cregan thinks about you no longer matters to you. But it matters to Aemond. It feeds his rage, urging him deeper into his cruelty.

“You can nod.” Aemond, a thoughtful prompter, encourages Cregan to nod frantically, his eyes flicking to you without meeting your gaze.

The pulse hammers in the side of Cregan’s neck, the veins taut with pressure, as if they might burst. If Aemond doesn’t kill him, fear will.

“He just needed a… push.” Aemond wrinkles his nose, as though the thought, or Cregan’s smell, repulses him.

He pulls back again, retreating to your writing table like a beast caged too long. His fingers brush the edge of your work, trailing across the pages, over your hurried handwriting. As if looking for something to anchor him.

What feels like a nightmare to you, to Cregan, isn’t even half the hell Aemond could unleash. This is restraint.

“You’re… disgusting,” you breathe out, but no phrase can match your fury. Your grief. Your despair.

Aemond doesn’t flinch, much to your disdain. His eyes remain on the paper in his hand, scanning the outline of the world you built. The one he wasn’t meant to be part of.

But he is.

With Cregan, the words hardly became sentences. But Aemond…Aemond makes the stories bloom. He’s a long-awaited spring in a land punished by harsh, eternal winter. The thaw that ruins and renews all at once.

“And yet… I was the one who came when no one else listened.” 

He lets the paper fall back onto the table. The flutter is loud, as if the words are breaking down against the wooden surface, their meaning scattered all over the floor.

Cregan glances at you, his expression muddled with confusion. He’s probably started wondering if you’re the reason for this menace. But explaining anything to him is the last thing on your agenda.

“It was a mistake.” The weight of your words is softened by the hurt.

Aemond chuckles, and the room darkens as if in response, shadows listening to their master.

“I’m willing to give him to you on a silver platter. There’ll be no other suggestion,” he coaxes. But there’s something under it, a thin thread of weariness in his gaze.

You look at Cregan. He probably has no clue what’s going on. The meaning of your conversation must be totally lost on him.

And if Aemond untied him, would he even stay of his own free will? Would you want him to stay?

Back then… if you had chosen Cregan over your writing, would this still have ended in ruin? Would it still hurt this much?

You wipe your cheeks, hiding away the remnants of hurt. The gesture is clumsy, trembling. At such points, you disdain being nothing but a human.

“I don’t want it this way.”

Demon or not, he won’t write your story for you.

Something flickers in Aemond’s gaze.

Confusion. Real. Rare. He reads people like maps, but not now.  Or maybe he never did. Maybe his ability to see into a human mind only gave him control, not the understanding of their complexities.

“Alright,” he snaps, his composure fraying at the edges.

He moves toward you, each of his steps stealing the light, his shadow swallowing it whole.

“Then fucking stop this torture,” he growls, his words laced with poison, but deeper, underneath, you feel it. Despair. His earlier words echo in your mind: “The stronger the bond, the more influenced a demon is.” And, as if to prove your suspicion, he adds, “Stop sending this ache through our bond.”

One step, and your back hits the wall. Another step, and there’s no distance between you. He’s close enough for you to see the tremor at his jaw. He’s a fire ready to consume everything in his path.

It shouldn’t matter to him at all what you feel. But if it does…

Your hands press to his chest, not to push him away, but to steady yourself. You rise onto your toes, eyes locking with his, because his eyes have never lied to you.

“Ache or not, why do you care?”

Aemond stiffens, as if you’ve become Medusa and he’s been foolish enough to meet your gaze.

For this question alone, for the implication within it, he could kill you.

His eyes hollow out. Become black wells.

The abyss, staring back.

Hell, burned to ash.

Why do I care?

The question he’s been asking himself ever since your last meeting. To care had never been part of his design. A function he’d never had. Until you came.

At first, it was just a glitch. A symptom, mild and unassuming, which he chose to overlook. Then it turned into a disease. It grew within him, cell by cell, day by day, until it was too late.

He feeds off the emotions of others. That’s the bargain. That’s the way. But your yearning? It poisons him. It robs him of strength and satisfaction, like suddenly all other emotions dull, rot.

He blames you for it all. This weakness, this feeling, couldn’t possibly be his.

You gave it roots. Planted something unnamed inside him, a feeling that made itself at home. And he knows nothing about such things. Every ounce of knowledge he’s gathered from humanity feels useless, because there’s the shocking truth: humans don’t truly understand it either. They give it names: love, affection, devotion, and a million others. But no one truly holds power over it.

He figures out quite soon that to let the feeling live, he’d have to kill his essence so this virus could thrive in his body.

To let the feeling die, he’d have to smother you with his own hands.

But as long as there’s a deal, nothing can tear you both apart. Nothing can tear you out of his system. Not even this outrageous, disgusting ache.

So he goes for a deal that brings him even more disdain. The only way to set himself free. So he shoves Cregan into your arms to shut up the gnawing ache in your chest. Perhaps his own would shut up for good, too.

For he is a demon. Bound. Chained to the human he can’t shake. To you. Your tears are forever imprinted on his hand. Salt etched into skin. And he’ll cherish it.

But worst of all, you’re the human who longs for someone else.

You are the flower that blooms again each morning, greeting him with colour and scent, after he spent the night before uprooting you.

You are his mirror. And what he sees in you… it sickens him. Because when your ache mirrors his own, he can’t think, can’t breathe.

You are his mirror, and he is yours.

The truth, the one you've kept locked away, buried beneath ache and denial, trembles on the tip of your tongue. You could still bury it for good. Let you both be free.

But instead, you choose to do the bravest thing: to admit it.

To yourself first.

And then, finally, to Aemond. Rage and betrayal be damned.

Cregan’s muffled sounds falter into quiet as you speak:

“It’s not him that I long for.”

Aemond flinches, pain flashing across his face like a wound reopened, as if you just dragged a dagger across his eye. Whatever story he’s written in his head, whatever twisted logic he's used to justify this torment, you’ve just shattered it. And still, you see it clearly now: he wants to be wrong.

“Don’t mess with me.” He speaks low and regal, a king giving his final warning before condemning a traitor to death.

“I wish I were.” The bile tastes sour, but you swallow it.

There’s no flicker of belief in his eyes. Just that stubborn, blind confidence. Because that way it would be easier. He’s made his mind, he’s set the course, and now, you’re the compass that refuses to point the way he demands.

“Shall I remind you of the words you spoke before?”

You shake your head. “I remember them… but it’s not that simple.”

He scoffs, bitter in a way you’ve never heard before, and you fear he might disappear, vanish into the air.

“Everything was simple before you.”

You’re a liability. That’s what he means. You bite your lip until it bleeds. If Aemond resembles anything right now, it’s a blade cutting everything that comes close.

But you’ve never been wise when it comes to him.

So you take a step forward.

“You know I’m telling the truth,” you murmur.

“I know that I’m drowning in you,” he hisses, tempest building in his gaze.

He’s thunder.

You’re sunlight.

And somehow, you both exist in the same sky.

“Come here,” you whisper, your hands twitching at your sides, aching to touch him, yet trembling with the fear of being rejected.

He doesn’t move. One breath. Two.

His fists clench at his sides like he’s holding himself back from moving an inch closer. There’s a war inside him, making him waver. The only thing he knows is how to destroy, to tease apart, to peel away. No one’s ever offered him something this fragile, this gentle. No one’s ever offered him something he can’t tear apart. He doesn’t know how to step into forbidden territory, how to be without ruining it all. He craves and fears that craving.

He leans in, just barely, so subtle it might not even look like a shift. But you catch it, leaning toward him, meeting him halfway, slowly, carefully. Like this moment is the most brittle thing you both hold. His tall back curves, folding toward you like a warrior about to surrender to a goddess.

You both hover there, unsure, two beings on the verge of a kiss neither knows how to shape. You tilt your heads, adjusting subtly, afraid to misalign the fragile geometry of closeness.

A kiss, another forbidden territory, aches painfully in your chest.

At last, his forehead presses to yours. A simple gesture. Yet it feels like the right thing in the world.

His skin is warm. Yours is cold. A perfect, soothing contrast.

He needs you to soothe the fire that’s always threatening to burn him to ash.

You need him to finally give you the warmth you’ve been denied.

Aemond can’t go to the rooftop anymore. Not since Alys. It used to be a sanctuary, a place to breathe, to observe the world from a distance. But now it’s lost its magic. Just a trembling structure beneath the wind. Even the cityscape has dulled, no longer impressive.

Now, in this quiet between you, where breath follows breath, the stillness feels sacred, like a beggar stepping into a cathedral and seeing a god he once refused.

The sense of comfort Aemond sought in stone and solitude, he finally finds in you.

His breathing slows, falling into rhythm with yours. A quiet, synchronized dance. He forgets the cigarettes in his pocket. The purpose of the pact slips away. So does the belief that he was never meant to feel.

Even Cregan's presence fades, barely a shadow now.

“We can figure this out… together.” The words are meant just for him, the most courageous and vulnerable confession you’d say to no one else.

“What if it’s a mistake?” He echoes your fear, your own words, softened by his voice. He looks at you like you hold all the answers in the world, and maybe that terrifies him more than anything else.

You hesitate.

Once, you said forever. And then… you buried it.

You can’t offer consolation. Lie, and you both know will know about it.

So you give him the only thing you both can stand on: the truth.

“Some mistakes…” you say, eyes meeting his, they’re your favorite color again. “Some mistakes are worth it.”

And in this sacred space, where neither of you moves, it feels like the world has stopped asking him to be a demon.

Just this once.

Just for you.

Okay, okay, okay so I definitely THOUGHT that Dove was going to go on a date with Cregan and I love that she didn’t. I also love that she didn’t respond to his text?!?! Like yessss let him figure it out on his own that she’s not joining! I’m here for it!!

Also I love how Aemond accompanies Dove home like he has not a care in the world that Cregan is tied up in her living room?! You wrote him SO WELL HERE. I had NO IDEA what Dove was going to be coming home to?! And then how Aemond COMPLETELY flips his attitude and demeanor to DEMON. Like WOW just WOW.

Ugh I love how you wrote how Aemond had this whole story in his head about WHO Dove was longing for and how insane it was driving him. And how he was walking the edge of the knife of complete demon and admitting he feels something stronger, something HUMAN towards Dove. It was just absolute perfection!!

Dove ADMITTING she was longing for Aemond and not Cregan was UGHHH SO BEAUTIFUL. I love love love love their dynamic!!!

“Oh,  I haven’t posted this photo on Facebook…” Her lashes, thick with black mascara, flutter with the realization. “Will you give me a second?”

“Sure,” you answer flatly, stepping back and leaning against the counter. You wonder if saying “no” would make a difference.

Her loud, cheerful “HAH” is followed by the rapid tapping of her thumbs, making you wonder if she’s already replying to comments. She must be retired by now, yet she’s one of those people whose age is difficult to guess. If only you could be that carefree. So many things wouldn’t matter. Your mind wouldn’t spiral. Perhaps your head wouldn’t have turned into a battlefield.

You can feel your phone watching you from across the kitchen table, curious too about what you’re going to reply to Cregan’s message: “I’ll be at our place tonight, at 7 PM. Join me?”

The moment he sent the first text weeks ago, part of you lit up, as if whispering, finally. As if this moment had always been meant to come. You hadn’t planned to talk about your writing progress, but message by message, you eventually opened up about your novel, set to be published at the end of the summer.

When he responded with “Glad your stubbornness persists,” it felt like a happiness injection. Unfortunately, it wasn’t long-lasting. The teddy bear, still sitting on the floor where you’d left him, no longer looked cheerful, like something in his buttoned eyes had dimmed.

“Done!” she announces proudly, as if she might’ve just been cast as Leonardo DiCaprio’s girlfriend. 

“Cool, um—Mrs. Silvi, would you like to see the flat?”

The question stumbles from your mouth, an awkward attempt to bring the conversation back on track. The abrupt transition triggers your inner people-pleaser to press the red panic button: SHE’LL EVICT YOU.

Luckily, she doesn’t seem to notice.

“Oh, sure! Let’s see it!” she chirps, and for a second, you swear, if you hadn’t reminded her, she’d leave without inspecting a thing.

You trail behind her, your slippers making a soft shuffle. If it weren’t for the height difference, you could’ve mistaken yourself for her shadow. Her perfume, sweet and oriental, wafts through the corridor, swallowed eagerly by the faded beige walls. The same scent that haunted the air for weeks after your move-in.

She abruptly pauses at the living room threshold, causing you to almost bump into her.

“Jeez!” she exclaims, her hand dramatically flying to her chest. She couldn’t have spotted the cigarette spots on the windowsill from that far.

“What a lovely thing!”

You come up beside her to follow her gaze, unsure of where this is heading. Relief sweeps through you when she lifts a teddy bear so delicately it might be mistaken for a brittle antique.

You hover at the threshold awkwardly, as if it’s your first time in the flat.

“Where did you get it?” she asks, brushing off some invisible dust from his fur.

But before your lips even part, she resumes, “Oh, I know!”

Her sly smirk makes you furrow. By now, you know better than to try inserting a word into her monologue. It’s pointless. Even if you do speak, she’ll just talk right over you.

“It must be your gentleman.”

Your mouth forms a silent O, which prompts her to giggle. She clearly interprets it a “yes”. Sylvi settles onto the sofa, the plush toy in her arms like a newborn. When she nods to the side, you have no choice but to sink down beside her.

“How I miss those times when I was younger,” she says, her voice laced with longing, her confession aimed at Ewan. “I mean, I am still young, but back then... I had a whole parade of gallants fighting over my heart.”

Weirdly or not, you have no doubt about that.

“They would’ve done anything for me. Bombarded me with presents, flowers, skipped classes just to walk me home after the conservatory. But I was always waiting. Waiting for the one. You know?” She pauses, and the conversation seems to have taken a turn you weren’t ready for. “The right one.”

Her gaze lands on you, expectant. You nod, perhaps too quickly, a gesture meant to mask the unsettling twist in your chest. The idea of the right one feels foreign. You thought you knew it back then, with Cregan. But now… things are messier than ever.

Gazing down at the teddy bear only fuels the guilt further.

If you agree to meet Cregan tonight, you’ll end up betraying… Aemond.

“Of course you know!” she continues, misreading your silence, her large, round Cleopatra-style earrings jingling as she nods her head. Her gaze flicks down to Ewan, then back to you. “You’re the writer,” she adds, her hand gently covering yours, pulling you back to the present. Her skin is slightly wrinkled but warm and soft. “These things must come naturally to you.”

You force a smile, clearly not planning to share your concerns about your ex and the demon.

Her eyes narrow, just a flicker. It’s a look of knowing, of recognition, as if something gave you away. It prompts her to open up further.

“My husband—” You brace yourself, anticipating a long story about him.

“—passed away two years ago.” Her hand twitches, then withdraws, as if through the touch she could reveal more than she’s willing to.

You blink, caught off guard by the revelation. “Oh God, I’m so sorry.”

“I married him… God knows why, to be honest.” She shakes her head, a weak smile tugging at her lips. Her gaze drifts, not quite seeing the teddy anymore, but something else, someone else.

“He didn’t meet half the criteria for the man I thought I was waiting for. And yet… he was the most real thing that ever happened to me. Drove me terribly mad.” The way she stresses the word is supposed to showcase her anger, but it seems like the only reason for the emotion is his absence.

“Why?”

The most intentional question you’ve asked her. A small part of you, perhaps a naïve one, wonders if this conversation might help you make up your mind. But the answer, as always, isn’t what you expect.

She smiles, but not at you.

Her gaze is hazy, clouded with memory.

“Because he’s always been on my mind.”

She silently passes the teddy to you, and your breath hitches, just like the day Aemond first placed it in your hands. Suddenly, you understand what the button eyes have been trying to tell you.

What started as a “flat inspection” has drifted so far from its original purpose that the word almost feels absurd. After a few more moments of chatting about exes and travels, she declares that she’s seen enough and announces that she’s late for a visit with an old friend.

“I’m so late!” Sylvi says, slipping on her heels. You can’t help but admire her energy. Her babbling personality manages to soothe your ache.

“Oh—almost forgot! I brought you a present!”

“For me?” you echo, watching her dig through her giant tote bag with such enthusiasm that you wouldn’t be surprised if she pulled out a puppy.

“Ta-dam!” She holds out a small green frog statue. It’s heavy in your hands, oddly so for something so small. The frog’s mouth is parted in a smile, and its body is speckled with a few white dots, like someone added a final touch just before placing it on the shelf.

Before your brain can dive into the connection, she explains, “It’s from a sacred place I visited! Said to bring good luck and scare evil spirits away,” she adds, leaning forward with a wink.

After she leaves, you place the frog on the windowsill. Its small, cheerful figure looks serene, fitting into the interior effortlessly. In the mirror, you catch your gaze and the conspicuous questions. A blessing or a warning?

The light purple dress hugs your curves perfectly. The silk showcases you with the kind of grace that makes you pause, stunned by your own reflection.

Sunset light spills across the room, gilding everything in soft amber. Funny, this small, unremarkable apartment that once felt like a stopgap now glows with the warmth of something earned. Something lived in. It’s still small, yes. But now, it feels like you. Like home.

You spin, just like you used to as a child, your hem fluttering in the golden light. Back then, moments like this made you believe you were a princess, and your story could only end one way: happily ever after.

Life had… other plans. For every problem resolved, another one waits in the wings, and not every battle ends with you victorious.

You’ve made up your mind. It’s time to win the battle with Cregan. No meeting. That book is closed and put aside into the depths of your mental library. The bitter truth has finally come into focus: even if you got back together, things wouldn’t be the same.

You don’t owe him a message, or an explanation. Not even a line. He’ll figure it out.

And nothing, nothing, can stop you from going out for a light stroll in this beautiful dress, grabbing takeout from anywhere but that café he called “our place.” It was always his favorite, never really yours.

The inner sense of triumph settles into your chest, and for the first time, in what seems forever, it feels like you’re doing things right.

Suddenly, a sound. The phone is ringing. You glance at the screen.

Unknown number.

The vibration ripples through your hand, intensifying the anxiety within you. Your mind is like a beehive, each thought a stinging bee ready to attack no one but you. Could it be Cregan? A new number, a new tactic to reel you in?

You pick it up. You don’t speak right away. Neither do they. The silence on the other end is eerily still. You hear them breathing, waiting for you to make the first step, or rather, say the first word.

“…Hello?” Your voice is low, hoarse with hesitation.

No answer. Instead, something rustles. A faint sound like fabric brushing too close to a microphone. Your own “hello” comes back to you, faintly distorted, half a second later.

Your thumb hovers over “end call,” every instinct screaming to press it. You see the duration of the call, seconds ticking by, and with them, the silence. This isn’t Cregan. It’s not even close. And yet… something about the way the line hums, the strange rasp of their breath, pulls you in. You feel like your ears are pressed against the very mouth of something living, and if you’re patient enough, it’ll pour its secrets into your ear.

Then—

“Finally.” The voice bursts through the line so abruptly you jolt, your fingers fumbling as the phone nearly crashes to the floor. “I feared you’d never pick up!”

The reproachful tone in the feminine voice gives you a flashback to your lousy boss from a year ago.

“We close in 35 minutes. This is your last chance to pick it up.”

You blink. Pick up what?

“Hello? Miss, are you there?”

“Yes. Um—who is this?”

“LOTUS.”

“Who?”

“Dry cleaning service.” Her exhale is sharp. She’s clearly someone counting down the minutes before she can leave. “You’d better hurry.”

“It must be some sort of mistake…”

“Are you Miss Y/N?”

“…Yes.”

“Then no mistake. The item’s paid for. Urgent cleaning. Ready today.”

“I—I never gave anything in.” 

“We’ll be closed all weekend,” she stretches out her words, creating an image of a teenage girl, bored to death with her part-time shift. “You’d better hurry.”

“Check the number again,” you say, sharper than intended.

That’s definitely a prank, you think, ready to pull the phone away and switch it off. Then it comes again. A low, thin buzzing sound, not quite static. Like another line clicking in. Another listener. Your pulse quickens.

“It’s your errand,” a different voice rasps, a mechanical one, as though the words are being pulled through a walkie-talkie.

Your heart skips a beat. “What did you say?”

Breathing again. Not just heard. Felt warm against your skin. Like the line between the call and your room has blurred.

The static cuts off.

“It’s your errand.” The reply is firmer, and definitely human this time. “Are we clear now?”

The silence is shorter this time. Like a self-preservation instinct tells you to act on your best behavior.

“…Yes.”

You only have time to use the bathroom before you’re slipping into your Converse. Great. You look like a prom queen who ran away the last second. Your hands are shaking as you reach for your keys, they fall on the floor with a clatter, as if yelling, “hurry up!”

17:43. Thirteen minutes left. You’ve never been to this place. It’s impossible. “Shit.”

To your surprise, the GPS says it’s a 10-minute walk, which doubles your odds. But apparently, navigating a map while shaking with nerves isn’t your forte. Right in the middle of a pedestrian crossing, you realize you’re headed in the wrong direction and spin around.

Brake screeches. A car stops inches from you, close enough to see the Mercedes emblem.

“ARE YOU FUCKING DUMB?”

“Sorry!” You jog back, dragging your embarrassment with you.

The navigation arrow keeps switching directions like it’s toying with you. But then you see it—the sign: LOTUS. A simple black sign in white letters, tucked between a pharmacy and a pet store.

You rush inside, like a robber who decides to commit the crime at the last minute.

The manager shakes his head at you, his gaze revealing doubts about whether you can be trusted with whatever you're supposed to pick up.

Eventually, he hands you the suit. You assume it’s the one, judging by the black garment bag. You have no idea how to carry it. It’s heavier than expected, and definitely meant for someone much taller. You try lifting your arm to keep the garment bag from dragging on the pavement, but its weight pulls you down as your muscles quickly burn. You wonder if carrying a dead body would be easier.

The address attached to the suit cover tells you nothing. But AEMOND TARGARYEN, in capital letters, does.

Cars rush past, horns blaring at slow pedestrians and mindless drivers. Yet, amidst the noise, one thought rises louder than everything else: There’s no way three weeks have passed since the previous errand. What the hell is going on?

The taxi crawls through the gridlocked street so slowly, you start thinking you’d have made it faster on foot. The road is a graveyard of idling engines and quarreling drivers, each urging the others to move faster, stuck in a city that refuses to move.

The suit lies next to you, sagging and folded in a way that would probably make the dry cleaner flinch. You’ve violated the “carry upright” instruction in every imaginable way. He’ll know. Of course, he will. Do demons know how to iron?

The label taunts you. Not just the address, but the name.

Aemond Targaryen.

Isn’t that what Alys called him back then? Before you fell into the fog of nothingness. You were pretty sure it was his powers pulling you away from the conversation.

Something about this situation doesn’t feel right. All your feelings, thoughts, doubts, and concerns related to Aemond, the idea of what you could tell him, the desire to talk, it feels like it’s not going to be met halfway.

Vhagar. And now… you glance down at the garment bag again.

If he wanted an explanation or to talk, he would’ve already dropped by. No, what he’s after doesn’t seem like reconciliation, but rather what you asked for. Errands. Nothing more than that. To satisfy his pet, and now to fetch dry cleaning.

The sky is overcast when the taxi finally pulls up to the curb. A skyscraper looms in front of you. The glass-faced building already has a few lit-up windows, its rooftop disappearing into the clouds above. You squint upward, trying to count the windows. Impossible in such weather.

People come and go through the revolving doors, engrossed in their usual routine. But you hover on the pavement, feet nailed to the ground. That light, confident feeling blooming in your chest from earlier, the pride, the closure, has withered.

The mind-blowing sex might have been enough to blur your judgment, making you cultivate a false hope. But it was silly to assume it’d be the same for a demon. All your well-thought-out explanations to reconcile with him now disperse into the air. You need those. Aemond doesn't.

You shove yourself into the revolving door before you let yourself change your mind. It spins, and your heart races with it. You emerge into the lobby, blinking as though you’ve stepped through a portal. Another world.

The marble floor shimmers beneath your feet, reflecting the gilded glow from above, making it feel like you’re walking on water. Chandeliers are shaped like twisted vines; some coil into ouroboros loops—symbols of endless cycles. Even the air here seems burnished, gold-laced, as if you’ve wandered into a sacred place where nothing imperfect can survive.

You glance toward the guards as you cross the threshold, adjusting your grip on the suit. At this point, you’re not even sure you could come up with an adequate explanation of why you’re here. They're statues dressed up like men, carved in black and gray and glued to the entryway. Sphinx-like. You’re not sure they even breathe.

Each step toward the reception desk feels heavier than the last. The floor mirrors your hesitation, every reserved Converse-clad footfall echoing into a soft thud against the marble. Are they real? You wonder, scanning the rows of tall orange-hued trees by the main path, each one in a massive pot that likely cost more than your rent.

You don’t notice the moment you straighten the suit in your arms again, careful to hold it upright. The setting itself urges you to be perfect, like everything else in here. The ache in your bicep spreads, a quiet throb, but your face is composed like never before.

Congratulations. You wanted an errand. You got it.

“Um, hello…” you murmur as you near the desk, your words small against the vastness around you. The rich pink peonies glance your way, polite, graceful, as if they’re here to greet you most exquisitely.

The receptionist doesn’t move. Her gaze is fused to the screen, her fingers dancing in perfect tempo. For a moment, you’re unsure if you spoke at all.

“Elevators are to your left, miss,” she replies without looking up. Her French-tipped nails tap in a rhythm so precise you wonder if she once played piano. 

You glance toward the elevator. The number above it glows 1. Waiting. Inviting. Something about this place pulls at you, soft and glittering. Like a mermaid song. Sailors know better than to follow it.

“I—I don’t need the elevator.”

You drag your gaze back to her, shifting the suit to your other hand. Not the numb one. The fabric sticks to your palm. You're ready to curse the universe for this day. Because, of course, when your ex shows up and arranges the meeting, nothing goes well.

She finally looks up. Her hazel eyes skim your face, calculating, as if reading your entire history in one breath. Then her gaze softens. Sympathy, maybe. Though you utterly hope you don’t look half as bad as you feel. Her features are so symmetrical that it unsettles you.

“How can I help you then?”

“This is for apartment… 1099.” You squint at the label, though you repeated the number a dozen times in the taxi. You could probably say it if someone shook you awake in the middle of the night.

She types swiftly, clearly has been in this job a while, then says, “Aemond Targaryen.” It’s not a question, yet you nod cautiously.

Hearing his name aloud rattles something loose in your chest. You feel it behind you, a flicker of shadow just past your shoulder, but when you glance, there’s nothing. Only marble.

The building is too quiet. There should be so many residents, and yet it’s only you. You swallow, trying to keep your worries at bay.

“Do I leave it here?” you ask, trying not to sound rushed.

Her eyes narrow with a hint of suspicion. “Why not go up and give it to the owner?”

The question takes you aback, like you’re a cat caught up on the owner’s dining table. A soft ding sounds from the elevator, as if it, too, thinks it’s time.

“I—I can’t.”

She raises a brow, her nails tapping lightly against the table. A musician, for sure.

“Aren’t you the delivery?”

“No, I’m not,” you reply, biting your inner cheek. Once, you thought making a pact with a demon meant freedom from suffering. Turns out it’s just double hell.

“Well,” she shrugs, slipping seamlessly back into her customer-service smile, “there’s no note from Mr. Targaryen authorizing any delivery.”

“And?” you ask, gaping at her blankly.

The air thickens around you, faintly perfumed, like someone must’ve lit a candle somewhere nearby.

Her gaze locks onto yours, like this is some kind of contest, a challenge. Let’s see who blinks first. Before the silence turns any more awkward, she speaks. “I’m not allowed to accept it.”

There’s no mockery or cruelty in her tone. If anything, she sounds like someone who’s memorized protocol down to the footnotes. But it doesn’t help.

You feel yourself fraying. The pressure in your arm finally wins. The suit dips, grazing the pristine floor.

Your eyes snag on the neat little nametag pinned to her crisp blouse.

Floris.

“Excuse me—um—Floris, but I can’t and I won’t go to his apartment.”

You see her lips part in an attempt to object, but you act first, placing the suit firmly on the reception desk. Floris’ eyes widen, as if you’ve disrupted a sacred cathedral. You narrowly miss a slim porcelain vase, pale and trembling like it resents the disturbance, too.

“Miss, you can’t leave it here!” Floris snaps, halfway out of her chair now. To your strange relief, she looks human after all. She’s certainly not someone who chases rule-breakers. Still… if it came down to it, sneakers beat heels.

“Too bad,” you mutter, already turning away. You cradle your aching elbow like it’s a wound from the battle you’ve just won. “Guess Mr. Targaryen will have to bring his ass downstairs himself.”

You don’t wait to hear her outburst. The Sphinxes guarding the door stay still.

Good.

You can feel the tiny raindrops in the air, not quite a rain, more like a damp breath on your skin that carries the notes of relief. The droplets gather on your hair strands too, as if the weather is trying to calm the rage within you.

You take deep inhales and exhales, trying to return to your senses. The building is right behind you, but it doesn’t hold such power over you anymore.

The plan to take a taxi flops the moment you realize your phone has died. It was exactly 7 p.m. when it switched off. Maybe it’s for the better. No one will reach out to you this evening anyway. Though you doubt Cregan would be texting, “Where are you?” His ego wouldn’t let him do that.

People pass you in different directions. You close your eyes, imagining there’s no one but you. But it’s not that easy, not when a familiar voice sends goosebumps across your skin.

“Figured you wouldn’t drop by.”

Aemond’s voice is like a gentle kiss pressed against your cheek.

He’s right beside you, standing as if he’s always been there. Head tilted back, eyes lifted to the sky like he, too, is trying to make sense of the weather. Not a footstep. Not a sound. Just there. Classic demon style.

His outfit is simple— jeans, a black t-shirt. Something like a snake chain glints in the light, half-hidden under the fabric. He could never pass for a casual passerby. Not with that regal posture, quiet confidence, those never-blinking eyes, like he can’t afford to miss a second of life.

“Just like you,” you retort, trying to calm your silly, racing heart, which beats in hectic excitement.

Something in the air shifts, the way it always does when he’s near. Like someone drapes an invisible coat over your shoulders on a chilly day.

A low, velvety hum follows, almost a purr. He turns to face you, and when your eyes meet, it’s like those excruciating weeks of distance wash away.

Your anger simmers down, like sand slipping through fingers. You want to clench your fists to hold onto it, but you can’t. Not when he’s looking at you like that. Like it’s the first time.

His expression is unreadable. At first, almost bored. But then something shifts, a faint warmth seeps into that sapphire cold. Like staring at a blurred face in a crowd, only to recognize, a moment later, that it’s the dearest person in the world.

You’ll never understand how looking at someone can stir so much. Feelings bloom in your chest, drowning out reason, swallowing up words. The script you mentally rehearsed, the beeping of cars, the noise of the street…they all dull around him.

Suddenly, there’s a thought. Words spill out before you mull them over. Before you assess whether they align with your carefully crafted plan.

“Why didn’t you come?” It’s reproachful. Raw. Telling far more about your feelings than you’d like.

There’s not even a flicker of surprise on his face. It makes you wonder if the same question has been haunting him.

“I’m nothing but a name away.”

One day, you’ll reflect on that line — the aching beauty of it, the absolute devotion it implies. Yet today, the simplicity makes you frown. You feel like a child asking a huge, existential question, only to be met with an unoriginal adult response. 

Would you ever understand how it’s possible to want someone so much and still want to run?

His face stays neutral, the enviable calm of someone who’s either figured everything out, or is wise enough to never try.

I want to tell you so much, I don’t know where the first sentence starts and the last one ends.

A crease forms between his brows, faint but visible in the wash of headlights from the street. You might’ve missed it in daylight. A hint that he struggles to understand you just as much as you struggle to understand yourself.

At one point, it feels like someone turned up the heat. Your cheeks grow warm under his gaze. It’s too much. Now you understand why the waiter was so nervous in the café last time.

You haven’t practiced blinking—you want to say aloud, but given the time and circumstances separating you, you opt for a question instead.

“Are you trying to burn a hole in me?” you ask, folding your arms, fully aware of how defensive the posture is.

He tilts his head slightly, and now, somehow, he looks even more curious than before.

“Why would you say that?”

“God, not literally,” you mutter, shifting your weight. The idea of explaining figurative language to a demon is… oddly résumé-worthy. “It’s just… a phrase.”

“That’s a strange one.”

“Not really.” You shrug, pushing away the part of you that’s also wondering why anyone would come up with it. “Feels fitting for moments like this.”

He hums as if deep in thought, but his look carries a trace of disbelief. Does he think you’re mocking him?

Then his lips curl into the ghost of a smile. A loud tell that the menace is coming.

Before you can mentally prepare, he’s already a step ahead. And a step closer. His gaze, as hypnotic as ever, freezes you in place as he towers over you.

“Am I not allowed to admire you?”

Your lips part slightly, stunned by the casual audacity. By the proximity. By the way his eyes shamelessly track your mouth. Your strict no-kissing policy is now hanging by a thread.

His chest lifts with a deep breath, like he’s trying to stay in control, to hold on to the remnants of self-restraint.

First, he ghosts you. Then sends you on literal dry-cleaning errands. Now he’s shamelessly flirting?

Thoughts collide inside you like moths against a lit-up window at night.

“Goodbye, Aemond,” you say, turning sharply. Your sneakers squeak faintly against the wet sidewalk. Each step is an echo of your thundering pulse. You dodge a man in a business coat, slip around a couple tangled in PDA, heart hammering as if you’re outpacing sirens.

Don’t turn around. Don’t turn around. A silent mantra. Doomed to be interrupted.

“Would you like to take a taxi?”

Of course, he’s right behind you. His voice cuts through the traffic noise.

You glance sideways, he’s barely trying. One of his strides for every four of yours. For him, this is a stroll. For you, a sprint.

“I’ll walk,” you mutter. Then correct yourself mentally. Sprint.

“Good choice.”

The way he says it stirs a memory: that same shade of praise in his voice as that night. Of all times for that image to flash: you’re on all fours, panting under him, his eyes devouring you in the mirror. This is peak appropriate.

The pressure against your chest is incredible, as if the flashback knocks all the air out of your lungs. Getting hit by a car doesn’t sound like such a terrible alternative right now. Instead, you nearly miss a step and almost collide with a garbage bin, but his hand catches your wrist, pulling you closer in a smooth, automatic gesture, like he saw it coming all along.

You only cast him a look, as if to say: I’m still angry. But his gaze is fixed on the path ahead.

A new tactic?

Neon sighs. Laughter. Siren.

You mentally name each sound, each sight, just to drown out the noise inside your head. To calm the feelings in your chest.

You pass a kiosk, where the mingling scent of greasy meat and fried onions curls around you. The combination is far from appealing, but your stomach tightens. Right. You skipped dinner.

“You don’t have to walk with me, you know?” You say it without turning. God knows what might be in his eyes.

He stays silent a bit longer than usual, as if your question deserves careful consideration before being answered.

“I thought you’d want to compensate for my absence,” he finally says, slipping behind you and brushing past a woman steering a baby stroller.

A cluster of people waiting at the traffic light clogs the path ahead, funneling you both into a narrow gap, pinned by his presence. He stands close behind you, his taller frame pressing warmth against your upper back. You swear you can feel its steady rise and fall.

You lift your gaze. Yep, he’s that close.

“What’s that even supposed to mean?” Your brow furrows.

“You pointed it out,” he says, leaning closer. You can practically feel his breath against your ear. A familiar scent, forest after rain and cigarettes, engulfs you. Soothing, grounding, even amidst the smog and street food.

“Minutes ago,” he adds, clarifying.

“That was just an observation. Not… an invitation.” You bite the tip of your tongue.

“Mmm.”

You shoot him a sharp look. He clearly interprets it in his own way. If only you could peel that smugness off him and kick its ass.

You resume walking, only to pause at the corner, hesitating.

Were you meant to pass the bakery? No? Then this way is—

“Left,” he says, effortlessly correcting your course, or rather, prying into your thoughts. “Unless you’ve changed apartments.”

You curse under your breath, but Aemond is already heading in the right direction, unbothered, clearly enjoying the walk. At one point, you understand those poor kids who throw toys at their parent’s back.

“The night wandering random neighborhoods, or a walk with me?” he calls back, now walking backward, so elegantly it’s like he’s on a catwalk. The playful smirk decorates his bow lips, his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his dark jeans. Yes, the audience would drool over him. “Your choice.”

You check your phone. The screen stays black when you press the button. Just your reflection stares back—a lost puppy.

“Why do you even bother?” you ask, catching up. Your breath is uneven, of course, he didn’t slow down to wait for you. Half a step separates you, but the pavement narrows, the crowd surges, and you bump into him lightly. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even glance back. Still, you can’t shake the feeling that something else is on his mind, something he’s carefully keeping you shut out of.

“Weren’t you the one who wanted my ass downstairs?” he replies, amusement blooming across his face, easing your suspicions. Of course, he’d been nearby, listening in.

You click your tongue. “I knew you relished my suffering.”

“On that, we disagree,” his voice dips, just like it always does in the most intimate moments. “Your pleasure tastes better on my tongue.”

The double meaning hits like a sucker punch. Your breath catches.

One thing is certain now: you could never play by the rules you’ve set. The “just an errand” clause only works when he’s not around. His presence short-circuits your logic. When a match meets gasoline, fire is inevitable.

“The errand’s earlier than three weeks,” you say, a weak attempt to change the subject. To regain control.

“Is it?”

You glance at him, trying to gauge the sincerity of the question. His face is unreadable. Just a glint in his eyes, unrelenting, like a storm. Could a demon lose track of time?

“Aha,” you mutter, shifting closer as a noisy group of teenagers passes. Your hands brush. And for a moment, his broad palm turns outward in a silent, warm, irresistible invitation.

A gesture? Or a trick of your mind?

You can’t tell what’s real anymore, what’s conjured by your fantasies.

You cross your arms over your chest, pulling back like a scaredy-cat. The cringe flares through you, but not Aemond. He’s poised. Only his fingers twitch slightly, an unconscious attempt to reach for something already gone.

The stairwell smells of stone and old paint, slightly damp. Too narrow for two to walk side by side. His footsteps echo behind you. Gods, you can feel his warmth, draping over your back like delicate lace.

You don’t ask what he wants. You wouldn’t be surprised if he vanished the moment the door clicks open.

But a small part of you hopes he doesn’t.  Maybe, just maybe, he harbors unresolved matters, too.  Maybe now’s the time to confront them.  To dot all the I’s.

Aemond slips past you, a fleeting brush, like a cat too proud to ask for pets. Ironic, you think, as the key clinks against the shelf. This might be the first time he’s truly entered through the door.

He pauses at the threshold of the living room. One shoulder leans into the doorframe, gaze slicing through the dark like it’s searching for something already known. You flick on the hallway lamp. The dim glow spills outward, casting fractured shadows like veins across the walls.

You toe off your shoes slowly, almost hesitantly, as if trying to win some time before the inevitable. Your stomach tightens unpleasantly, your whole body anticipating the conversation. Do you launch into your rehearsed speech? Or hold your ground, demanding answers?

Why is it so cold?

Steam rises from your parted lips. Before the words can leave your mouth, a sound registers from the living room.

Once. Twice.

A scrape. A rustle. Muffled. Something faintly reminiscent of the noise on that line.

You stand beside Aemond, frowning toward the dark. The forest-dark has seeped in through the windows, swallowing everything.

Again, a rustle.

A bird?

You go still. That animal stillness, the kind that comes when your brain is calculating: fight or freeze. Your hand inches closer to Aemond's, seeking protection.

Something’s wrong. You glance at Aemond.. Whatever’s waiting in the dark doesn’t seem to faze him, and probably poses no threat to you.

“Go ahead,” he says, chin tilting toward the switch. His voice is calm. Too calm. Not smug, not mocking, just… off. Almost like the very first night you met.

You hesitate, fingers hovering over the flicker like you’re about to touch a hot stove.

Flick.

You close your eyes. The light is too bright, or maybe this is just one of the ways you try to protect yourself from whatever is in there.

But nothing prepares you for it.

You cover your mouth with a hand, but the gasp escapes anyway.

In the center of the room sits a man, bound to your chair. His head lolls forward, swaying slightly, like a broken pendulum trying to remember how time moves. His eyes, still clouded, scan the room in jittery bursts, as if everything blurs and flows.

Then his gaze snags on yours.

Cregan.

The man you used to love.

You’re the catalyst, the final wake-up call that makes his eyes widen in horror. The plot twist in a nightmare he never imagined you’d be part of.

Chains wrap around his chest, arms, and legs, metal gleaming as he jerks against them in a futile attempt to break free. His protests die in his throat, stifled by the gag; his screams reduced to the muffled bellowing of a wounded animal calling to a pack that’s already left it behind.

There are moments in everyone’s life when the body moves faster than the mind. When instinct overrides thought. When there's no time to read the room, only to act.

“Oh gods, Cregan!”

Adrenaline kicks into your system like a punch. You drop to your knees before him, tugging at the chains. The metallic rustle fills the room, clinking sounds too cheerful, like a parrot that won’t shut up during a funeral.

The knots are savage. The locks, iron-heavy. A collar, thick and tight, clasps around his throat like a leash.

Sweat drenches his skin. His dark hair clings to his forehead in damp strands. His chest heaves with sharp, rasped breaths like he’s just run a marathon. You haven’t seen him in almost six months, and in all that time, he’d always been composed.

The calmness is now washed away.

“Aemond!” you cry. “Help me!”

You yank at a lock, knuckles whitening. A chain jerks taut with a creak, and Cregan groans behind the gag, flinching. One wrist is bleeding beneath the metal, the skin broken. You’re only making it worse.

Sweat, iron, and now blood fill your nose, sharp and acidic. And under it all, a sour rot: fear.

“Shit, hold on,” you whisper, trying to swallow the nausea rising in your throat. “We’ll get you out, okay? We’ll fix it, just—”

You reach out for the gag. Your hand freezes midair. Inches from Cregan’s mouth.

At first, it feels like invisible needles prick your skin. But then... nothing. Your arm goes numb. Paralyzed. You stare at your fingers, willing them to move, but they don’t. It’s as if your brain has forgotten how to perform the simplest command. Nothing comes but a reluctant twitch.

Cregan’s eyes go wide, darting past you over your shoulder, toward Aemond. He shakes his head in tight, panicked jerks, humming a warning you can’t understand. But the desperation is unmistakable, like he’s just realized something you haven’t.

When your arm finally responds, it recoils violently, curling into your chest. Your skin is cold. If you didn’t know better, you might think you’d plunged your limb into a bucket of ice water.

What the hell...?

You rise slowly, turning to face the only explanation possible.

Aemond hasn’t shifted from the doorway, but his posture has changed, no longer relaxed. Arms folded. Muscles drawn taut beneath black fabric. His lips pressed into a flat, unforgiving line, like he’s enduring the scene that revolts him.

“This isn’t funny.” You barely recognize your own voice, your hand still clutched to your chest.

“Why not?” His gaze drifts lazily between you and Cregan. “You and your long-lost love. A touching reunion.” There’s not an undertone of sincerity, more like he’s studying two insects trapped beneath a glass.

Your mind stutters, fails to form questions; every possibility is too grotesque to voice. The world’s logic breaks down. You clench your fists until your nails bite into your skin. If it’s a dream, panic will wake you up. Your skin prickles, but the vision doesn’t break.

“Aemond, did you—”

He tilts his head, a serpentine movement, without a blink. He patiently waits for you to voice the question he already knows, he can hear it ringing in your mind.

“Did you do this?” You ask, nodding toward Cregan.

A muffled cry bursts through the gag. Cregan thrashes in the chair, chains clattering like bones. He answers for Aemond, panic and fury pouring from him in wordless rage.

A nervous laugh bubbles up from your chest as you press your hand against your forehead. Only now do you notice Cregan’s wearing your favorite t-shirt. He clearly thought you’d meet. Sadly, the circumstances are different.

“This is insane,” you mutter, scanning the room, hoping to find confirmation of your suspicion. This can’t be real. Your shoes, your coat, the dresses. The teddy bear lies on its side, its back turned to the chaos, like it can’t bear to watch.

“Unclasp those.” You point at the chains. Aemond is painfully still.

“Now,” you add louder, but the word comes out desperate.

Cregan strains against the bindings, chair legs screeching across the floor. Futile. If he keeps this up, he’ll tip and split his skull open.

“Cregan, don’t.” You reach for his shoulder in a soothing gesture.

And Aemond...

There it is. That smile.

Not wide. Not obvious. You’ve known him too long not to see it. Just a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth, savoring the moment, feeding off the suffering.

It ignites something in you. A rush of anger, impossible to ignore.

Before you can even process it, you’re at his side, grabbing his forearm with every ounce of strength you can muster, tugging him toward you. You can’t stand him standing there, motionless, detached, like a theatre spectator or a twisted statue crafted solely to haunt you in sleep and waking life.

“Why are you doing this?”

He looks down at your hand. Small, thin wrist, too weak to make a difference. Then his eyes lift to yours, and for the first time, you feel it. A look that makes you recoil, a look that speaks louder than words.

Pathetic.

Your hand falls limp by your side, still burning with the warmth of his skin, a mark you can’t rub off.

You trace the familiar facial features that have become so dear to your heart. The twitch of his lips, a movement he might have learned from another human once, or maybe something wholly his own. You’ve come to understand that it means something, some flicker of emotion within him. And now, more than ever, you ache to know what it means.

“Aemond…”

Your voice trembles with every memory, every warm feeling you ever had for him. Does he remember the teddy bear? The pineapple pizza argument? The sleepless nights? This room is filled with fragments of you, and now pieces of your heart are scattered across the floor beneath you as you appeal for his mercy, while he remains silent.

But his face betrays nothing. It’s as though the Aemond you once knew is no longer there but sealed behind walls, leaving only a stranger in his place. Aemond, who could once read your thoughts, can’t even see the pain written in capital letters all over your face.

He straightens, taking a step toward you. His thumb gently nudges your chin, guiding your gaze to his. The touch is soft. Yet it hurts.

“Don’t you know, my little dove?”

Your chest tightens. That name, said in that voice, soft, slightly hoarse. You hadn’t realized how much you missed it until now. You lean into his touch, giving in, instinctively. Foolishly.

Only to be met by the cold, controlled realm of his reign.

“I’m doing it for you.”

For me?

Your lashes flutter. Tears fall, uninvited, like rain from a sky that didn’t mean to cry. They land on his hand. Aemond stares at the droplets, inspecting them like they’re something foreign, something wrong. The touch you leaned into, sought comfort in, recoils. His hand jerks back, and his face shifts, not with compassion, but with something else: unease, or is it aversion? Like your tears burn him.

He doesn’t wipe them away. Instead, he shakes his hand with a quick, dismissive flick. As though your pain is something to be rid of, something filthy.

Aemond brushes past you without so much as a glance, as if you’re no longer worth his attention. His shoulder grazes your hand. The contact is fleeting, yet it stings.

You’ve never been in control. That’s a statement.

Cregan abandons his futile struggle the moment Aemond approaches. Whether it’s fear, or some inhuman force pulsing off Aemond’s very skin, he goes still. Not a twitch. Not a word. Only a sharp, ragged breath betrays that he’s still here.

“I don’t understand,” you whisper, your throat burning, as though you’ve just swallowed glass.

Aemond reaches for the chains. One touch, and the metal groans. The links uncoil, loosening like a serpent unwrapping itself from its prey, just enough to let Cregan draw breath. He leans back, spine pressed hard to the chair, as if trying to retreat into it. He doesn’t know what Aemond is. But he knows it’s not something human.

“We wouldn’t want him to choke, would we?” Aemond could sing a lullaby in that voice.

He begins to pace behind the chair, hands clasped neatly at his back, as if measuring the room from the mirror to the far wall. Each step stretches Cregan’s agony, each step a cruel echo of the final moments before a judge pronounces the sentence. A judge who takes his time, savoring the weight of the punishment.

For mercy shall not be found here.

He halts behind the chair, sudden as a stopped clock. The time has come. His long fingers, once delicately tracing the curve of your waist, the softness of your thighs, now clutch the top rail like a weapon.

His shadow swallows Cregan whole, dark, unnatural. A reminder that whoever stands before you is something other.

You take a deep breath, only to inhale more dread. You search for words, for an explanation, for this madness to end. With every passing second, your headache grows, as if ivy is coiling inside your skull, its thorns piercing deeper.

“That’s who you wanted, isn’t it?”

Aemond’s voice cuts through the haze in your mind, meaningless. His mouth pulls tight at the sight of your blank stare, a flicker of distaste crossing his face as his gaze drops to Cregan, like he can’t quite believe that this trembling figure is the man you could have sold your soul for.

“Before we made the deal, you wanted him.”

“But—” you move forward, just a step, and the world tilts. The floor lurches, or maybe it’s just your mind fracturing. Yes, you wanted Cregan. But why would Aemond do this? Why now?

“You said I had to choose,” you manage, grasping at the fading thread of reason.

Aemond shrugs.

“I’ve changed my mind.”

His answers are simple, quick, businesslike. Let’s get it done. Nothing in his posture or voice suggests he might be bluffing, or telling the truth. Yet if all feels like a meticulously staged performance, like everything around you is designed to make you believe this twisted story is real. Or is it not?

Aemond stands there, perfectly still. An unyielding, unnatural force. A grace that feels too perfect for this world. Someone who stands above all that is mortal, all that is petty and fragile.

How can someone so beautiful be so lethal?

“He’ll be yours. Just say it.”

Demon speaks in a sweet, luring voice that could make one follow him straight into hell.

“Why?” A question, no more than a whisper.

The silence stretches out like a field of scorched flowers.

But your entire body trembles, the delicate fabric of your dress offering no shield against his relentless presence.

Just give me the truth. Please.

You’re not sure if he hears you, but then there’s the faintest glimmer that something softer stirs within him. A spark, warm, familiar. Aemond’s gaze dips for a brief moment, and a subtle spasm tugs at his features, as though your pleas have become crows in his mind—loud, shrill, their croaks mocking: See. See what you have done.

His fingers rise to his temple, brushing it like he might scare them off. In that instant, you feel the crushing weight of your headache ease, as if part of your agony has passed to him. Like a crack in the dam letting the river flow, leaving you momentarily lighter.

But the shadow of softness is fleeting, dissipating before you can grasp it. Like a hangman remembering the gallows. His sapphire eyes darken, as though the sea is being smothered by ice, the depths concealed, sealed beneath a frozen surface.

Ice that would shatter your bones.

Ice that would leave blood in the snow.

No one survives winter like that.

“All those excruciating feelings of yours…” The confession, or rather a verdict, is announced, cold, detached. There’s no hint of sympathy, no trace of remorse. “I’m fed up with them. With you. I don’t want to feel your longing anymore.”

Longing.

That bitter ache that has filled your days, your nights, these endless, hollow weeks. It wasn’t just a feeling. It was like radiation dust, clinging to your insides, poisoning you with every breath. It burned through your lungs, lodged in your bones, dulled every dream, and infected every thought with a hopeless ache. A torture, without him. 

Hell. 

You feel like you’re drowning in it, and all you want is to pull him back into the warmth, share it with him.

But Aemond? He wants nothing of it. He wants you out of his veins.

The next blow lands with brutal finality, before you can even form a word, a protest, a plea. He can’t afford you taking the reins, can’t risk you disrupting the plan he’s so meticulously crafted.

“I figured Cregan should suffice.”

His words come out flat. Matter-of-fact.

Everything clicks into place. Aemond has twisted it all, misinterpreted your longing in the most cruel, distorted way possible. Like in a math equation, he’s taken your numbers out of it, replacing them with his own.

You might be the one who sentenced both of you to this end. But he... he’s the one here to pull the guillotine.

“You… you made him contact me?”

Aemond laughs, but it’s no longer the laugh of a god, or a devil. It’s the laugh of a madman. A wild creature handed matches in a world soaked with gasoline.

You glance at Cregan, a silent plea in your eyes, but his gaze offers nothing, only regret.

“Oh, the bastard wanted it,” Aemond spits, his teeth grinding. Fingers, or something sharper, dig into the chair’s back. The wood creaks beneath his grip. It might be the chair that will break now or Cregan’s neck.

Tears blur your vision again, but this time they sting as they streak down your cheeks. This time, no one is there to catch them.

Cregan’s interest and sincerity you fell for was just a… performance. A trick. Curated by Aemond.

Whether you’d said yes or no, it didn’t matter.

Cregan was always going to end up here. A twisted early birthday present, rewrapped in chains. Not a man with agency. A trick to fill in the blank in Aemond’s story. The story he’s made for you.

Aemond doesn’t see your heartbreak. He chooses not to.

He leans down beside Cregan, as though he could tear his throat apart with his teeth.

“Didn’t you want it, Cregan?”

Cregan has thought about you. The warmth of your body. The softness of your touch. You’ve crossed his mind more than he’ll ever admit.

Whatever Cregan thinks about you no longer matters to you. But it matters to Aemond. It feeds his rage, urging him deeper into his cruelty.

“You can nod.” Aemond, a thoughtful prompter, encourages Cregan to nod frantically, his eyes flicking to you without meeting your gaze.

The pulse hammers in the side of Cregan’s neck, the veins taut with pressure, as if they might burst. If Aemond doesn’t kill him, fear will.

“He just needed a… push.” Aemond wrinkles his nose, as though the thought, or Cregan’s smell, repulses him.

He pulls back again, retreating to your writing table like a beast caged too long. His fingers brush the edge of your work, trailing across the pages, over your hurried handwriting. As if looking for something to anchor him.

What feels like a nightmare to you, to Cregan, isn’t even half the hell Aemond could unleash. This is restraint.

“You’re… disgusting,” you breathe out, but no phrase can match your fury. Your grief. Your despair.

Aemond doesn’t flinch, much to your disdain. His eyes remain on the paper in his hand, scanning the outline of the world you built. The one he wasn’t meant to be part of.

But he is.

With Cregan, the words hardly became sentences. But Aemond…Aemond makes the stories bloom. He’s a long-awaited spring in a land punished by harsh, eternal winter. The thaw that ruins and renews all at once.

“And yet… I was the one who came when no one else listened.” 

He lets the paper fall back onto the table. The flutter is loud, as if the words are breaking down against the wooden surface, their meaning scattered all over the floor.

Cregan glances at you, his expression muddled with confusion. He’s probably started wondering if you’re the reason for this menace. But explaining anything to him is the last thing on your agenda.

“It was a mistake.” The weight of your words is softened by the hurt.

Aemond chuckles, and the room darkens as if in response, shadows listening to their master.

“I’m willing to give him to you on a silver platter. There’ll be no other suggestion,” he coaxes. But there’s something under it, a thin thread of weariness in his gaze.

You look at Cregan. He probably has no clue what’s going on. The meaning of your conversation must be totally lost on him.

And if Aemond untied him, would he even stay of his own free will? Would you want him to stay?

Back then… if you had chosen Cregan over your writing, would this still have ended in ruin? Would it still hurt this much?

You wipe your cheeks, hiding away the remnants of hurt. The gesture is clumsy, trembling. At such points, you disdain being nothing but a human.

“I don’t want it this way.”

Demon or not, he won’t write your story for you.

Something flickers in Aemond’s gaze.

Confusion. Real. Rare. He reads people like maps, but not now.  Or maybe he never did. Maybe his ability to see into a human mind only gave him control, not the understanding of their complexities.

“Alright,” he snaps, his composure fraying at the edges.

He moves toward you, each of his steps stealing the light, his shadow swallowing it whole.

“Then fucking stop this torture,” he growls, his words laced with poison, but deeper, underneath, you feel it. Despair. His earlier words echo in your mind: “The stronger the bond, the more influenced a demon is.” And, as if to prove your suspicion, he adds, “Stop sending this ache through our bond.”

One step, and your back hits the wall. Another step, and there’s no distance between you. He’s close enough for you to see the tremor at his jaw. He’s a fire ready to consume everything in his path.

It shouldn’t matter to him at all what you feel. But if it does…

Your hands press to his chest, not to push him away, but to steady yourself. You rise onto your toes, eyes locking with his, because his eyes have never lied to you.

“Ache or not, why do you care?”

Aemond stiffens, as if you’ve become Medusa and he’s been foolish enough to meet your gaze.

For this question alone, for the implication within it, he could kill you.

His eyes hollow out. Become black wells.

The abyss, staring back.

Hell, burned to ash.

Why do I care?

The question he’s been asking himself ever since your last meeting. To care had never been part of his design. A function he’d never had. Until you came.

At first, it was just a glitch. A symptom, mild and unassuming, which he chose to overlook. Then it turned into a disease. It grew within him, cell by cell, day by day, until it was too late.

He feeds off the emotions of others. That’s the bargain. That’s the way. But your yearning? It poisons him. It robs him of strength and satisfaction, like suddenly all other emotions dull, rot.

He blames you for it all. This weakness, this feeling, couldn’t possibly be his.

You gave it roots. Planted something unnamed inside him, a feeling that made itself at home. And he knows nothing about such things. Every ounce of knowledge he’s gathered from humanity feels useless, because there’s the shocking truth: humans don’t truly understand it either. They give it names: love, affection, devotion, and a million others. But no one truly holds power over it.

He figures out quite soon that to let the feeling live, he’d have to kill his essence so this virus could thrive in his body.

To let the feeling die, he’d have to smother you with his own hands.

But as long as there’s a deal, nothing can tear you both apart. Nothing can tear you out of his system. Not even this outrageous, disgusting ache.

So he goes for a deal that brings him even more disdain. The only way to set himself free. So he shoves Cregan into your arms to shut up the gnawing ache in your chest. Perhaps his own would shut up for good, too.

For he is a demon. Bound. Chained to the human he can’t shake. To you. Your tears are forever imprinted on his hand. Salt etched into skin. And he’ll cherish it.

But worst of all, you’re the human who longs for someone else.

You are the flower that blooms again each morning, greeting him with colour and scent, after he spent the night before uprooting you.

You are his mirror. And what he sees in you… it sickens him. Because when your ache mirrors his own, he can’t think, can’t breathe.

You are his mirror, and he is yours.

The truth, the one you've kept locked away, buried beneath ache and denial, trembles on the tip of your tongue. You could still bury it for good. Let you both be free.

But instead, you choose to do the bravest thing: to admit it.

To yourself first.

And then, finally, to Aemond. Rage and betrayal be damned.

Cregan’s muffled sounds falter into quiet as you speak:

“It’s not him that I long for.”

Aemond flinches, pain flashing across his face like a wound reopened, as if you just dragged a dagger across his eye. Whatever story he’s written in his head, whatever twisted logic he's used to justify this torment, you’ve just shattered it. And still, you see it clearly now: he wants to be wrong.

“Don’t mess with me.” He speaks low and regal, a king giving his final warning before condemning a traitor to death.

“I wish I were.” The bile tastes sour, but you swallow it.

There’s no flicker of belief in his eyes. Just that stubborn, blind confidence. Because that way it would be easier. He’s made his mind, he’s set the course, and now, you’re the compass that refuses to point the way he demands.

“Shall I remind you of the words you spoke before?”

You shake your head. “I remember them… but it’s not that simple.”

He scoffs, bitter in a way you’ve never heard before, and you fear he might disappear, vanish into the air.

“Everything was simple before you.”

You’re a liability. That’s what he means. You bite your lip until it bleeds. If Aemond resembles anything right now, it’s a blade cutting everything that comes close.

But you’ve never been wise when it comes to him.

So you take a step forward.

“You know I’m telling the truth,” you murmur.

“I know that I’m drowning in you,” he hisses, tempest building in his gaze.

He’s thunder.

You’re sunlight.

And somehow, you both exist in the same sky.

“Come here,” you whisper, your hands twitching at your sides, aching to touch him, yet trembling with the fear of being rejected.

He doesn’t move. One breath. Two.

His fists clench at his sides like he’s holding himself back from moving an inch closer. There’s a war inside him, making him waver. The only thing he knows is how to destroy, to tease apart, to peel away. No one’s ever offered him something this fragile, this gentle. No one’s ever offered him something he can’t tear apart. He doesn’t know how to step into forbidden territory, how to be without ruining it all. He craves and fears that craving.

He leans in, just barely, so subtle it might not even look like a shift. But you catch it, leaning toward him, meeting him halfway, slowly, carefully. Like this moment is the most brittle thing you both hold. His tall back curves, folding toward you like a warrior about to surrender to a goddess.

You both hover there, unsure, two beings on the verge of a kiss neither knows how to shape. You tilt your heads, adjusting subtly, afraid to misalign the fragile geometry of closeness.

A kiss, another forbidden territory, aches painfully in your chest.

At last, his forehead presses to yours. A simple gesture. Yet it feels like the right thing in the world.

His skin is warm. Yours is cold. A perfect, soothing contrast.

He needs you to soothe the fire that’s always threatening to burn him to ash.

You need him to finally give you the warmth you’ve been denied.

Aemond can’t go to the rooftop anymore. Not since Alys. It used to be a sanctuary, a place to breathe, to observe the world from a distance. But now it’s lost its magic. Just a trembling structure beneath the wind. Even the cityscape has dulled, no longer impressive.

Now, in this quiet between you, where breath follows breath, the stillness feels sacred, like a beggar stepping into a cathedral and seeing a god he once refused.

The sense of comfort Aemond sought in stone and solitude, he finally finds in you.

His breathing slows, falling into rhythm with yours. A quiet, synchronized dance. He forgets the cigarettes in his pocket. The purpose of the pact slips away. So does the belief that he was never meant to feel.

Even Cregan's presence fades, barely a shadow now.

“We can figure this out… together.” The words are meant just for him, the most courageous and vulnerable confession you’d say to no one else.

“What if it’s a mistake?” He echoes your fear, your own words, softened by his voice. He looks at you like you hold all the answers in the world, and maybe that terrifies him more than anything else.

You hesitate.

Once, you said forever. And then… you buried it.

You can’t offer consolation. Lie, and you both know will know about it.

So you give him the only thing you both can stand on: the truth.

“Some mistakes…” you say, eyes meeting his, they’re your favorite color again. “Some mistakes are worth it.”

And in this sacred space, where neither of you moves, it feels like the world has stopped asking him to be a demon.

Just this once.

Just for you.

“Oh,  I haven’t posted this photo on Facebook…” Her lashes, thick with black mascara, flutter with the realization. “Will you give me a second?”

“Sure,” you answer flatly, stepping back and leaning against the counter. You wonder if saying “no” would make a difference.

Her loud, cheerful “HAH” is followed by the rapid tapping of her thumbs, making you wonder if she’s already replying to comments. She must be retired by now, yet she’s one of those people whose age is difficult to guess. If only you could be that carefree. So many things wouldn’t matter. Your mind wouldn’t spiral. Perhaps your head wouldn’t have turned into a battlefield.

You can feel your phone watching you from across the kitchen table, curious too about what you’re going to reply to Cregan’s message: “I’ll be at our place tonight, at 7 PM. Join me?”

The moment he sent the first text weeks ago, part of you lit up, as if whispering, finally. As if this moment had always been meant to come. You hadn’t planned to talk about your writing progress, but message by message, you eventually opened up about your novel, set to be published at the end of the summer.

When he responded with “Glad your stubbornness persists,” it felt like a happiness injection. Unfortunately, it wasn’t long-lasting. The teddy bear, still sitting on the floor where you’d left him, no longer looked cheerful, like something in his buttoned eyes had dimmed.

“Done!” she announces proudly, as if she might’ve just been cast as Leonardo DiCaprio’s girlfriend. 

“Cool, um—Mrs. Silvi, would you like to see the flat?”

The question stumbles from your mouth, an awkward attempt to bring the conversation back on track. The abrupt transition triggers your inner people-pleaser to press the red panic button: SHE’LL EVICT YOU.

Luckily, she doesn’t seem to notice.

“Oh, sure! Let’s see it!” she chirps, and for a second, you swear, if you hadn’t reminded her, she’d leave without inspecting a thing.

You trail behind her, your slippers making a soft shuffle. If it weren’t for the height difference, you could’ve mistaken yourself for her shadow. Her perfume, sweet and oriental, wafts through the corridor, swallowed eagerly by the faded beige walls. The same scent that haunted the air for weeks after your move-in.

She abruptly pauses at the living room threshold, causing you to almost bump into her.

“Jeez!” she exclaims, her hand dramatically flying to her chest. She couldn’t have spotted the cigarette spots on the windowsill from that far.

“What a lovely thing!”

You come up beside her to follow her gaze, unsure of where this is heading. Relief sweeps through you when she lifts a teddy bear so delicately it might be mistaken for a brittle antique.

You hover at the threshold awkwardly, as if it’s your first time in the flat.

“Where did you get it?” she asks, brushing off some invisible dust from his fur.

But before your lips even part, she resumes, “Oh, I know!”

Her sly smirk makes you furrow. By now, you know better than to try inserting a word into her monologue. It’s pointless. Even if you do speak, she’ll just talk right over you.

“It must be your gentleman.”

Your mouth forms a silent O, which prompts her to giggle. She clearly interprets it a “yes”. Sylvi settles onto the sofa, the plush toy in her arms like a newborn. When she nods to the side, you have no choice but to sink down beside her.

“How I miss those times when I was younger,” she says, her voice laced with longing, her confession aimed at Ewan. “I mean, I am still young, but back then... I had a whole parade of gallants fighting over my heart.”

Weirdly or not, you have no doubt about that.

“They would’ve done anything for me. Bombarded me with presents, flowers, skipped classes just to walk me home after the conservatory. But I was always waiting. Waiting for the one. You know?” She pauses, and the conversation seems to have taken a turn you weren’t ready for. “The right one.”

Her gaze lands on you, expectant. You nod, perhaps too quickly, a gesture meant to mask the unsettling twist in your chest. The idea of the right one feels foreign. You thought you knew it back then, with Cregan. But now… things are messier than ever.

Gazing down at the teddy bear only fuels the guilt further.

If you agree to meet Cregan tonight, you’ll end up betraying… Aemond.

“Of course you know!” she continues, misreading your silence, her large, round Cleopatra-style earrings jingling as she nods her head. Her gaze flicks down to Ewan, then back to you. “You’re the writer,” she adds, her hand gently covering yours, pulling you back to the present. Her skin is slightly wrinkled but warm and soft. “These things must come naturally to you.”

You force a smile, clearly not planning to share your concerns about your ex and the demon.

Her eyes narrow, just a flicker. It’s a look of knowing, of recognition, as if something gave you away. It prompts her to open up further.

“My husband—” You brace yourself, anticipating a long story about him.

“—passed away two years ago.” Her hand twitches, then withdraws, as if through the touch she could reveal more than she’s willing to.

You blink, caught off guard by the revelation. “Oh God, I’m so sorry.”

“I married him… God knows why, to be honest.” She shakes her head, a weak smile tugging at her lips. Her gaze drifts, not quite seeing the teddy anymore, but something else, someone else.

“He didn’t meet half the criteria for the man I thought I was waiting for. And yet… he was the most real thing that ever happened to me. Drove me terribly mad.” The way she stresses the word is supposed to showcase her anger, but it seems like the only reason for the emotion is his absence.

“Why?”

The most intentional question you’ve asked her. A small part of you, perhaps a naïve one, wonders if this conversation might help you make up your mind. But the answer, as always, isn’t what you expect.

She smiles, but not at you.

Her gaze is hazy, clouded with memory.

“Because he’s always been on my mind.”

She silently passes the teddy to you, and your breath hitches, just like the day Aemond first placed it in your hands. Suddenly, you understand what the button eyes have been trying to tell you.

What started as a “flat inspection” has drifted so far from its original purpose that the word almost feels absurd. After a few more moments of chatting about exes and travels, she declares that she’s seen enough and announces that she’s late for a visit with an old friend.

“I’m so late!” Sylvi says, slipping on her heels. You can’t help but admire her energy. Her babbling personality manages to soothe your ache.

“Oh—almost forgot! I brought you a present!”

“For me?” you echo, watching her dig through her giant tote bag with such enthusiasm that you wouldn’t be surprised if she pulled out a puppy.

“Ta-dam!” She holds out a small green frog statue. It’s heavy in your hands, oddly so for something so small. The frog’s mouth is parted in a smile, and its body is speckled with a few white dots, like someone added a final touch just before placing it on the shelf.

Before your brain can dive into the connection, she explains, “It’s from a sacred place I visited! Said to bring good luck and scare evil spirits away,” she adds, leaning forward with a wink.

After she leaves, you place the frog on the windowsill. Its small, cheerful figure looks serene, fitting into the interior effortlessly. In the mirror, you catch your gaze and the conspicuous questions. A blessing or a warning?

The light purple dress hugs your curves perfectly. The silk showcases you with the kind of grace that makes you pause, stunned by your own reflection.

Sunset light spills across the room, gilding everything in soft amber. Funny, this small, unremarkable apartment that once felt like a stopgap now glows with the warmth of something earned. Something lived in. It’s still small, yes. But now, it feels like you. Like home.

You spin, just like you used to as a child, your hem fluttering in the golden light. Back then, moments like this made you believe you were a princess, and your story could only end one way: happily ever after.

Life had… other plans. For every problem resolved, another one waits in the wings, and not every battle ends with you victorious.

You’ve made up your mind. It’s time to win the battle with Cregan. No meeting. That book is closed and put aside into the depths of your mental library. The bitter truth has finally come into focus: even if you got back together, things wouldn’t be the same.

You don’t owe him a message, or an explanation. Not even a line. He’ll figure it out.

And nothing, nothing, can stop you from going out for a light stroll in this beautiful dress, grabbing takeout from anywhere but that café he called “our place.” It was always his favorite, never really yours.

The inner sense of triumph settles into your chest, and for the first time, in what seems forever, it feels like you’re doing things right.

Suddenly, a sound. The phone is ringing. You glance at the screen.

Unknown number.

The vibration ripples through your hand, intensifying the anxiety within you. Your mind is like a beehive, each thought a stinging bee ready to attack no one but you. Could it be Cregan? A new number, a new tactic to reel you in?

You pick it up. You don’t speak right away. Neither do they. The silence on the other end is eerily still. You hear them breathing, waiting for you to make the first step, or rather, say the first word.

“…Hello?” Your voice is low, hoarse with hesitation.

No answer. Instead, something rustles. A faint sound like fabric brushing too close to a microphone. Your own “hello” comes back to you, faintly distorted, half a second later.

Your thumb hovers over “end call,” every instinct screaming to press it. You see the duration of the call, seconds ticking by, and with them, the silence. This isn’t Cregan. It’s not even close. And yet… something about the way the line hums, the strange rasp of their breath, pulls you in. You feel like your ears are pressed against the very mouth of something living, and if you’re patient enough, it’ll pour its secrets into your ear.

Then—

“Finally.” The voice bursts through the line so abruptly you jolt, your fingers fumbling as the phone nearly crashes to the floor. “I feared you’d never pick up!”

The reproachful tone in the feminine voice gives you a flashback to your lousy boss from a year ago.

“We close in 35 minutes. This is your last chance to pick it up.”

You blink. Pick up what?

“Hello? Miss, are you there?”

“Yes. Um—who is this?”

“LOTUS.”

“Who?”

“Dry cleaning service.” Her exhale is sharp. She’s clearly someone counting down the minutes before she can leave. “You’d better hurry.”

“It must be some sort of mistake…”

“Are you Miss Y/N?”

“…Yes.”

“Then no mistake. The item’s paid for. Urgent cleaning. Ready today.”

“I—I never gave anything in.” 

“We’ll be closed all weekend,” she stretches out her words, creating an image of a teenage girl, bored to death with her part-time shift. “You’d better hurry.”

“Check the number again,” you say, sharper than intended.

That’s definitely a prank, you think, ready to pull the phone away and switch it off. Then it comes again. A low, thin buzzing sound, not quite static. Like another line clicking in. Another listener. Your pulse quickens.

“It’s your errand,” a different voice rasps, a mechanical one, as though the words are being pulled through a walkie-talkie.

Your heart skips a beat. “What did you say?”

Breathing again. Not just heard. Felt warm against your skin. Like the line between the call and your room has blurred.

The static cuts off.

“It’s your errand.” The reply is firmer, and definitely human this time. “Are we clear now?”

The silence is shorter this time. Like a self-preservation instinct tells you to act on your best behavior.

“…Yes.”

You only have time to use the bathroom before you’re slipping into your Converse. Great. You look like a prom queen who ran away the last second. Your hands are shaking as you reach for your keys, they fall on the floor with a clatter, as if yelling, “hurry up!”

17:43. Thirteen minutes left. You’ve never been to this place. It’s impossible. “Shit.”

To your surprise, the GPS says it’s a 10-minute walk, which doubles your odds. But apparently, navigating a map while shaking with nerves isn’t your forte. Right in the middle of a pedestrian crossing, you realize you’re headed in the wrong direction and spin around.

Brake screeches. A car stops inches from you, close enough to see the Mercedes emblem.

“ARE YOU FUCKING DUMB?”

“Sorry!” You jog back, dragging your embarrassment with you.

The navigation arrow keeps switching directions like it’s toying with you. But then you see it—the sign: LOTUS. A simple black sign in white letters, tucked between a pharmacy and a pet store.

You rush inside, like a robber who decides to commit the crime at the last minute.

The manager shakes his head at you, his gaze revealing doubts about whether you can be trusted with whatever you're supposed to pick up.

Eventually, he hands you the suit. You assume it’s the one, judging by the black garment bag. You have no idea how to carry it. It’s heavier than expected, and definitely meant for someone much taller. You try lifting your arm to keep the garment bag from dragging on the pavement, but its weight pulls you down as your muscles quickly burn. You wonder if carrying a dead body would be easier.

The address attached to the suit cover tells you nothing. But AEMOND TARGARYEN, in capital letters, does.

Cars rush past, horns blaring at slow pedestrians and mindless drivers. Yet, amidst the noise, one thought rises louder than everything else: There’s no way three weeks have passed since the previous errand. What the hell is going on?

The taxi crawls through the gridlocked street so slowly, you start thinking you’d have made it faster on foot. The road is a graveyard of idling engines and quarreling drivers, each urging the others to move faster, stuck in a city that refuses to move.

The suit lies next to you, sagging and folded in a way that would probably make the dry cleaner flinch. You’ve violated the “carry upright” instruction in every imaginable way. He’ll know. Of course, he will. Do demons know how to iron?

The label taunts you. Not just the address, but the name.

Aemond Targaryen.

Isn’t that what Alys called him back then? Before you fell into the fog of nothingness. You were pretty sure it was his powers pulling you away from the conversation.

Something about this situation doesn’t feel right. All your feelings, thoughts, doubts, and concerns related to Aemond, the idea of what you could tell him, the desire to talk, it feels like it’s not going to be met halfway.

Vhagar. And now… you glance down at the garment bag again.

If he wanted an explanation or to talk, he would’ve already dropped by. No, what he’s after doesn’t seem like reconciliation, but rather what you asked for. Errands. Nothing more than that. To satisfy his pet, and now to fetch dry cleaning.

The sky is overcast when the taxi finally pulls up to the curb. A skyscraper looms in front of you. The glass-faced building already has a few lit-up windows, its rooftop disappearing into the clouds above. You squint upward, trying to count the windows. Impossible in such weather.

People come and go through the revolving doors, engrossed in their usual routine. But you hover on the pavement, feet nailed to the ground. That light, confident feeling blooming in your chest from earlier, the pride, the closure, has withered.

The mind-blowing sex might have been enough to blur your judgment, making you cultivate a false hope. But it was silly to assume it’d be the same for a demon. All your well-thought-out explanations to reconcile with him now disperse into the air. You need those. Aemond doesn't.

You shove yourself into the revolving door before you let yourself change your mind. It spins, and your heart races with it. You emerge into the lobby, blinking as though you’ve stepped through a portal. Another world.

The marble floor shimmers beneath your feet, reflecting the gilded glow from above, making it feel like you’re walking on water. Chandeliers are shaped like twisted vines; some coil into ouroboros loops—symbols of endless cycles. Even the air here seems burnished, gold-laced, as if you’ve wandered into a sacred place where nothing imperfect can survive.

You glance toward the guards as you cross the threshold, adjusting your grip on the suit. At this point, you’re not even sure you could come up with an adequate explanation of why you’re here. They're statues dressed up like men, carved in black and gray and glued to the entryway. Sphinx-like. You’re not sure they even breathe.

Each step toward the reception desk feels heavier than the last. The floor mirrors your hesitation, every reserved Converse-clad footfall echoing into a soft thud against the marble. Are they real? You wonder, scanning the rows of tall orange-hued trees by the main path, each one in a massive pot that likely cost more than your rent.

You don’t notice the moment you straighten the suit in your arms again, careful to hold it upright. The setting itself urges you to be perfect, like everything else in here. The ache in your bicep spreads, a quiet throb, but your face is composed like never before.

Congratulations. You wanted an errand. You got it.

“Um, hello…” you murmur as you near the desk, your words small against the vastness around you. The rich pink peonies glance your way, polite, graceful, as if they’re here to greet you most exquisitely.

The receptionist doesn’t move. Her gaze is fused to the screen, her fingers dancing in perfect tempo. For a moment, you’re unsure if you spoke at all.

“Elevators are to your left, miss,” she replies without looking up. Her French-tipped nails tap in a rhythm so precise you wonder if she once played piano. 

You glance toward the elevator. The number above it glows 1. Waiting. Inviting. Something about this place pulls at you, soft and glittering. Like a mermaid song. Sailors know better than to follow it.

“I—I don’t need the elevator.”

You drag your gaze back to her, shifting the suit to your other hand. Not the numb one. The fabric sticks to your palm. You're ready to curse the universe for this day. Because, of course, when your ex shows up and arranges the meeting, nothing goes well.

She finally looks up. Her hazel eyes skim your face, calculating, as if reading your entire history in one breath. Then her gaze softens. Sympathy, maybe. Though you utterly hope you don’t look half as bad as you feel. Her features are so symmetrical that it unsettles you.

“How can I help you then?”

“This is for apartment… 1099.” You squint at the label, though you repeated the number a dozen times in the taxi. You could probably say it if someone shook you awake in the middle of the night.

She types swiftly, clearly has been in this job a while, then says, “Aemond Targaryen.” It’s not a question, yet you nod cautiously.

Hearing his name aloud rattles something loose in your chest. You feel it behind you, a flicker of shadow just past your shoulder, but when you glance, there’s nothing. Only marble.

The building is too quiet. There should be so many residents, and yet it’s only you. You swallow, trying to keep your worries at bay.

“Do I leave it here?” you ask, trying not to sound rushed.

Her eyes narrow with a hint of suspicion. “Why not go up and give it to the owner?”

The question takes you aback, like you’re a cat caught up on the owner’s dining table. A soft ding sounds from the elevator, as if it, too, thinks it’s time.

“I—I can’t.”

She raises a brow, her nails tapping lightly against the table. A musician, for sure.

“Aren’t you the delivery?”

“No, I’m not,” you reply, biting your inner cheek. Once, you thought making a pact with a demon meant freedom from suffering. Turns out it’s just double hell.

“Well,” she shrugs, slipping seamlessly back into her customer-service smile, “there’s no note from Mr. Targaryen authorizing any delivery.”

“And?” you ask, gaping at her blankly.

The air thickens around you, faintly perfumed, like someone must’ve lit a candle somewhere nearby.

Her gaze locks onto yours, like this is some kind of contest, a challenge. Let’s see who blinks first. Before the silence turns any more awkward, she speaks. “I’m not allowed to accept it.”

There’s no mockery or cruelty in her tone. If anything, she sounds like someone who’s memorized protocol down to the footnotes. But it doesn’t help.

You feel yourself fraying. The pressure in your arm finally wins. The suit dips, grazing the pristine floor.

Your eyes snag on the neat little nametag pinned to her crisp blouse.

Floris.

“Excuse me—um—Floris, but I can’t and I won’t go to his apartment.”

You see her lips part in an attempt to object, but you act first, placing the suit firmly on the reception desk. Floris’ eyes widen, as if you’ve disrupted a sacred cathedral. You narrowly miss a slim porcelain vase, pale and trembling like it resents the disturbance, too.

“Miss, you can’t leave it here!” Floris snaps, halfway out of her chair now. To your strange relief, she looks human after all. She’s certainly not someone who chases rule-breakers. Still… if it came down to it, sneakers beat heels.

“Too bad,” you mutter, already turning away. You cradle your aching elbow like it’s a wound from the battle you’ve just won. “Guess Mr. Targaryen will have to bring his ass downstairs himself.”

You don’t wait to hear her outburst. The Sphinxes guarding the door stay still.

Good.

You can feel the tiny raindrops in the air, not quite a rain, more like a damp breath on your skin that carries the notes of relief. The droplets gather on your hair strands too, as if the weather is trying to calm the rage within you.

You take deep inhales and exhales, trying to return to your senses. The building is right behind you, but it doesn’t hold such power over you anymore.

The plan to take a taxi flops the moment you realize your phone has died. It was exactly 7 p.m. when it switched off. Maybe it’s for the better. No one will reach out to you this evening anyway. Though you doubt Cregan would be texting, “Where are you?” His ego wouldn’t let him do that.

People pass you in different directions. You close your eyes, imagining there’s no one but you. But it’s not that easy, not when a familiar voice sends goosebumps across your skin.

“Figured you wouldn’t drop by.”

Aemond’s voice is like a gentle kiss pressed against your cheek.

He’s right beside you, standing as if he’s always been there. Head tilted back, eyes lifted to the sky like he, too, is trying to make sense of the weather. Not a footstep. Not a sound. Just there. Classic demon style.

His outfit is simple— jeans, a black t-shirt. Something like a snake chain glints in the light, half-hidden under the fabric. He could never pass for a casual passerby. Not with that regal posture, quiet confidence, those never-blinking eyes, like he can’t afford to miss a second of life.

“Just like you,” you retort, trying to calm your silly, racing heart, which beats in hectic excitement.

Something in the air shifts, the way it always does when he’s near. Like someone drapes an invisible coat over your shoulders on a chilly day.

A low, velvety hum follows, almost a purr. He turns to face you, and when your eyes meet, it’s like those excruciating weeks of distance wash away.

Your anger simmers down, like sand slipping through fingers. You want to clench your fists to hold onto it, but you can’t. Not when he’s looking at you like that. Like it’s the first time.

His expression is unreadable. At first, almost bored. But then something shifts, a faint warmth seeps into that sapphire cold. Like staring at a blurred face in a crowd, only to recognize, a moment later, that it’s the dearest person in the world.

You’ll never understand how looking at someone can stir so much. Feelings bloom in your chest, drowning out reason, swallowing up words. The script you mentally rehearsed, the beeping of cars, the noise of the street…they all dull around him.

Suddenly, there’s a thought. Words spill out before you mull them over. Before you assess whether they align with your carefully crafted plan.

“Why didn’t you come?” It’s reproachful. Raw. Telling far more about your feelings than you’d like.

There’s not even a flicker of surprise on his face. It makes you wonder if the same question has been haunting him.

“I’m nothing but a name away.”

One day, you’ll reflect on that line — the aching beauty of it, the absolute devotion it implies. Yet today, the simplicity makes you frown. You feel like a child asking a huge, existential question, only to be met with an unoriginal adult response. 

Would you ever understand how it’s possible to want someone so much and still want to run?

His face stays neutral, the enviable calm of someone who’s either figured everything out, or is wise enough to never try.

I want to tell you so much, I don’t know where the first sentence starts and the last one ends.

A crease forms between his brows, faint but visible in the wash of headlights from the street. You might’ve missed it in daylight. A hint that he struggles to understand you just as much as you struggle to understand yourself.

At one point, it feels like someone turned up the heat. Your cheeks grow warm under his gaze. It’s too much. Now you understand why the waiter was so nervous in the café last time.

You haven’t practiced blinking—you want to say aloud, but given the time and circumstances separating you, you opt for a question instead.

“Are you trying to burn a hole in me?” you ask, folding your arms, fully aware of how defensive the posture is.

He tilts his head slightly, and now, somehow, he looks even more curious than before.

“Why would you say that?”

“God, not literally,” you mutter, shifting your weight. The idea of explaining figurative language to a demon is… oddly résumé-worthy. “It’s just… a phrase.”

“That’s a strange one.”

“Not really.” You shrug, pushing away the part of you that’s also wondering why anyone would come up with it. “Feels fitting for moments like this.”

He hums as if deep in thought, but his look carries a trace of disbelief. Does he think you’re mocking him?

Then his lips curl into the ghost of a smile. A loud tell that the menace is coming.

Before you can mentally prepare, he’s already a step ahead. And a step closer. His gaze, as hypnotic as ever, freezes you in place as he towers over you.

“Am I not allowed to admire you?”

Your lips part slightly, stunned by the casual audacity. By the proximity. By the way his eyes shamelessly track your mouth. Your strict no-kissing policy is now hanging by a thread.

His chest lifts with a deep breath, like he’s trying to stay in control, to hold on to the remnants of self-restraint.

First, he ghosts you. Then sends you on literal dry-cleaning errands. Now he’s shamelessly flirting?

Thoughts collide inside you like moths against a lit-up window at night.

“Goodbye, Aemond,” you say, turning sharply. Your sneakers squeak faintly against the wet sidewalk. Each step is an echo of your thundering pulse. You dodge a man in a business coat, slip around a couple tangled in PDA, heart hammering as if you’re outpacing sirens.

Don’t turn around. Don’t turn around. A silent mantra. Doomed to be interrupted.

“Would you like to take a taxi?”

Of course, he’s right behind you. His voice cuts through the traffic noise.

You glance sideways, he’s barely trying. One of his strides for every four of yours. For him, this is a stroll. For you, a sprint.

“I’ll walk,” you mutter. Then correct yourself mentally. Sprint.

“Good choice.”

The way he says it stirs a memory: that same shade of praise in his voice as that night. Of all times for that image to flash: you’re on all fours, panting under him, his eyes devouring you in the mirror. This is peak appropriate.

The pressure against your chest is incredible, as if the flashback knocks all the air out of your lungs. Getting hit by a car doesn’t sound like such a terrible alternative right now. Instead, you nearly miss a step and almost collide with a garbage bin, but his hand catches your wrist, pulling you closer in a smooth, automatic gesture, like he saw it coming all along.

You only cast him a look, as if to say: I’m still angry. But his gaze is fixed on the path ahead.

A new tactic?

Neon sighs. Laughter. Siren.

You mentally name each sound, each sight, just to drown out the noise inside your head. To calm the feelings in your chest.

You pass a kiosk, where the mingling scent of greasy meat and fried onions curls around you. The combination is far from appealing, but your stomach tightens. Right. You skipped dinner.

“You don’t have to walk with me, you know?” You say it without turning. God knows what might be in his eyes.

He stays silent a bit longer than usual, as if your question deserves careful consideration before being answered.

“I thought you’d want to compensate for my absence,” he finally says, slipping behind you and brushing past a woman steering a baby stroller.

A cluster of people waiting at the traffic light clogs the path ahead, funneling you both into a narrow gap, pinned by his presence. He stands close behind you, his taller frame pressing warmth against your upper back. You swear you can feel its steady rise and fall.

You lift your gaze. Yep, he’s that close.

“What’s that even supposed to mean?” Your brow furrows.

“You pointed it out,” he says, leaning closer. You can practically feel his breath against your ear. A familiar scent, forest after rain and cigarettes, engulfs you. Soothing, grounding, even amidst the smog and street food.

“Minutes ago,” he adds, clarifying.

“That was just an observation. Not… an invitation.” You bite the tip of your tongue.

“Mmm.”

You shoot him a sharp look. He clearly interprets it in his own way. If only you could peel that smugness off him and kick its ass.

You resume walking, only to pause at the corner, hesitating.

Were you meant to pass the bakery? No? Then this way is—

“Left,” he says, effortlessly correcting your course, or rather, prying into your thoughts. “Unless you’ve changed apartments.”

You curse under your breath, but Aemond is already heading in the right direction, unbothered, clearly enjoying the walk. At one point, you understand those poor kids who throw toys at their parent’s back.

“The night wandering random neighborhoods, or a walk with me?” he calls back, now walking backward, so elegantly it’s like he’s on a catwalk. The playful smirk decorates his bow lips, his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his dark jeans. Yes, the audience would drool over him. “Your choice.”

You check your phone. The screen stays black when you press the button. Just your reflection stares back—a lost puppy.

“Why do you even bother?” you ask, catching up. Your breath is uneven, of course, he didn’t slow down to wait for you. Half a step separates you, but the pavement narrows, the crowd surges, and you bump into him lightly. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even glance back. Still, you can’t shake the feeling that something else is on his mind, something he’s carefully keeping you shut out of.

“Weren’t you the one who wanted my ass downstairs?” he replies, amusement blooming across his face, easing your suspicions. Of course, he’d been nearby, listening in.

You click your tongue. “I knew you relished my suffering.”

“On that, we disagree,” his voice dips, just like it always does in the most intimate moments. “Your pleasure tastes better on my tongue.”

The double meaning hits like a sucker punch. Your breath catches.

One thing is certain now: you could never play by the rules you’ve set. The “just an errand” clause only works when he’s not around. His presence short-circuits your logic. When a match meets gasoline, fire is inevitable.

“The errand’s earlier than three weeks,” you say, a weak attempt to change the subject. To regain control.

“Is it?”

You glance at him, trying to gauge the sincerity of the question. His face is unreadable. Just a glint in his eyes, unrelenting, like a storm. Could a demon lose track of time?

“Aha,” you mutter, shifting closer as a noisy group of teenagers passes. Your hands brush. And for a moment, his broad palm turns outward in a silent, warm, irresistible invitation.

A gesture? Or a trick of your mind?

You can’t tell what’s real anymore, what’s conjured by your fantasies.

You cross your arms over your chest, pulling back like a scaredy-cat. The cringe flares through you, but not Aemond. He’s poised. Only his fingers twitch slightly, an unconscious attempt to reach for something already gone.

The stairwell smells of stone and old paint, slightly damp. Too narrow for two to walk side by side. His footsteps echo behind you. Gods, you can feel his warmth, draping over your back like delicate lace.

You don’t ask what he wants. You wouldn’t be surprised if he vanished the moment the door clicks open.

But a small part of you hopes he doesn’t.  Maybe, just maybe, he harbors unresolved matters, too.  Maybe now’s the time to confront them.  To dot all the I’s.

Aemond slips past you, a fleeting brush, like a cat too proud to ask for pets. Ironic, you think, as the key clinks against the shelf. This might be the first time he’s truly entered through the door.

He pauses at the threshold of the living room. One shoulder leans into the doorframe, gaze slicing through the dark like it’s searching for something already known. You flick on the hallway lamp. The dim glow spills outward, casting fractured shadows like veins across the walls.

You toe off your shoes slowly, almost hesitantly, as if trying to win some time before the inevitable. Your stomach tightens unpleasantly, your whole body anticipating the conversation. Do you launch into your rehearsed speech? Or hold your ground, demanding answers?

Why is it so cold?

Steam rises from your parted lips. Before the words can leave your mouth, a sound registers from the living room.

Once. Twice.

A scrape. A rustle. Muffled. Something faintly reminiscent of the noise on that line.

You stand beside Aemond, frowning toward the dark. The forest-dark has seeped in through the windows, swallowing everything.

Again, a rustle.

A bird?

You go still. That animal stillness, the kind that comes when your brain is calculating: fight or freeze. Your hand inches closer to Aemond's, seeking protection.

Something’s wrong. You glance at Aemond.. Whatever’s waiting in the dark doesn’t seem to faze him, and probably poses no threat to you.

“Go ahead,” he says, chin tilting toward the switch. His voice is calm. Too calm. Not smug, not mocking, just… off. Almost like the very first night you met.

You hesitate, fingers hovering over the flicker like you’re about to touch a hot stove.

Flick.

You close your eyes. The light is too bright, or maybe this is just one of the ways you try to protect yourself from whatever is in there.

But nothing prepares you for it.

You cover your mouth with a hand, but the gasp escapes anyway.

In the center of the room sits a man, bound to your chair. His head lolls forward, swaying slightly, like a broken pendulum trying to remember how time moves. His eyes, still clouded, scan the room in jittery bursts, as if everything blurs and flows.

Then his gaze snags on yours.

Cregan.

The man you used to love.

You’re the catalyst, the final wake-up call that makes his eyes widen in horror. The plot twist in a nightmare he never imagined you’d be part of.

Chains wrap around his chest, arms, and legs, metal gleaming as he jerks against them in a futile attempt to break free. His protests die in his throat, stifled by the gag; his screams reduced to the muffled bellowing of a wounded animal calling to a pack that’s already left it behind.

There are moments in everyone’s life when the body moves faster than the mind. When instinct overrides thought. When there's no time to read the room, only to act.

“Oh gods, Cregan!”

Adrenaline kicks into your system like a punch. You drop to your knees before him, tugging at the chains. The metallic rustle fills the room, clinking sounds too cheerful, like a parrot that won’t shut up during a funeral.

The knots are savage. The locks, iron-heavy. A collar, thick and tight, clasps around his throat like a leash.

Sweat drenches his skin. His dark hair clings to his forehead in damp strands. His chest heaves with sharp, rasped breaths like he’s just run a marathon. You haven’t seen him in almost six months, and in all that time, he’d always been composed.

The calmness is now washed away.

“Aemond!” you cry. “Help me!”

You yank at a lock, knuckles whitening. A chain jerks taut with a creak, and Cregan groans behind the gag, flinching. One wrist is bleeding beneath the metal, the skin broken. You’re only making it worse.

Sweat, iron, and now blood fill your nose, sharp and acidic. And under it all, a sour rot: fear.

“Shit, hold on,” you whisper, trying to swallow the nausea rising in your throat. “We’ll get you out, okay? We’ll fix it, just—”

You reach out for the gag. Your hand freezes midair. Inches from Cregan’s mouth.

At first, it feels like invisible needles prick your skin. But then... nothing. Your arm goes numb. Paralyzed. You stare at your fingers, willing them to move, but they don’t. It’s as if your brain has forgotten how to perform the simplest command. Nothing comes but a reluctant twitch.

Cregan’s eyes go wide, darting past you over your shoulder, toward Aemond. He shakes his head in tight, panicked jerks, humming a warning you can’t understand. But the desperation is unmistakable, like he’s just realized something you haven’t.

When your arm finally responds, it recoils violently, curling into your chest. Your skin is cold. If you didn’t know better, you might think you’d plunged your limb into a bucket of ice water.

What the hell...?

You rise slowly, turning to face the only explanation possible.

Aemond hasn’t shifted from the doorway, but his posture has changed, no longer relaxed. Arms folded. Muscles drawn taut beneath black fabric. His lips pressed into a flat, unforgiving line, like he’s enduring the scene that revolts him.

“This isn’t funny.” You barely recognize your own voice, your hand still clutched to your chest.

“Why not?” His gaze drifts lazily between you and Cregan. “You and your long-lost love. A touching reunion.” There’s not an undertone of sincerity, more like he’s studying two insects trapped beneath a glass.

Your mind stutters, fails to form questions; every possibility is too grotesque to voice. The world’s logic breaks down. You clench your fists until your nails bite into your skin. If it’s a dream, panic will wake you up. Your skin prickles, but the vision doesn’t break.

“Aemond, did you—”

He tilts his head, a serpentine movement, without a blink. He patiently waits for you to voice the question he already knows, he can hear it ringing in your mind.

“Did you do this?” You ask, nodding toward Cregan.

A muffled cry bursts through the gag. Cregan thrashes in the chair, chains clattering like bones. He answers for Aemond, panic and fury pouring from him in wordless rage.

A nervous laugh bubbles up from your chest as you press your hand against your forehead. Only now do you notice Cregan’s wearing your favorite t-shirt. He clearly thought you’d meet. Sadly, the circumstances are different.

“This is insane,” you mutter, scanning the room, hoping to find confirmation of your suspicion. This can’t be real. Your shoes, your coat, the dresses. The teddy bear lies on its side, its back turned to the chaos, like it can’t bear to watch.

“Unclasp those.” You point at the chains. Aemond is painfully still.

“Now,” you add louder, but the word comes out desperate.

Cregan strains against the bindings, chair legs screeching across the floor. Futile. If he keeps this up, he’ll tip and split his skull open.

“Cregan, don’t.” You reach for his shoulder in a soothing gesture.

And Aemond...

There it is. That smile.

Not wide. Not obvious. You’ve known him too long not to see it. Just a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth, savoring the moment, feeding off the suffering.

It ignites something in you. A rush of anger, impossible to ignore.

Before you can even process it, you’re at his side, grabbing his forearm with every ounce of strength you can muster, tugging him toward you. You can’t stand him standing there, motionless, detached, like a theatre spectator or a twisted statue crafted solely to haunt you in sleep and waking life.

“Why are you doing this?”

He looks down at your hand. Small, thin wrist, too weak to make a difference. Then his eyes lift to yours, and for the first time, you feel it. A look that makes you recoil, a look that speaks louder than words.

Pathetic.

Your hand falls limp by your side, still burning with the warmth of his skin, a mark you can’t rub off.

You trace the familiar facial features that have become so dear to your heart. The twitch of his lips, a movement he might have learned from another human once, or maybe something wholly his own. You’ve come to understand that it means something, some flicker of emotion within him. And now, more than ever, you ache to know what it means.

“Aemond…”

Your voice trembles with every memory, every warm feeling you ever had for him. Does he remember the teddy bear? The pineapple pizza argument? The sleepless nights? This room is filled with fragments of you, and now pieces of your heart are scattered across the floor beneath you as you appeal for his mercy, while he remains silent.

But his face betrays nothing. It’s as though the Aemond you once knew is no longer there but sealed behind walls, leaving only a stranger in his place. Aemond, who could once read your thoughts, can’t even see the pain written in capital letters all over your face.

He straightens, taking a step toward you. His thumb gently nudges your chin, guiding your gaze to his. The touch is soft. Yet it hurts.

“Don’t you know, my little dove?”

Your chest tightens. That name, said in that voice, soft, slightly hoarse. You hadn’t realized how much you missed it until now. You lean into his touch, giving in, instinctively. Foolishly.

Only to be met by the cold, controlled realm of his reign.

“I’m doing it for you.”

For me?

Your lashes flutter. Tears fall, uninvited, like rain from a sky that didn’t mean to cry. They land on his hand. Aemond stares at the droplets, inspecting them like they’re something foreign, something wrong. The touch you leaned into, sought comfort in, recoils. His hand jerks back, and his face shifts, not with compassion, but with something else: unease, or is it aversion? Like your tears burn him.

He doesn’t wipe them away. Instead, he shakes his hand with a quick, dismissive flick. As though your pain is something to be rid of, something filthy.

Aemond brushes past you without so much as a glance, as if you’re no longer worth his attention. His shoulder grazes your hand. The contact is fleeting, yet it stings.

You’ve never been in control. That’s a statement.

Cregan abandons his futile struggle the moment Aemond approaches. Whether it’s fear, or some inhuman force pulsing off Aemond’s very skin, he goes still. Not a twitch. Not a word. Only a sharp, ragged breath betrays that he’s still here.

“I don’t understand,” you whisper, your throat burning, as though you’ve just swallowed glass.

Aemond reaches for the chains. One touch, and the metal groans. The links uncoil, loosening like a serpent unwrapping itself from its prey, just enough to let Cregan draw breath. He leans back, spine pressed hard to the chair, as if trying to retreat into it. He doesn’t know what Aemond is. But he knows it’s not something human.

“We wouldn’t want him to choke, would we?” Aemond could sing a lullaby in that voice.

He begins to pace behind the chair, hands clasped neatly at his back, as if measuring the room from the mirror to the far wall. Each step stretches Cregan’s agony, each step a cruel echo of the final moments before a judge pronounces the sentence. A judge who takes his time, savoring the weight of the punishment.

For mercy shall not be found here.

He halts behind the chair, sudden as a stopped clock. The time has come. His long fingers, once delicately tracing the curve of your waist, the softness of your thighs, now clutch the top rail like a weapon.

His shadow swallows Cregan whole, dark, unnatural. A reminder that whoever stands before you is something other.

You take a deep breath, only to inhale more dread. You search for words, for an explanation, for this madness to end. With every passing second, your headache grows, as if ivy is coiling inside your skull, its thorns piercing deeper.

“That’s who you wanted, isn’t it?”

Aemond’s voice cuts through the haze in your mind, meaningless. His mouth pulls tight at the sight of your blank stare, a flicker of distaste crossing his face as his gaze drops to Cregan, like he can’t quite believe that this trembling figure is the man you could have sold your soul for.

“Before we made the deal, you wanted him.”

“But—” you move forward, just a step, and the world tilts. The floor lurches, or maybe it’s just your mind fracturing. Yes, you wanted Cregan. But why would Aemond do this? Why now?

“You said I had to choose,” you manage, grasping at the fading thread of reason.

Aemond shrugs.

“I’ve changed my mind.”

His answers are simple, quick, businesslike. Let’s get it done. Nothing in his posture or voice suggests he might be bluffing, or telling the truth. Yet if all feels like a meticulously staged performance, like everything around you is designed to make you believe this twisted story is real. Or is it not?

Aemond stands there, perfectly still. An unyielding, unnatural force. A grace that feels too perfect for this world. Someone who stands above all that is mortal, all that is petty and fragile.

How can someone so beautiful be so lethal?

“He’ll be yours. Just say it.”

Demon speaks in a sweet, luring voice that could make one follow him straight into hell.

“Why?” A question, no more than a whisper.

The silence stretches out like a field of scorched flowers.

But your entire body trembles, the delicate fabric of your dress offering no shield against his relentless presence.

Just give me the truth. Please.

You’re not sure if he hears you, but then there’s the faintest glimmer that something softer stirs within him. A spark, warm, familiar. Aemond’s gaze dips for a brief moment, and a subtle spasm tugs at his features, as though your pleas have become crows in his mind—loud, shrill, their croaks mocking: See. See what you have done.

His fingers rise to his temple, brushing it like he might scare them off. In that instant, you feel the crushing weight of your headache ease, as if part of your agony has passed to him. Like a crack in the dam letting the river flow, leaving you momentarily lighter.

But the shadow of softness is fleeting, dissipating before you can grasp it. Like a hangman remembering the gallows. His sapphire eyes darken, as though the sea is being smothered by ice, the depths concealed, sealed beneath a frozen surface.

Ice that would shatter your bones.

Ice that would leave blood in the snow.

No one survives winter like that.

“All those excruciating feelings of yours…” The confession, or rather a verdict, is announced, cold, detached. There’s no hint of sympathy, no trace of remorse. “I’m fed up with them. With you. I don’t want to feel your longing anymore.”

Longing.

That bitter ache that has filled your days, your nights, these endless, hollow weeks. It wasn’t just a feeling. It was like radiation dust, clinging to your insides, poisoning you with every breath. It burned through your lungs, lodged in your bones, dulled every dream, and infected every thought with a hopeless ache. A torture, without him. 

Hell. 

You feel like you’re drowning in it, and all you want is to pull him back into the warmth, share it with him.

But Aemond? He wants nothing of it. He wants you out of his veins.

The next blow lands with brutal finality, before you can even form a word, a protest, a plea. He can’t afford you taking the reins, can’t risk you disrupting the plan he’s so meticulously crafted.

“I figured Cregan should suffice.”

His words come out flat. Matter-of-fact.

Everything clicks into place. Aemond has twisted it all, misinterpreted your longing in the most cruel, distorted way possible. Like in a math equation, he’s taken your numbers out of it, replacing them with his own.

You might be the one who sentenced both of you to this end. But he... he’s the one here to pull the guillotine.

“You… you made him contact me?”

Aemond laughs, but it’s no longer the laugh of a god, or a devil. It’s the laugh of a madman. A wild creature handed matches in a world soaked with gasoline.

You glance at Cregan, a silent plea in your eyes, but his gaze offers nothing, only regret.

“Oh, the bastard wanted it,” Aemond spits, his teeth grinding. Fingers, or something sharper, dig into the chair’s back. The wood creaks beneath his grip. It might be the chair that will break now or Cregan’s neck.

Tears blur your vision again, but this time they sting as they streak down your cheeks. This time, no one is there to catch them.

Cregan’s interest and sincerity you fell for was just a… performance. A trick. Curated by Aemond.

Whether you’d said yes or no, it didn’t matter.

Cregan was always going to end up here. A twisted early birthday present, rewrapped in chains. Not a man with agency. A trick to fill in the blank in Aemond’s story. The story he’s made for you.

Aemond doesn’t see your heartbreak. He chooses not to.

He leans down beside Cregan, as though he could tear his throat apart with his teeth.

“Didn’t you want it, Cregan?”

Cregan has thought about you. The warmth of your body. The softness of your touch. You’ve crossed his mind more than he’ll ever admit.

Whatever Cregan thinks about you no longer matters to you. But it matters to Aemond. It feeds his rage, urging him deeper into his cruelty.

“You can nod.” Aemond, a thoughtful prompter, encourages Cregan to nod frantically, his eyes flicking to you without meeting your gaze.

The pulse hammers in the side of Cregan’s neck, the veins taut with pressure, as if they might burst. If Aemond doesn’t kill him, fear will.

“He just needed a… push.” Aemond wrinkles his nose, as though the thought, or Cregan’s smell, repulses him.

He pulls back again, retreating to your writing table like a beast caged too long. His fingers brush the edge of your work, trailing across the pages, over your hurried handwriting. As if looking for something to anchor him.

What feels like a nightmare to you, to Cregan, isn’t even half the hell Aemond could unleash. This is restraint.

“You’re… disgusting,” you breathe out, but no phrase can match your fury. Your grief. Your despair.

Aemond doesn’t flinch, much to your disdain. His eyes remain on the paper in his hand, scanning the outline of the world you built. The one he wasn’t meant to be part of.

But he is.

With Cregan, the words hardly became sentences. But Aemond…Aemond makes the stories bloom. He’s a long-awaited spring in a land punished by harsh, eternal winter. The thaw that ruins and renews all at once.

“And yet… I was the one who came when no one else listened.” 

He lets the paper fall back onto the table. The flutter is loud, as if the words are breaking down against the wooden surface, their meaning scattered all over the floor.

Cregan glances at you, his expression muddled with confusion. He’s probably started wondering if you’re the reason for this menace. But explaining anything to him is the last thing on your agenda.

“It was a mistake.” The weight of your words is softened by the hurt.

Aemond chuckles, and the room darkens as if in response, shadows listening to their master.

“I’m willing to give him to you on a silver platter. There’ll be no other suggestion,” he coaxes. But there’s something under it, a thin thread of weariness in his gaze.

You look at Cregan. He probably has no clue what’s going on. The meaning of your conversation must be totally lost on him.

And if Aemond untied him, would he even stay of his own free will? Would you want him to stay?

Back then… if you had chosen Cregan over your writing, would this still have ended in ruin? Would it still hurt this much?

You wipe your cheeks, hiding away the remnants of hurt. The gesture is clumsy, trembling. At such points, you disdain being nothing but a human.

“I don’t want it this way.”

Demon or not, he won’t write your story for you.

Something flickers in Aemond’s gaze.

Confusion. Real. Rare. He reads people like maps, but not now.  Or maybe he never did. Maybe his ability to see into a human mind only gave him control, not the understanding of their complexities.

“Alright,” he snaps, his composure fraying at the edges.

He moves toward you, each of his steps stealing the light, his shadow swallowing it whole.

“Then fucking stop this torture,” he growls, his words laced with poison, but deeper, underneath, you feel it. Despair. His earlier words echo in your mind: “The stronger the bond, the more influenced a demon is.” And, as if to prove your suspicion, he adds, “Stop sending this ache through our bond.”

One step, and your back hits the wall. Another step, and there’s no distance between you. He’s close enough for you to see the tremor at his jaw. He’s a fire ready to consume everything in his path.

It shouldn’t matter to him at all what you feel. But if it does…

Your hands press to his chest, not to push him away, but to steady yourself. You rise onto your toes, eyes locking with his, because his eyes have never lied to you.

“Ache or not, why do you care?”

Aemond stiffens, as if you’ve become Medusa and he’s been foolish enough to meet your gaze.

For this question alone, for the implication within it, he could kill you.

His eyes hollow out. Become black wells.

The abyss, staring back.

Hell, burned to ash.

Why do I care?

The question he’s been asking himself ever since your last meeting. To care had never been part of his design. A function he’d never had. Until you came.

At first, it was just a glitch. A symptom, mild and unassuming, which he chose to overlook. Then it turned into a disease. It grew within him, cell by cell, day by day, until it was too late.

He feeds off the emotions of others. That’s the bargain. That’s the way. But your yearning? It poisons him. It robs him of strength and satisfaction, like suddenly all other emotions dull, rot.

He blames you for it all. This weakness, this feeling, couldn’t possibly be his.

You gave it roots. Planted something unnamed inside him, a feeling that made itself at home. And he knows nothing about such things. Every ounce of knowledge he’s gathered from humanity feels useless, because there’s the shocking truth: humans don’t truly understand it either. They give it names: love, affection, devotion, and a million others. But no one truly holds power over it.

He figures out quite soon that to let the feeling live, he’d have to kill his essence so this virus could thrive in his body.

To let the feeling die, he’d have to smother you with his own hands.

But as long as there’s a deal, nothing can tear you both apart. Nothing can tear you out of his system. Not even this outrageous, disgusting ache.

So he goes for a deal that brings him even more disdain. The only way to set himself free. So he shoves Cregan into your arms to shut up the gnawing ache in your chest. Perhaps his own would shut up for good, too.

For he is a demon. Bound. Chained to the human he can’t shake. To you. Your tears are forever imprinted on his hand. Salt etched into skin. And he’ll cherish it.

But worst of all, you’re the human who longs for someone else.

You are the flower that blooms again each morning, greeting him with colour and scent, after he spent the night before uprooting you.

You are his mirror. And what he sees in you… it sickens him. Because when your ache mirrors his own, he can’t think, can’t breathe.

You are his mirror, and he is yours.

The truth, the one you've kept locked away, buried beneath ache and denial, trembles on the tip of your tongue. You could still bury it for good. Let you both be free.

But instead, you choose to do the bravest thing: to admit it.

To yourself first.

And then, finally, to Aemond. Rage and betrayal be damned.

Cregan’s muffled sounds falter into quiet as you speak:

“It’s not him that I long for.”

Aemond flinches, pain flashing across his face like a wound reopened, as if you just dragged a dagger across his eye. Whatever story he’s written in his head, whatever twisted logic he's used to justify this torment, you’ve just shattered it. And still, you see it clearly now: he wants to be wrong.

“Don’t mess with me.” He speaks low and regal, a king giving his final warning before condemning a traitor to death.

“I wish I were.” The bile tastes sour, but you swallow it.

There’s no flicker of belief in his eyes. Just that stubborn, blind confidence. Because that way it would be easier. He’s made his mind, he’s set the course, and now, you’re the compass that refuses to point the way he demands.

“Shall I remind you of the words you spoke before?”

You shake your head. “I remember them… but it’s not that simple.”

He scoffs, bitter in a way you’ve never heard before, and you fear he might disappear, vanish into the air.

“Everything was simple before you.”

You’re a liability. That’s what he means. You bite your lip until it bleeds. If Aemond resembles anything right now, it’s a blade cutting everything that comes close.

But you’ve never been wise when it comes to him.

So you take a step forward.

“You know I’m telling the truth,” you murmur.

“I know that I’m drowning in you,” he hisses, tempest building in his gaze.

He’s thunder.

You’re sunlight.

And somehow, you both exist in the same sky.

“Come here,” you whisper, your hands twitching at your sides, aching to touch him, yet trembling with the fear of being rejected.

He doesn’t move. One breath. Two.

His fists clench at his sides like he’s holding himself back from moving an inch closer. There’s a war inside him, making him waver. The only thing he knows is how to destroy, to tease apart, to peel away. No one’s ever offered him something this fragile, this gentle. No one’s ever offered him something he can’t tear apart. He doesn’t know how to step into forbidden territory, how to be without ruining it all. He craves and fears that craving.

He leans in, just barely, so subtle it might not even look like a shift. But you catch it, leaning toward him, meeting him halfway, slowly, carefully. Like this moment is the most brittle thing you both hold. His tall back curves, folding toward you like a warrior about to surrender to a goddess.

You both hover there, unsure, two beings on the verge of a kiss neither knows how to shape. You tilt your heads, adjusting subtly, afraid to misalign the fragile geometry of closeness.

A kiss, another forbidden territory, aches painfully in your chest.

At last, his forehead presses to yours. A simple gesture. Yet it feels like the right thing in the world.

His skin is warm. Yours is cold. A perfect, soothing contrast.

He needs you to soothe the fire that’s always threatening to burn him to ash.

You need him to finally give you the warmth you’ve been denied.

Aemond can’t go to the rooftop anymore. Not since Alys. It used to be a sanctuary, a place to breathe, to observe the world from a distance. But now it’s lost its magic. Just a trembling structure beneath the wind. Even the cityscape has dulled, no longer impressive.

Now, in this quiet between you, where breath follows breath, the stillness feels sacred, like a beggar stepping into a cathedral and seeing a god he once refused.

The sense of comfort Aemond sought in stone and solitude, he finally finds in you.

His breathing slows, falling into rhythm with yours. A quiet, synchronized dance. He forgets the cigarettes in his pocket. The purpose of the pact slips away. So does the belief that he was never meant to feel.

Even Cregan's presence fades, barely a shadow now.

“We can figure this out… together.” The words are meant just for him, the most courageous and vulnerable confession you’d say to no one else.

“What if it’s a mistake?” He echoes your fear, your own words, softened by his voice. He looks at you like you hold all the answers in the world, and maybe that terrifies him more than anything else.

You hesitate.

Once, you said forever. And then… you buried it.

You can’t offer consolation. Lie, and you both know will know about it.

So you give him the only thing you both can stand on: the truth.

“Some mistakes…” you say, eyes meeting his, they’re your favorite color again. “Some mistakes are worth it.”

And in this sacred space, where neither of you moves, it feels like the world has stopped asking him to be a demon.

Just this once.

Just for you.

“Oh,  I haven’t posted this photo on Facebook…” Her lashes, thick with black mascara, flutter with the realization. “Will you give me a second?”

“Sure,” you answer flatly, stepping back and leaning against the counter. You wonder if saying “no” would make a difference.

Her loud, cheerful “HAH” is followed by the rapid tapping of her thumbs, making you wonder if she’s already replying to comments. She must be retired by now, yet she’s one of those people whose age is difficult to guess. If only you could be that carefree. So many things wouldn’t matter. Your mind wouldn’t spiral. Perhaps your head wouldn’t have turned into a battlefield.

You can feel your phone watching you from across the kitchen table, curious too about what you’re going to reply to Cregan’s message: “I’ll be at our place tonight, at 7 PM. Join me?”

The moment he sent the first text weeks ago, part of you lit up, as if whispering, finally. As if this moment had always been meant to come. You hadn’t planned to talk about your writing progress, but message by message, you eventually opened up about your novel, set to be published at the end of the summer.

When he responded with “Glad your stubbornness persists,” it felt like a happiness injection. Unfortunately, it wasn’t long-lasting. The teddy bear, still sitting on the floor where you’d left him, no longer looked cheerful, like something in his buttoned eyes had dimmed.

“Done!” she announces proudly, as if she might’ve just been cast as Leonardo DiCaprio’s girlfriend. 

“Cool, um—Mrs. Silvi, would you like to see the flat?”

The question stumbles from your mouth, an awkward attempt to bring the conversation back on track. The abrupt transition triggers your inner people-pleaser to press the red panic button: SHE’LL EVICT YOU.

Luckily, she doesn’t seem to notice.

“Oh, sure! Let’s see it!” she chirps, and for a second, you swear, if you hadn’t reminded her, she’d leave without inspecting a thing.

You trail behind her, your slippers making a soft shuffle. If it weren’t for the height difference, you could’ve mistaken yourself for her shadow. Her perfume, sweet and oriental, wafts through the corridor, swallowed eagerly by the faded beige walls. The same scent that haunted the air for weeks after your move-in.

She abruptly pauses at the living room threshold, causing you to almost bump into her.

“Jeez!” she exclaims, her hand dramatically flying to her chest. She couldn’t have spotted the cigarette spots on the windowsill from that far.

“What a lovely thing!”

You come up beside her to follow her gaze, unsure of where this is heading. Relief sweeps through you when she lifts a teddy bear so delicately it might be mistaken for a brittle antique.

You hover at the threshold awkwardly, as if it’s your first time in the flat.

“Where did you get it?” she asks, brushing off some invisible dust from his fur.

But before your lips even part, she resumes, “Oh, I know!”

Her sly smirk makes you furrow. By now, you know better than to try inserting a word into her monologue. It’s pointless. Even if you do speak, she’ll just talk right over you.

“It must be your gentleman.”

Your mouth forms a silent O, which prompts her to giggle. She clearly interprets it a “yes”. Sylvi settles onto the sofa, the plush toy in her arms like a newborn. When she nods to the side, you have no choice but to sink down beside her.

“How I miss those times when I was younger,” she says, her voice laced with longing, her confession aimed at Ewan. “I mean, I am still young, but back then... I had a whole parade of gallants fighting over my heart.”

Weirdly or not, you have no doubt about that.

“They would’ve done anything for me. Bombarded me with presents, flowers, skipped classes just to walk me home after the conservatory. But I was always waiting. Waiting for the one. You know?” She pauses, and the conversation seems to have taken a turn you weren’t ready for. “The right one.”

Her gaze lands on you, expectant. You nod, perhaps too quickly, a gesture meant to mask the unsettling twist in your chest. The idea of the right one feels foreign. You thought you knew it back then, with Cregan. But now… things are messier than ever.

Gazing down at the teddy bear only fuels the guilt further.

If you agree to meet Cregan tonight, you’ll end up betraying… Aemond.

“Of course you know!” she continues, misreading your silence, her large, round Cleopatra-style earrings jingling as she nods her head. Her gaze flicks down to Ewan, then back to you. “You’re the writer,” she adds, her hand gently covering yours, pulling you back to the present. Her skin is slightly wrinkled but warm and soft. “These things must come naturally to you.”

You force a smile, clearly not planning to share your concerns about your ex and the demon.

Her eyes narrow, just a flicker. It’s a look of knowing, of recognition, as if something gave you away. It prompts her to open up further.

“My husband—” You brace yourself, anticipating a long story about him.

“—passed away two years ago.” Her hand twitches, then withdraws, as if through the touch she could reveal more than she’s willing to.

You blink, caught off guard by the revelation. “Oh God, I’m so sorry.”

“I married him… God knows why, to be honest.” She shakes her head, a weak smile tugging at her lips. Her gaze drifts, not quite seeing the teddy anymore, but something else, someone else.

“He didn’t meet half the criteria for the man I thought I was waiting for. And yet… he was the most real thing that ever happened to me. Drove me terribly mad.” The way she stresses the word is supposed to showcase her anger, but it seems like the only reason for the emotion is his absence.

“Why?”

The most intentional question you’ve asked her. A small part of you, perhaps a naïve one, wonders if this conversation might help you make up your mind. But the answer, as always, isn’t what you expect.

She smiles, but not at you.

Her gaze is hazy, clouded with memory.

“Because he’s always been on my mind.”

She silently passes the teddy to you, and your breath hitches, just like the day Aemond first placed it in your hands. Suddenly, you understand what the button eyes have been trying to tell you.

What started as a “flat inspection” has drifted so far from its original purpose that the word almost feels absurd. After a few more moments of chatting about exes and travels, she declares that she’s seen enough and announces that she’s late for a visit with an old friend.

“I’m so late!” Sylvi says, slipping on her heels. You can’t help but admire her energy. Her babbling personality manages to soothe your ache.

“Oh—almost forgot! I brought you a present!”

“For me?” you echo, watching her dig through her giant tote bag with such enthusiasm that you wouldn’t be surprised if she pulled out a puppy.

“Ta-dam!” She holds out a small green frog statue. It’s heavy in your hands, oddly so for something so small. The frog’s mouth is parted in a smile, and its body is speckled with a few white dots, like someone added a final touch just before placing it on the shelf.

Before your brain can dive into the connection, she explains, “It’s from a sacred place I visited! Said to bring good luck and scare evil spirits away,” she adds, leaning forward with a wink.

After she leaves, you place the frog on the windowsill. Its small, cheerful figure looks serene, fitting into the interior effortlessly. In the mirror, you catch your gaze and the conspicuous questions. A blessing or a warning?

The light purple dress hugs your curves perfectly. The silk showcases you with the kind of grace that makes you pause, stunned by your own reflection.

Sunset light spills across the room, gilding everything in soft amber. Funny, this small, unremarkable apartment that once felt like a stopgap now glows with the warmth of something earned. Something lived in. It’s still small, yes. But now, it feels like you. Like home.

You spin, just like you used to as a child, your hem fluttering in the golden light. Back then, moments like this made you believe you were a princess, and your story could only end one way: happily ever after.

Life had… other plans. For every problem resolved, another one waits in the wings, and not every battle ends with you victorious.

You’ve made up your mind. It’s time to win the battle with Cregan. No meeting. That book is closed and put aside into the depths of your mental library. The bitter truth has finally come into focus: even if you got back together, things wouldn’t be the same.

You don’t owe him a message, or an explanation. Not even a line. He’ll figure it out.

And nothing, nothing, can stop you from going out for a light stroll in this beautiful dress, grabbing takeout from anywhere but that café he called “our place.” It was always his favorite, never really yours.

The inner sense of triumph settles into your chest, and for the first time, in what seems forever, it feels like you’re doing things right.

Suddenly, a sound. The phone is ringing. You glance at the screen.

Unknown number.

The vibration ripples through your hand, intensifying the anxiety within you. Your mind is like a beehive, each thought a stinging bee ready to attack no one but you. Could it be Cregan? A new number, a new tactic to reel you in?

You pick it up. You don’t speak right away. Neither do they. The silence on the other end is eerily still. You hear them breathing, waiting for you to make the first step, or rather, say the first word.

“…Hello?” Your voice is low, hoarse with hesitation.

No answer. Instead, something rustles. A faint sound like fabric brushing too close to a microphone. Your own “hello” comes back to you, faintly distorted, half a second later.

Your thumb hovers over “end call,” every instinct screaming to press it. You see the duration of the call, seconds ticking by, and with them, the silence. This isn’t Cregan. It’s not even close. And yet… something about the way the line hums, the strange rasp of their breath, pulls you in. You feel like your ears are pressed against the very mouth of something living, and if you’re patient enough, it’ll pour its secrets into your ear.

Then—

“Finally.” The voice bursts through the line so abruptly you jolt, your fingers fumbling as the phone nearly crashes to the floor. “I feared you’d never pick up!”

The reproachful tone in the feminine voice gives you a flashback to your lousy boss from a year ago.

“We close in 35 minutes. This is your last chance to pick it up.”

You blink. Pick up what?

“Hello? Miss, are you there?”

“Yes. Um—who is this?”

“LOTUS.”

“Who?”

“Dry cleaning service.” Her exhale is sharp. She’s clearly someone counting down the minutes before she can leave. “You’d better hurry.”

“It must be some sort of mistake…”

“Are you Miss Y/N?”

“…Yes.”

“Then no mistake. The item’s paid for. Urgent cleaning. Ready today.”

“I—I never gave anything in.” 

“We’ll be closed all weekend,” she stretches out her words, creating an image of a teenage girl, bored to death with her part-time shift. “You’d better hurry.”

“Check the number again,” you say, sharper than intended.

That’s definitely a prank, you think, ready to pull the phone away and switch it off. Then it comes again. A low, thin buzzing sound, not quite static. Like another line clicking in. Another listener. Your pulse quickens.

“It’s your errand,” a different voice rasps, a mechanical one, as though the words are being pulled through a walkie-talkie.

Your heart skips a beat. “What did you say?”

Breathing again. Not just heard. Felt warm against your skin. Like the line between the call and your room has blurred.

The static cuts off.

“It’s your errand.” The reply is firmer, and definitely human this time. “Are we clear now?”

The silence is shorter this time. Like a self-preservation instinct tells you to act on your best behavior.

“…Yes.”

You only have time to use the bathroom before you’re slipping into your Converse. Great. You look like a prom queen who ran away the last second. Your hands are shaking as you reach for your keys, they fall on the floor with a clatter, as if yelling, “hurry up!”

17:43. Thirteen minutes left. You’ve never been to this place. It’s impossible. “Shit.”

To your surprise, the GPS says it’s a 10-minute walk, which doubles your odds. But apparently, navigating a map while shaking with nerves isn’t your forte. Right in the middle of a pedestrian crossing, you realize you’re headed in the wrong direction and spin around.

Brake screeches. A car stops inches from you, close enough to see the Mercedes emblem.

“ARE YOU FUCKING DUMB?”

“Sorry!” You jog back, dragging your embarrassment with you.

The navigation arrow keeps switching directions like it’s toying with you. But then you see it—the sign: LOTUS. A simple black sign in white letters, tucked between a pharmacy and a pet store.

You rush inside, like a robber who decides to commit the crime at the last minute.

The manager shakes his head at you, his gaze revealing doubts about whether you can be trusted with whatever you're supposed to pick up.

Eventually, he hands you the suit. You assume it’s the one, judging by the black garment bag. You have no idea how to carry it. It’s heavier than expected, and definitely meant for someone much taller. You try lifting your arm to keep the garment bag from dragging on the pavement, but its weight pulls you down as your muscles quickly burn. You wonder if carrying a dead body would be easier.

The address attached to the suit cover tells you nothing. But AEMOND TARGARYEN, in capital letters, does.

Cars rush past, horns blaring at slow pedestrians and mindless drivers. Yet, amidst the noise, one thought rises louder than everything else: There’s no way three weeks have passed since the previous errand. What the hell is going on?

The taxi crawls through the gridlocked street so slowly, you start thinking you’d have made it faster on foot. The road is a graveyard of idling engines and quarreling drivers, each urging the others to move faster, stuck in a city that refuses to move.

The suit lies next to you, sagging and folded in a way that would probably make the dry cleaner flinch. You’ve violated the “carry upright” instruction in every imaginable way. He’ll know. Of course, he will. Do demons know how to iron?

The label taunts you. Not just the address, but the name.

Aemond Targaryen.

Isn’t that what Alys called him back then? Before you fell into the fog of nothingness. You were pretty sure it was his powers pulling you away from the conversation.

Something about this situation doesn’t feel right. All your feelings, thoughts, doubts, and concerns related to Aemond, the idea of what you could tell him, the desire to talk, it feels like it’s not going to be met halfway.

Vhagar. And now… you glance down at the garment bag again.

If he wanted an explanation or to talk, he would’ve already dropped by. No, what he’s after doesn’t seem like reconciliation, but rather what you asked for. Errands. Nothing more than that. To satisfy his pet, and now to fetch dry cleaning.

The sky is overcast when the taxi finally pulls up to the curb. A skyscraper looms in front of you. The glass-faced building already has a few lit-up windows, its rooftop disappearing into the clouds above. You squint upward, trying to count the windows. Impossible in such weather.

People come and go through the revolving doors, engrossed in their usual routine. But you hover on the pavement, feet nailed to the ground. That light, confident feeling blooming in your chest from earlier, the pride, the closure, has withered.

The mind-blowing sex might have been enough to blur your judgment, making you cultivate a false hope. But it was silly to assume it’d be the same for a demon. All your well-thought-out explanations to reconcile with him now disperse into the air. You need those. Aemond doesn't.

You shove yourself into the revolving door before you let yourself change your mind. It spins, and your heart races with it. You emerge into the lobby, blinking as though you’ve stepped through a portal. Another world.

The marble floor shimmers beneath your feet, reflecting the gilded glow from above, making it feel like you’re walking on water. Chandeliers are shaped like twisted vines; some coil into ouroboros loops—symbols of endless cycles. Even the air here seems burnished, gold-laced, as if you’ve wandered into a sacred place where nothing imperfect can survive.

You glance toward the guards as you cross the threshold, adjusting your grip on the suit. At this point, you’re not even sure you could come up with an adequate explanation of why you’re here. They're statues dressed up like men, carved in black and gray and glued to the entryway. Sphinx-like. You’re not sure they even breathe.

Each step toward the reception desk feels heavier than the last. The floor mirrors your hesitation, every reserved Converse-clad footfall echoing into a soft thud against the marble. Are they real? You wonder, scanning the rows of tall orange-hued trees by the main path, each one in a massive pot that likely cost more than your rent.

You don’t notice the moment you straighten the suit in your arms again, careful to hold it upright. The setting itself urges you to be perfect, like everything else in here. The ache in your bicep spreads, a quiet throb, but your face is composed like never before.

Congratulations. You wanted an errand. You got it.

“Um, hello…” you murmur as you near the desk, your words small against the vastness around you. The rich pink peonies glance your way, polite, graceful, as if they’re here to greet you most exquisitely.

The receptionist doesn’t move. Her gaze is fused to the screen, her fingers dancing in perfect tempo. For a moment, you’re unsure if you spoke at all.

“Elevators are to your left, miss,” she replies without looking up. Her French-tipped nails tap in a rhythm so precise you wonder if she once played piano. 

You glance toward the elevator. The number above it glows 1. Waiting. Inviting. Something about this place pulls at you, soft and glittering. Like a mermaid song. Sailors know better than to follow it.

“I—I don’t need the elevator.”

You drag your gaze back to her, shifting the suit to your other hand. Not the numb one. The fabric sticks to your palm. You're ready to curse the universe for this day. Because, of course, when your ex shows up and arranges the meeting, nothing goes well.

She finally looks up. Her hazel eyes skim your face, calculating, as if reading your entire history in one breath. Then her gaze softens. Sympathy, maybe. Though you utterly hope you don’t look half as bad as you feel. Her features are so symmetrical that it unsettles you.

“How can I help you then?”

“This is for apartment… 1099.” You squint at the label, though you repeated the number a dozen times in the taxi. You could probably say it if someone shook you awake in the middle of the night.

She types swiftly, clearly has been in this job a while, then says, “Aemond Targaryen.” It’s not a question, yet you nod cautiously.

Hearing his name aloud rattles something loose in your chest. You feel it behind you, a flicker of shadow just past your shoulder, but when you glance, there’s nothing. Only marble.

The building is too quiet. There should be so many residents, and yet it’s only you. You swallow, trying to keep your worries at bay.

“Do I leave it here?” you ask, trying not to sound rushed.

Her eyes narrow with a hint of suspicion. “Why not go up and give it to the owner?”

The question takes you aback, like you’re a cat caught up on the owner’s dining table. A soft ding sounds from the elevator, as if it, too, thinks it’s time.

“I—I can’t.”

She raises a brow, her nails tapping lightly against the table. A musician, for sure.

“Aren’t you the delivery?”

“No, I’m not,” you reply, biting your inner cheek. Once, you thought making a pact with a demon meant freedom from suffering. Turns out it’s just double hell.

“Well,” she shrugs, slipping seamlessly back into her customer-service smile, “there’s no note from Mr. Targaryen authorizing any delivery.”

“And?” you ask, gaping at her blankly.

The air thickens around you, faintly perfumed, like someone must’ve lit a candle somewhere nearby.

Her gaze locks onto yours, like this is some kind of contest, a challenge. Let’s see who blinks first. Before the silence turns any more awkward, she speaks. “I’m not allowed to accept it.”

There’s no mockery or cruelty in her tone. If anything, she sounds like someone who’s memorized protocol down to the footnotes. But it doesn’t help.

You feel yourself fraying. The pressure in your arm finally wins. The suit dips, grazing the pristine floor.

Your eyes snag on the neat little nametag pinned to her crisp blouse.

Floris.

“Excuse me—um—Floris, but I can’t and I won’t go to his apartment.”

You see her lips part in an attempt to object, but you act first, placing the suit firmly on the reception desk. Floris’ eyes widen, as if you’ve disrupted a sacred cathedral. You narrowly miss a slim porcelain vase, pale and trembling like it resents the disturbance, too.

“Miss, you can’t leave it here!” Floris snaps, halfway out of her chair now. To your strange relief, she looks human after all. She’s certainly not someone who chases rule-breakers. Still… if it came down to it, sneakers beat heels.

“Too bad,” you mutter, already turning away. You cradle your aching elbow like it’s a wound from the battle you’ve just won. “Guess Mr. Targaryen will have to bring his ass downstairs himself.”

You don’t wait to hear her outburst. The Sphinxes guarding the door stay still.

Good.

You can feel the tiny raindrops in the air, not quite a rain, more like a damp breath on your skin that carries the notes of relief. The droplets gather on your hair strands too, as if the weather is trying to calm the rage within you.

You take deep inhales and exhales, trying to return to your senses. The building is right behind you, but it doesn’t hold such power over you anymore.

The plan to take a taxi flops the moment you realize your phone has died. It was exactly 7 p.m. when it switched off. Maybe it’s for the better. No one will reach out to you this evening anyway. Though you doubt Cregan would be texting, “Where are you?” His ego wouldn’t let him do that.

People pass you in different directions. You close your eyes, imagining there’s no one but you. But it’s not that easy, not when a familiar voice sends goosebumps across your skin.

“Figured you wouldn’t drop by.”

Aemond’s voice is like a gentle kiss pressed against your cheek.

He’s right beside you, standing as if he’s always been there. Head tilted back, eyes lifted to the sky like he, too, is trying to make sense of the weather. Not a footstep. Not a sound. Just there. Classic demon style.

His outfit is simple— jeans, a black t-shirt. Something like a snake chain glints in the light, half-hidden under the fabric. He could never pass for a casual passerby. Not with that regal posture, quiet confidence, those never-blinking eyes, like he can’t afford to miss a second of life.

“Just like you,” you retort, trying to calm your silly, racing heart, which beats in hectic excitement.

Something in the air shifts, the way it always does when he’s near. Like someone drapes an invisible coat over your shoulders on a chilly day.

A low, velvety hum follows, almost a purr. He turns to face you, and when your eyes meet, it’s like those excruciating weeks of distance wash away.

Your anger simmers down, like sand slipping through fingers. You want to clench your fists to hold onto it, but you can’t. Not when he’s looking at you like that. Like it’s the first time.

His expression is unreadable. At first, almost bored. But then something shifts, a faint warmth seeps into that sapphire cold. Like staring at a blurred face in a crowd, only to recognize, a moment later, that it’s the dearest person in the world.

You’ll never understand how looking at someone can stir so much. Feelings bloom in your chest, drowning out reason, swallowing up words. The script you mentally rehearsed, the beeping of cars, the noise of the street…they all dull around him.

Suddenly, there’s a thought. Words spill out before you mull them over. Before you assess whether they align with your carefully crafted plan.

“Why didn’t you come?” It’s reproachful. Raw. Telling far more about your feelings than you’d like.

There’s not even a flicker of surprise on his face. It makes you wonder if the same question has been haunting him.

“I’m nothing but a name away.”

One day, you’ll reflect on that line — the aching beauty of it, the absolute devotion it implies. Yet today, the simplicity makes you frown. You feel like a child asking a huge, existential question, only to be met with an unoriginal adult response. 

Would you ever understand how it’s possible to want someone so much and still want to run?

His face stays neutral, the enviable calm of someone who’s either figured everything out, or is wise enough to never try.

I want to tell you so much, I don’t know where the first sentence starts and the last one ends.

A crease forms between his brows, faint but visible in the wash of headlights from the street. You might’ve missed it in daylight. A hint that he struggles to understand you just as much as you struggle to understand yourself.

At one point, it feels like someone turned up the heat. Your cheeks grow warm under his gaze. It’s too much. Now you understand why the waiter was so nervous in the café last time.

You haven’t practiced blinking—you want to say aloud, but given the time and circumstances separating you, you opt for a question instead.

“Are you trying to burn a hole in me?” you ask, folding your arms, fully aware of how defensive the posture is.

He tilts his head slightly, and now, somehow, he looks even more curious than before.

“Why would you say that?”

“God, not literally,” you mutter, shifting your weight. The idea of explaining figurative language to a demon is… oddly résumé-worthy. “It’s just… a phrase.”

“That’s a strange one.”

“Not really.” You shrug, pushing away the part of you that’s also wondering why anyone would come up with it. “Feels fitting for moments like this.”

He hums as if deep in thought, but his look carries a trace of disbelief. Does he think you’re mocking him?

Then his lips curl into the ghost of a smile. A loud tell that the menace is coming.

Before you can mentally prepare, he’s already a step ahead. And a step closer. His gaze, as hypnotic as ever, freezes you in place as he towers over you.

“Am I not allowed to admire you?”

Your lips part slightly, stunned by the casual audacity. By the proximity. By the way his eyes shamelessly track your mouth. Your strict no-kissing policy is now hanging by a thread.

His chest lifts with a deep breath, like he’s trying to stay in control, to hold on to the remnants of self-restraint.

First, he ghosts you. Then sends you on literal dry-cleaning errands. Now he’s shamelessly flirting?

Thoughts collide inside you like moths against a lit-up window at night.

“Goodbye, Aemond,” you say, turning sharply. Your sneakers squeak faintly against the wet sidewalk. Each step is an echo of your thundering pulse. You dodge a man in a business coat, slip around a couple tangled in PDA, heart hammering as if you’re outpacing sirens.

Don’t turn around. Don’t turn around. A silent mantra. Doomed to be interrupted.

“Would you like to take a taxi?”

Of course, he’s right behind you. His voice cuts through the traffic noise.

You glance sideways, he’s barely trying. One of his strides for every four of yours. For him, this is a stroll. For you, a sprint.

“I’ll walk,” you mutter. Then correct yourself mentally. Sprint.

“Good choice.”

The way he says it stirs a memory: that same shade of praise in his voice as that night. Of all times for that image to flash: you’re on all fours, panting under him, his eyes devouring you in the mirror. This is peak appropriate.

The pressure against your chest is incredible, as if the flashback knocks all the air out of your lungs. Getting hit by a car doesn’t sound like such a terrible alternative right now. Instead, you nearly miss a step and almost collide with a garbage bin, but his hand catches your wrist, pulling you closer in a smooth, automatic gesture, like he saw it coming all along.

You only cast him a look, as if to say: I’m still angry. But his gaze is fixed on the path ahead.

A new tactic?

Neon sighs. Laughter. Siren.

You mentally name each sound, each sight, just to drown out the noise inside your head. To calm the feelings in your chest.

You pass a kiosk, where the mingling scent of greasy meat and fried onions curls around you. The combination is far from appealing, but your stomach tightens. Right. You skipped dinner.

“You don’t have to walk with me, you know?” You say it without turning. God knows what might be in his eyes.

He stays silent a bit longer than usual, as if your question deserves careful consideration before being answered.

“I thought you’d want to compensate for my absence,” he finally says, slipping behind you and brushing past a woman steering a baby stroller.

A cluster of people waiting at the traffic light clogs the path ahead, funneling you both into a narrow gap, pinned by his presence. He stands close behind you, his taller frame pressing warmth against your upper back. You swear you can feel its steady rise and fall.

You lift your gaze. Yep, he’s that close.

“What’s that even supposed to mean?” Your brow furrows.

“You pointed it out,” he says, leaning closer. You can practically feel his breath against your ear. A familiar scent, forest after rain and cigarettes, engulfs you. Soothing, grounding, even amidst the smog and street food.

“Minutes ago,” he adds, clarifying.

“That was just an observation. Not… an invitation.” You bite the tip of your tongue.

“Mmm.”

You shoot him a sharp look. He clearly interprets it in his own way. If only you could peel that smugness off him and kick its ass.

You resume walking, only to pause at the corner, hesitating.

Were you meant to pass the bakery? No? Then this way is—

“Left,” he says, effortlessly correcting your course, or rather, prying into your thoughts. “Unless you’ve changed apartments.”

You curse under your breath, but Aemond is already heading in the right direction, unbothered, clearly enjoying the walk. At one point, you understand those poor kids who throw toys at their parent’s back.

“The night wandering random neighborhoods, or a walk with me?” he calls back, now walking backward, so elegantly it’s like he’s on a catwalk. The playful smirk decorates his bow lips, his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his dark jeans. Yes, the audience would drool over him. “Your choice.”

You check your phone. The screen stays black when you press the button. Just your reflection stares back—a lost puppy.

“Why do you even bother?” you ask, catching up. Your breath is uneven, of course, he didn’t slow down to wait for you. Half a step separates you, but the pavement narrows, the crowd surges, and you bump into him lightly. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even glance back. Still, you can’t shake the feeling that something else is on his mind, something he’s carefully keeping you shut out of.

“Weren’t you the one who wanted my ass downstairs?” he replies, amusement blooming across his face, easing your suspicions. Of course, he’d been nearby, listening in.

You click your tongue. “I knew you relished my suffering.”

“On that, we disagree,” his voice dips, just like it always does in the most intimate moments. “Your pleasure tastes better on my tongue.”

The double meaning hits like a sucker punch. Your breath catches.

One thing is certain now: you could never play by the rules you’ve set. The “just an errand” clause only works when he’s not around. His presence short-circuits your logic. When a match meets gasoline, fire is inevitable.

“The errand’s earlier than three weeks,” you say, a weak attempt to change the subject. To regain control.

“Is it?”

You glance at him, trying to gauge the sincerity of the question. His face is unreadable. Just a glint in his eyes, unrelenting, like a storm. Could a demon lose track of time?

“Aha,” you mutter, shifting closer as a noisy group of teenagers passes. Your hands brush. And for a moment, his broad palm turns outward in a silent, warm, irresistible invitation.

A gesture? Or a trick of your mind?

You can’t tell what’s real anymore, what’s conjured by your fantasies.

You cross your arms over your chest, pulling back like a scaredy-cat. The cringe flares through you, but not Aemond. He’s poised. Only his fingers twitch slightly, an unconscious attempt to reach for something already gone.

The stairwell smells of stone and old paint, slightly damp. Too narrow for two to walk side by side. His footsteps echo behind you. Gods, you can feel his warmth, draping over your back like delicate lace.

You don’t ask what he wants. You wouldn’t be surprised if he vanished the moment the door clicks open.

But a small part of you hopes he doesn’t.  Maybe, just maybe, he harbors unresolved matters, too.  Maybe now’s the time to confront them.  To dot all the I’s.

Aemond slips past you, a fleeting brush, like a cat too proud to ask for pets. Ironic, you think, as the key clinks against the shelf. This might be the first time he’s truly entered through the door.

He pauses at the threshold of the living room. One shoulder leans into the doorframe, gaze slicing through the dark like it’s searching for something already known. You flick on the hallway lamp. The dim glow spills outward, casting fractured shadows like veins across the walls.

You toe off your shoes slowly, almost hesitantly, as if trying to win some time before the inevitable. Your stomach tightens unpleasantly, your whole body anticipating the conversation. Do you launch into your rehearsed speech? Or hold your ground, demanding answers?

Why is it so cold?

Steam rises from your parted lips. Before the words can leave your mouth, a sound registers from the living room.

Once. Twice.

A scrape. A rustle. Muffled. Something faintly reminiscent of the noise on that line.

You stand beside Aemond, frowning toward the dark. The forest-dark has seeped in through the windows, swallowing everything.

Again, a rustle.

A bird?

You go still. That animal stillness, the kind that comes when your brain is calculating: fight or freeze. Your hand inches closer to Aemond's, seeking protection.

Something’s wrong. You glance at Aemond.. Whatever’s waiting in the dark doesn’t seem to faze him, and probably poses no threat to you.

“Go ahead,” he says, chin tilting toward the switch. His voice is calm. Too calm. Not smug, not mocking, just… off. Almost like the very first night you met.

You hesitate, fingers hovering over the flicker like you’re about to touch a hot stove.

Flick.

You close your eyes. The light is too bright, or maybe this is just one of the ways you try to protect yourself from whatever is in there.

But nothing prepares you for it.

You cover your mouth with a hand, but the gasp escapes anyway.

In the center of the room sits a man, bound to your chair. His head lolls forward, swaying slightly, like a broken pendulum trying to remember how time moves. His eyes, still clouded, scan the room in jittery bursts, as if everything blurs and flows.

Then his gaze snags on yours.

Cregan.

The man you used to love.

You’re the catalyst, the final wake-up call that makes his eyes widen in horror. The plot twist in a nightmare he never imagined you’d be part of.

Chains wrap around his chest, arms, and legs, metal gleaming as he jerks against them in a futile attempt to break free. His protests die in his throat, stifled by the gag; his screams reduced to the muffled bellowing of a wounded animal calling to a pack that’s already left it behind.

There are moments in everyone’s life when the body moves faster than the mind. When instinct overrides thought. When there's no time to read the room, only to act.

“Oh gods, Cregan!”

Adrenaline kicks into your system like a punch. You drop to your knees before him, tugging at the chains. The metallic rustle fills the room, clinking sounds too cheerful, like a parrot that won’t shut up during a funeral.

The knots are savage. The locks, iron-heavy. A collar, thick and tight, clasps around his throat like a leash.

Sweat drenches his skin. His dark hair clings to his forehead in damp strands. His chest heaves with sharp, rasped breaths like he’s just run a marathon. You haven’t seen him in almost six months, and in all that time, he’d always been composed.

The calmness is now washed away.

“Aemond!” you cry. “Help me!”

You yank at a lock, knuckles whitening. A chain jerks taut with a creak, and Cregan groans behind the gag, flinching. One wrist is bleeding beneath the metal, the skin broken. You’re only making it worse.

Sweat, iron, and now blood fill your nose, sharp and acidic. And under it all, a sour rot: fear.

“Shit, hold on,” you whisper, trying to swallow the nausea rising in your throat. “We’ll get you out, okay? We’ll fix it, just—”

You reach out for the gag. Your hand freezes midair. Inches from Cregan’s mouth.

At first, it feels like invisible needles prick your skin. But then... nothing. Your arm goes numb. Paralyzed. You stare at your fingers, willing them to move, but they don’t. It’s as if your brain has forgotten how to perform the simplest command. Nothing comes but a reluctant twitch.

Cregan’s eyes go wide, darting past you over your shoulder, toward Aemond. He shakes his head in tight, panicked jerks, humming a warning you can’t understand. But the desperation is unmistakable, like he’s just realized something you haven’t.

When your arm finally responds, it recoils violently, curling into your chest. Your skin is cold. If you didn’t know better, you might think you’d plunged your limb into a bucket of ice water.

What the hell...?

You rise slowly, turning to face the only explanation possible.

Aemond hasn’t shifted from the doorway, but his posture has changed, no longer relaxed. Arms folded. Muscles drawn taut beneath black fabric. His lips pressed into a flat, unforgiving line, like he’s enduring the scene that revolts him.

“This isn’t funny.” You barely recognize your own voice, your hand still clutched to your chest.

“Why not?” His gaze drifts lazily between you and Cregan. “You and your long-lost love. A touching reunion.” There’s not an undertone of sincerity, more like he’s studying two insects trapped beneath a glass.

Your mind stutters, fails to form questions; every possibility is too grotesque to voice. The world’s logic breaks down. You clench your fists until your nails bite into your skin. If it’s a dream, panic will wake you up. Your skin prickles, but the vision doesn’t break.

“Aemond, did you—”

He tilts his head, a serpentine movement, without a blink. He patiently waits for you to voice the question he already knows, he can hear it ringing in your mind.

“Did you do this?” You ask, nodding toward Cregan.

A muffled cry bursts through the gag. Cregan thrashes in the chair, chains clattering like bones. He answers for Aemond, panic and fury pouring from him in wordless rage.

A nervous laugh bubbles up from your chest as you press your hand against your forehead. Only now do you notice Cregan’s wearing your favorite t-shirt. He clearly thought you’d meet. Sadly, the circumstances are different.

“This is insane,” you mutter, scanning the room, hoping to find confirmation of your suspicion. This can’t be real. Your shoes, your coat, the dresses. The teddy bear lies on its side, its back turned to the chaos, like it can’t bear to watch.

“Unclasp those.” You point at the chains. Aemond is painfully still.

“Now,” you add louder, but the word comes out desperate.

Cregan strains against the bindings, chair legs screeching across the floor. Futile. If he keeps this up, he’ll tip and split his skull open.

“Cregan, don’t.” You reach for his shoulder in a soothing gesture.

And Aemond...

There it is. That smile.

Not wide. Not obvious. You’ve known him too long not to see it. Just a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth, savoring the moment, feeding off the suffering.

It ignites something in you. A rush of anger, impossible to ignore.

Before you can even process it, you’re at his side, grabbing his forearm with every ounce of strength you can muster, tugging him toward you. You can’t stand him standing there, motionless, detached, like a theatre spectator or a twisted statue crafted solely to haunt you in sleep and waking life.

“Why are you doing this?”

He looks down at your hand. Small, thin wrist, too weak to make a difference. Then his eyes lift to yours, and for the first time, you feel it. A look that makes you recoil, a look that speaks louder than words.

Pathetic.

Your hand falls limp by your side, still burning with the warmth of his skin, a mark you can’t rub off.

You trace the familiar facial features that have become so dear to your heart. The twitch of his lips, a movement he might have learned from another human once, or maybe something wholly his own. You’ve come to understand that it means something, some flicker of emotion within him. And now, more than ever, you ache to know what it means.

“Aemond…”

Your voice trembles with every memory, every warm feeling you ever had for him. Does he remember the teddy bear? The pineapple pizza argument? The sleepless nights? This room is filled with fragments of you, and now pieces of your heart are scattered across the floor beneath you as you appeal for his mercy, while he remains silent.

But his face betrays nothing. It’s as though the Aemond you once knew is no longer there but sealed behind walls, leaving only a stranger in his place. Aemond, who could once read your thoughts, can’t even see the pain written in capital letters all over your face.

He straightens, taking a step toward you. His thumb gently nudges your chin, guiding your gaze to his. The touch is soft. Yet it hurts.

“Don’t you know, my little dove?”

Your chest tightens. That name, said in that voice, soft, slightly hoarse. You hadn’t realized how much you missed it until now. You lean into his touch, giving in, instinctively. Foolishly.

Only to be met by the cold, controlled realm of his reign.

“I’m doing it for you.”

For me?

Your lashes flutter. Tears fall, uninvited, like rain from a sky that didn’t mean to cry. They land on his hand. Aemond stares at the droplets, inspecting them like they’re something foreign, something wrong. The touch you leaned into, sought comfort in, recoils. His hand jerks back, and his face shifts, not with compassion, but with something else: unease, or is it aversion? Like your tears burn him.

He doesn’t wipe them away. Instead, he shakes his hand with a quick, dismissive flick. As though your pain is something to be rid of, something filthy.

Aemond brushes past you without so much as a glance, as if you’re no longer worth his attention. His shoulder grazes your hand. The contact is fleeting, yet it stings.

You’ve never been in control. That’s a statement.

Cregan abandons his futile struggle the moment Aemond approaches. Whether it’s fear, or some inhuman force pulsing off Aemond’s very skin, he goes still. Not a twitch. Not a word. Only a sharp, ragged breath betrays that he’s still here.

“I don’t understand,” you whisper, your throat burning, as though you’ve just swallowed glass.

Aemond reaches for the chains. One touch, and the metal groans. The links uncoil, loosening like a serpent unwrapping itself from its prey, just enough to let Cregan draw breath. He leans back, spine pressed hard to the chair, as if trying to retreat into it. He doesn’t know what Aemond is. But he knows it’s not something human.

“We wouldn’t want him to choke, would we?” Aemond could sing a lullaby in that voice.

He begins to pace behind the chair, hands clasped neatly at his back, as if measuring the room from the mirror to the far wall. Each step stretches Cregan’s agony, each step a cruel echo of the final moments before a judge pronounces the sentence. A judge who takes his time, savoring the weight of the punishment.

For mercy shall not be found here.

He halts behind the chair, sudden as a stopped clock. The time has come. His long fingers, once delicately tracing the curve of your waist, the softness of your thighs, now clutch the top rail like a weapon.

His shadow swallows Cregan whole, dark, unnatural. A reminder that whoever stands before you is something other.

You take a deep breath, only to inhale more dread. You search for words, for an explanation, for this madness to end. With every passing second, your headache grows, as if ivy is coiling inside your skull, its thorns piercing deeper.

“That’s who you wanted, isn’t it?”

Aemond’s voice cuts through the haze in your mind, meaningless. His mouth pulls tight at the sight of your blank stare, a flicker of distaste crossing his face as his gaze drops to Cregan, like he can’t quite believe that this trembling figure is the man you could have sold your soul for.

“Before we made the deal, you wanted him.”

“But—” you move forward, just a step, and the world tilts. The floor lurches, or maybe it’s just your mind fracturing. Yes, you wanted Cregan. But why would Aemond do this? Why now?

“You said I had to choose,” you manage, grasping at the fading thread of reason.

Aemond shrugs.

“I’ve changed my mind.”

His answers are simple, quick, businesslike. Let’s get it done. Nothing in his posture or voice suggests he might be bluffing, or telling the truth. Yet if all feels like a meticulously staged performance, like everything around you is designed to make you believe this twisted story is real. Or is it not?

Aemond stands there, perfectly still. An unyielding, unnatural force. A grace that feels too perfect for this world. Someone who stands above all that is mortal, all that is petty and fragile.

How can someone so beautiful be so lethal?

“He’ll be yours. Just say it.”

Demon speaks in a sweet, luring voice that could make one follow him straight into hell.

“Why?” A question, no more than a whisper.

The silence stretches out like a field of scorched flowers.

But your entire body trembles, the delicate fabric of your dress offering no shield against his relentless presence.

Just give me the truth. Please.

You’re not sure if he hears you, but then there’s the faintest glimmer that something softer stirs within him. A spark, warm, familiar. Aemond’s gaze dips for a brief moment, and a subtle spasm tugs at his features, as though your pleas have become crows in his mind—loud, shrill, their croaks mocking: See. See what you have done.

His fingers rise to his temple, brushing it like he might scare them off. In that instant, you feel the crushing weight of your headache ease, as if part of your agony has passed to him. Like a crack in the dam letting the river flow, leaving you momentarily lighter.

But the shadow of softness is fleeting, dissipating before you can grasp it. Like a hangman remembering the gallows. His sapphire eyes darken, as though the sea is being smothered by ice, the depths concealed, sealed beneath a frozen surface.

Ice that would shatter your bones.

Ice that would leave blood in the snow.

No one survives winter like that.

“All those excruciating feelings of yours…” The confession, or rather a verdict, is announced, cold, detached. There’s no hint of sympathy, no trace of remorse. “I’m fed up with them. With you. I don’t want to feel your longing anymore.”

Longing.

That bitter ache that has filled your days, your nights, these endless, hollow weeks. It wasn’t just a feeling. It was like radiation dust, clinging to your insides, poisoning you with every breath. It burned through your lungs, lodged in your bones, dulled every dream, and infected every thought with a hopeless ache. A torture, without him. 

Hell. 

You feel like you’re drowning in it, and all you want is to pull him back into the warmth, share it with him.

But Aemond? He wants nothing of it. He wants you out of his veins.

The next blow lands with brutal finality, before you can even form a word, a protest, a plea. He can’t afford you taking the reins, can’t risk you disrupting the plan he’s so meticulously crafted.

“I figured Cregan should suffice.”

His words come out flat. Matter-of-fact.

Everything clicks into place. Aemond has twisted it all, misinterpreted your longing in the most cruel, distorted way possible. Like in a math equation, he’s taken your numbers out of it, replacing them with his own.

You might be the one who sentenced both of you to this end. But he... he’s the one here to pull the guillotine.

“You… you made him contact me?”

Aemond laughs, but it’s no longer the laugh of a god, or a devil. It’s the laugh of a madman. A wild creature handed matches in a world soaked with gasoline.

You glance at Cregan, a silent plea in your eyes, but his gaze offers nothing, only regret.

“Oh, the bastard wanted it,” Aemond spits, his teeth grinding. Fingers, or something sharper, dig into the chair’s back. The wood creaks beneath his grip. It might be the chair that will break now or Cregan’s neck.

Tears blur your vision again, but this time they sting as they streak down your cheeks. This time, no one is there to catch them.

Cregan’s interest and sincerity you fell for was just a… performance. A trick. Curated by Aemond.

Whether you’d said yes or no, it didn’t matter.

Cregan was always going to end up here. A twisted early birthday present, rewrapped in chains. Not a man with agency. A trick to fill in the blank in Aemond’s story. The story he’s made for you.

Aemond doesn’t see your heartbreak. He chooses not to.

He leans down beside Cregan, as though he could tear his throat apart with his teeth.

“Didn’t you want it, Cregan?”

Cregan has thought about you. The warmth of your body. The softness of your touch. You’ve crossed his mind more than he’ll ever admit.

Whatever Cregan thinks about you no longer matters to you. But it matters to Aemond. It feeds his rage, urging him deeper into his cruelty.

“You can nod.” Aemond, a thoughtful prompter, encourages Cregan to nod frantically, his eyes flicking to you without meeting your gaze.

The pulse hammers in the side of Cregan’s neck, the veins taut with pressure, as if they might burst. If Aemond doesn’t kill him, fear will.

“He just needed a… push.” Aemond wrinkles his nose, as though the thought, or Cregan’s smell, repulses him.

He pulls back again, retreating to your writing table like a beast caged too long. His fingers brush the edge of your work, trailing across the pages, over your hurried handwriting. As if looking for something to anchor him.

What feels like a nightmare to you, to Cregan, isn’t even half the hell Aemond could unleash. This is restraint.

“You’re… disgusting,” you breathe out, but no phrase can match your fury. Your grief. Your despair.

Aemond doesn’t flinch, much to your disdain. His eyes remain on the paper in his hand, scanning the outline of the world you built. The one he wasn’t meant to be part of.

But he is.

With Cregan, the words hardly became sentences. But Aemond…Aemond makes the stories bloom. He’s a long-awaited spring in a land punished by harsh, eternal winter. The thaw that ruins and renews all at once.

“And yet… I was the one who came when no one else listened.” 

He lets the paper fall back onto the table. The flutter is loud, as if the words are breaking down against the wooden surface, their meaning scattered all over the floor.

Cregan glances at you, his expression muddled with confusion. He’s probably started wondering if you’re the reason for this menace. But explaining anything to him is the last thing on your agenda.

“It was a mistake.” The weight of your words is softened by the hurt.

Aemond chuckles, and the room darkens as if in response, shadows listening to their master.

“I’m willing to give him to you on a silver platter. There’ll be no other suggestion,” he coaxes. But there’s something under it, a thin thread of weariness in his gaze.

You look at Cregan. He probably has no clue what’s going on. The meaning of your conversation must be totally lost on him.

And if Aemond untied him, would he even stay of his own free will? Would you want him to stay?

Back then… if you had chosen Cregan over your writing, would this still have ended in ruin? Would it still hurt this much?

You wipe your cheeks, hiding away the remnants of hurt. The gesture is clumsy, trembling. At such points, you disdain being nothing but a human.

“I don’t want it this way.”

Demon or not, he won’t write your story for you.

Something flickers in Aemond’s gaze.

Confusion. Real. Rare. He reads people like maps, but not now.  Or maybe he never did. Maybe his ability to see into a human mind only gave him control, not the understanding of their complexities.

“Alright,” he snaps, his composure fraying at the edges.

He moves toward you, each of his steps stealing the light, his shadow swallowing it whole.

“Then fucking stop this torture,” he growls, his words laced with poison, but deeper, underneath, you feel it. Despair. His earlier words echo in your mind: “The stronger the bond, the more influenced a demon is.” And, as if to prove your suspicion, he adds, “Stop sending this ache through our bond.”

One step, and your back hits the wall. Another step, and there’s no distance between you. He’s close enough for you to see the tremor at his jaw. He’s a fire ready to consume everything in his path.

It shouldn’t matter to him at all what you feel. But if it does…

Your hands press to his chest, not to push him away, but to steady yourself. You rise onto your toes, eyes locking with his, because his eyes have never lied to you.

“Ache or not, why do you care?”

Aemond stiffens, as if you’ve become Medusa and he’s been foolish enough to meet your gaze.

For this question alone, for the implication within it, he could kill you.

His eyes hollow out. Become black wells.

The abyss, staring back.

Hell, burned to ash.

Why do I care?

The question he’s been asking himself ever since your last meeting. To care had never been part of his design. A function he’d never had. Until you came.

At first, it was just a glitch. A symptom, mild and unassuming, which he chose to overlook. Then it turned into a disease. It grew within him, cell by cell, day by day, until it was too late.

He feeds off the emotions of others. That’s the bargain. That’s the way. But your yearning? It poisons him. It robs him of strength and satisfaction, like suddenly all other emotions dull, rot.

He blames you for it all. This weakness, this feeling, couldn’t possibly be his.

You gave it roots. Planted something unnamed inside him, a feeling that made itself at home. And he knows nothing about such things. Every ounce of knowledge he’s gathered from humanity feels useless, because there’s the shocking truth: humans don’t truly understand it either. They give it names: love, affection, devotion, and a million others. But no one truly holds power over it.

He figures out quite soon that to let the feeling live, he’d have to kill his essence so this virus could thrive in his body.

To let the feeling die, he’d have to smother you with his own hands.

But as long as there’s a deal, nothing can tear you both apart. Nothing can tear you out of his system. Not even this outrageous, disgusting ache.

So he goes for a deal that brings him even more disdain. The only way to set himself free. So he shoves Cregan into your arms to shut up the gnawing ache in your chest. Perhaps his own would shut up for good, too.

For he is a demon. Bound. Chained to the human he can’t shake. To you. Your tears are forever imprinted on his hand. Salt etched into skin. And he’ll cherish it.

But worst of all, you’re the human who longs for someone else.

You are the flower that blooms again each morning, greeting him with colour and scent, after he spent the night before uprooting you.

You are his mirror. And what he sees in you… it sickens him. Because when your ache mirrors his own, he can’t think, can’t breathe.

You are his mirror, and he is yours.

The truth, the one you've kept locked away, buried beneath ache and denial, trembles on the tip of your tongue. You could still bury it for good. Let you both be free.

But instead, you choose to do the bravest thing: to admit it.

To yourself first.

And then, finally, to Aemond. Rage and betrayal be damned.

Cregan’s muffled sounds falter into quiet as you speak:

“It’s not him that I long for.”

Aemond flinches, pain flashing across his face like a wound reopened, as if you just dragged a dagger across his eye. Whatever story he’s written in his head, whatever twisted logic he's used to justify this torment, you’ve just shattered it. And still, you see it clearly now: he wants to be wrong.

“Don’t mess with me.” He speaks low and regal, a king giving his final warning before condemning a traitor to death.

“I wish I were.” The bile tastes sour, but you swallow it.

There’s no flicker of belief in his eyes. Just that stubborn, blind confidence. Because that way it would be easier. He’s made his mind, he’s set the course, and now, you’re the compass that refuses to point the way he demands.

“Shall I remind you of the words you spoke before?”

You shake your head. “I remember them… but it’s not that simple.”

He scoffs, bitter in a way you’ve never heard before, and you fear he might disappear, vanish into the air.

“Everything was simple before you.”

You’re a liability. That’s what he means. You bite your lip until it bleeds. If Aemond resembles anything right now, it’s a blade cutting everything that comes close.

But you’ve never been wise when it comes to him.

So you take a step forward.

“You know I’m telling the truth,” you murmur.

“I know that I’m drowning in you,” he hisses, tempest building in his gaze.

He’s thunder.

You’re sunlight.

And somehow, you both exist in the same sky.

“Come here,” you whisper, your hands twitching at your sides, aching to touch him, yet trembling with the fear of being rejected.

He doesn’t move. One breath. Two.

His fists clench at his sides like he’s holding himself back from moving an inch closer. There’s a war inside him, making him waver. The only thing he knows is how to destroy, to tease apart, to peel away. No one’s ever offered him something this fragile, this gentle. No one’s ever offered him something he can’t tear apart. He doesn’t know how to step into forbidden territory, how to be without ruining it all. He craves and fears that craving.

He leans in, just barely, so subtle it might not even look like a shift. But you catch it, leaning toward him, meeting him halfway, slowly, carefully. Like this moment is the most brittle thing you both hold. His tall back curves, folding toward you like a warrior about to surrender to a goddess.

You both hover there, unsure, two beings on the verge of a kiss neither knows how to shape. You tilt your heads, adjusting subtly, afraid to misalign the fragile geometry of closeness.

A kiss, another forbidden territory, aches painfully in your chest.

At last, his forehead presses to yours. A simple gesture. Yet it feels like the right thing in the world.

His skin is warm. Yours is cold. A perfect, soothing contrast.

He needs you to soothe the fire that’s always threatening to burn him to ash.

You need him to finally give you the warmth you’ve been denied.

Aemond can’t go to the rooftop anymore. Not since Alys. It used to be a sanctuary, a place to breathe, to observe the world from a distance. But now it’s lost its magic. Just a trembling structure beneath the wind. Even the cityscape has dulled, no longer impressive.

Now, in this quiet between you, where breath follows breath, the stillness feels sacred, like a beggar stepping into a cathedral and seeing a god he once refused.

The sense of comfort Aemond sought in stone and solitude, he finally finds in you.

His breathing slows, falling into rhythm with yours. A quiet, synchronized dance. He forgets the cigarettes in his pocket. The purpose of the pact slips away. So does the belief that he was never meant to feel.

Even Cregan's presence fades, barely a shadow now.

“We can figure this out… together.” The words are meant just for him, the most courageous and vulnerable confession you’d say to no one else.

“What if it’s a mistake?” He echoes your fear, your own words, softened by his voice. He looks at you like you hold all the answers in the world, and maybe that terrifies him more than anything else.

You hesitate.

Once, you said forever. And then… you buried it.

You can’t offer consolation. Lie, and you both know will know about it.

So you give him the only thing you both can stand on: the truth.

“Some mistakes…” you say, eyes meeting his, they’re your favorite color again. “Some mistakes are worth it.”

And in this sacred space, where neither of you moves, it feels like the world has stopped asking him to be a demon.

Just this once.

Just for you.

“Oh,  I haven’t posted this photo on Facebook…” Her lashes, thick with black mascara, flutter with the realization. “Will you give me a second?”

“Sure,” you answer flatly, stepping back and leaning against the counter. You wonder if saying “no” would make a difference.

Her loud, cheerful “HAH” is followed by the rapid tapping of her thumbs, making you wonder if she’s already replying to comments. She must be retired by now, yet she’s one of those people whose age is difficult to guess. If only you could be that carefree. So many things wouldn’t matter. Your mind wouldn’t spiral. Perhaps your head wouldn’t have turned into a battlefield.

You can feel your phone watching you from across the kitchen table, curious too about what you’re going to reply to Cregan’s message: “I’ll be at our place tonight, at 7 PM. Join me?”

The moment he sent the first text weeks ago, part of you lit up, as if whispering, finally. As if this moment had always been meant to come. You hadn’t planned to talk about your writing progress, but message by message, you eventually opened up about your novel, set to be published at the end of the summer.

When he responded with “Glad your stubbornness persists,” it felt like a happiness injection. Unfortunately, it wasn’t long-lasting. The teddy bear, still sitting on the floor where you’d left him, no longer looked cheerful, like something in his buttoned eyes had dimmed.

“Done!” she announces proudly, as if she might’ve just been cast as Leonardo DiCaprio’s girlfriend. 

“Cool, um—Mrs. Silvi, would you like to see the flat?”

The question stumbles from your mouth, an awkward attempt to bring the conversation back on track. The abrupt transition triggers your inner people-pleaser to press the red panic button: SHE’LL EVICT YOU.

Luckily, she doesn’t seem to notice.

“Oh, sure! Let’s see it!” she chirps, and for a second, you swear, if you hadn’t reminded her, she’d leave without inspecting a thing.

You trail behind her, your slippers making a soft shuffle. If it weren’t for the height difference, you could’ve mistaken yourself for her shadow. Her perfume, sweet and oriental, wafts through the corridor, swallowed eagerly by the faded beige walls. The same scent that haunted the air for weeks after your move-in.

She abruptly pauses at the living room threshold, causing you to almost bump into her.

“Jeez!” she exclaims, her hand dramatically flying to her chest. She couldn’t have spotted the cigarette spots on the windowsill from that far.

“What a lovely thing!”

You come up beside her to follow her gaze, unsure of where this is heading. Relief sweeps through you when she lifts a teddy bear so delicately it might be mistaken for a brittle antique.

You hover at the threshold awkwardly, as if it’s your first time in the flat.

“Where did you get it?” she asks, brushing off some invisible dust from his fur.

But before your lips even part, she resumes, “Oh, I know!”

Her sly smirk makes you furrow. By now, you know better than to try inserting a word into her monologue. It’s pointless. Even if you do speak, she’ll just talk right over you.

“It must be your gentleman.”

Your mouth forms a silent O, which prompts her to giggle. She clearly interprets it a “yes”. Sylvi settles onto the sofa, the plush toy in her arms like a newborn. When she nods to the side, you have no choice but to sink down beside her.

“How I miss those times when I was younger,” she says, her voice laced with longing, her confession aimed at Ewan. “I mean, I am still young, but back then... I had a whole parade of gallants fighting over my heart.”

Weirdly or not, you have no doubt about that.

“They would’ve done anything for me. Bombarded me with presents, flowers, skipped classes just to walk me home after the conservatory. But I was always waiting. Waiting for the one. You know?” She pauses, and the conversation seems to have taken a turn you weren’t ready for. “The right one.”

Her gaze lands on you, expectant. You nod, perhaps too quickly, a gesture meant to mask the unsettling twist in your chest. The idea of the right one feels foreign. You thought you knew it back then, with Cregan. But now… things are messier than ever.

Gazing down at the teddy bear only fuels the guilt further.

If you agree to meet Cregan tonight, you’ll end up betraying… Aemond.

“Of course you know!” she continues, misreading your silence, her large, round Cleopatra-style earrings jingling as she nods her head. Her gaze flicks down to Ewan, then back to you. “You’re the writer,” she adds, her hand gently covering yours, pulling you back to the present. Her skin is slightly wrinkled but warm and soft. “These things must come naturally to you.”

You force a smile, clearly not planning to share your concerns about your ex and the demon.

Her eyes narrow, just a flicker. It’s a look of knowing, of recognition, as if something gave you away. It prompts her to open up further.

“My husband—” You brace yourself, anticipating a long story about him.

“—passed away two years ago.” Her hand twitches, then withdraws, as if through the touch she could reveal more than she’s willing to.

You blink, caught off guard by the revelation. “Oh God, I’m so sorry.”

“I married him… God knows why, to be honest.” She shakes her head, a weak smile tugging at her lips. Her gaze drifts, not quite seeing the teddy anymore, but something else, someone else.

“He didn’t meet half the criteria for the man I thought I was waiting for. And yet… he was the most real thing that ever happened to me. Drove me terribly mad.” The way she stresses the word is supposed to showcase her anger, but it seems like the only reason for the emotion is his absence.

“Why?”

The most intentional question you’ve asked her. A small part of you, perhaps a naïve one, wonders if this conversation might help you make up your mind. But the answer, as always, isn’t what you expect.

She smiles, but not at you.

Her gaze is hazy, clouded with memory.

“Because he’s always been on my mind.”

She silently passes the teddy to you, and your breath hitches, just like the day Aemond first placed it in your hands. Suddenly, you understand what the button eyes have been trying to tell you.

What started as a “flat inspection” has drifted so far from its original purpose that the word almost feels absurd. After a few more moments of chatting about exes and travels, she declares that she’s seen enough and announces that she’s late for a visit with an old friend.

“I’m so late!” Sylvi says, slipping on her heels. You can’t help but admire her energy. Her babbling personality manages to soothe your ache.

“Oh—almost forgot! I brought you a present!”

“For me?” you echo, watching her dig through her giant tote bag with such enthusiasm that you wouldn’t be surprised if she pulled out a puppy.

“Ta-dam!” She holds out a small green frog statue. It’s heavy in your hands, oddly so for something so small. The frog’s mouth is parted in a smile, and its body is speckled with a few white dots, like someone added a final touch just before placing it on the shelf.

Before your brain can dive into the connection, she explains, “It’s from a sacred place I visited! Said to bring good luck and scare evil spirits away,” she adds, leaning forward with a wink.

After she leaves, you place the frog on the windowsill. Its small, cheerful figure looks serene, fitting into the interior effortlessly. In the mirror, you catch your gaze and the conspicuous questions. A blessing or a warning?

The light purple dress hugs your curves perfectly. The silk showcases you with the kind of grace that makes you pause, stunned by your own reflection.

Sunset light spills across the room, gilding everything in soft amber. Funny, this small, unremarkable apartment that once felt like a stopgap now glows with the warmth of something earned. Something lived in. It’s still small, yes. But now, it feels like you. Like home.

You spin, just like you used to as a child, your hem fluttering in the golden light. Back then, moments like this made you believe you were a princess, and your story could only end one way: happily ever after.

Life had… other plans. For every problem resolved, another one waits in the wings, and not every battle ends with you victorious.

You’ve made up your mind. It’s time to win the battle with Cregan. No meeting. That book is closed and put aside into the depths of your mental library. The bitter truth has finally come into focus: even if you got back together, things wouldn’t be the same.

You don’t owe him a message, or an explanation. Not even a line. He’ll figure it out.

And nothing, nothing, can stop you from going out for a light stroll in this beautiful dress, grabbing takeout from anywhere but that café he called “our place.” It was always his favorite, never really yours.

The inner sense of triumph settles into your chest, and for the first time, in what seems forever, it feels like you’re doing things right.

Suddenly, a sound. The phone is ringing. You glance at the screen.

Unknown number.

The vibration ripples through your hand, intensifying the anxiety within you. Your mind is like a beehive, each thought a stinging bee ready to attack no one but you. Could it be Cregan? A new number, a new tactic to reel you in?

You pick it up. You don’t speak right away. Neither do they. The silence on the other end is eerily still. You hear them breathing, waiting for you to make the first step, or rather, say the first word.

“…Hello?” Your voice is low, hoarse with hesitation.

No answer. Instead, something rustles. A faint sound like fabric brushing too close to a microphone. Your own “hello” comes back to you, faintly distorted, half a second later.

Your thumb hovers over “end call,” every instinct screaming to press it. You see the duration of the call, seconds ticking by, and with them, the silence. This isn’t Cregan. It’s not even close. And yet… something about the way the line hums, the strange rasp of their breath, pulls you in. You feel like your ears are pressed against the very mouth of something living, and if you’re patient enough, it’ll pour its secrets into your ear.

Then—

“Finally.” The voice bursts through the line so abruptly you jolt, your fingers fumbling as the phone nearly crashes to the floor. “I feared you’d never pick up!”

The reproachful tone in the feminine voice gives you a flashback to your lousy boss from a year ago.

“We close in 35 minutes. This is your last chance to pick it up.”

You blink. Pick up what?

“Hello? Miss, are you there?”

“Yes. Um—who is this?”

“LOTUS.”

“Who?”

“Dry cleaning service.” Her exhale is sharp. She’s clearly someone counting down the minutes before she can leave. “You’d better hurry.”

“It must be some sort of mistake…”

“Are you Miss Y/N?”

“…Yes.”

“Then no mistake. The item’s paid for. Urgent cleaning. Ready today.”

“I—I never gave anything in.” 

“We’ll be closed all weekend,” she stretches out her words, creating an image of a teenage girl, bored to death with her part-time shift. “You’d better hurry.”

“Check the number again,” you say, sharper than intended.

That’s definitely a prank, you think, ready to pull the phone away and switch it off. Then it comes again. A low, thin buzzing sound, not quite static. Like another line clicking in. Another listener. Your pulse quickens.

“It’s your errand,” a different voice rasps, a mechanical one, as though the words are being pulled through a walkie-talkie.

Your heart skips a beat. “What did you say?”

Breathing again. Not just heard. Felt warm against your skin. Like the line between the call and your room has blurred.

The static cuts off.

“It’s your errand.” The reply is firmer, and definitely human this time. “Are we clear now?”

The silence is shorter this time. Like a self-preservation instinct tells you to act on your best behavior.

“…Yes.”

You only have time to use the bathroom before you’re slipping into your Converse. Great. You look like a prom queen who ran away the last second. Your hands are shaking as you reach for your keys, they fall on the floor with a clatter, as if yelling, “hurry up!”

17:43. Thirteen minutes left. You’ve never been to this place. It’s impossible. “Shit.”

To your surprise, the GPS says it’s a 10-minute walk, which doubles your odds. But apparently, navigating a map while shaking with nerves isn’t your forte. Right in the middle of a pedestrian crossing, you realize you’re headed in the wrong direction and spin around.

Brake screeches. A car stops inches from you, close enough to see the Mercedes emblem.

“ARE YOU FUCKING DUMB?”

“Sorry!” You jog back, dragging your embarrassment with you.

The navigation arrow keeps switching directions like it’s toying with you. But then you see it—the sign: LOTUS. A simple black sign in white letters, tucked between a pharmacy and a pet store.

You rush inside, like a robber who decides to commit the crime at the last minute.

The manager shakes his head at you, his gaze revealing doubts about whether you can be trusted with whatever you're supposed to pick up.

Eventually, he hands you the suit. You assume it’s the one, judging by the black garment bag. You have no idea how to carry it. It’s heavier than expected, and definitely meant for someone much taller. You try lifting your arm to keep the garment bag from dragging on the pavement, but its weight pulls you down as your muscles quickly burn. You wonder if carrying a dead body would be easier.

The address attached to the suit cover tells you nothing. But AEMOND TARGARYEN, in capital letters, does.

Cars rush past, horns blaring at slow pedestrians and mindless drivers. Yet, amidst the noise, one thought rises louder than everything else: There’s no way three weeks have passed since the previous errand. What the hell is going on?

The taxi crawls through the gridlocked street so slowly, you start thinking you’d have made it faster on foot. The road is a graveyard of idling engines and quarreling drivers, each urging the others to move faster, stuck in a city that refuses to move.

The suit lies next to you, sagging and folded in a way that would probably make the dry cleaner flinch. You’ve violated the “carry upright” instruction in every imaginable way. He’ll know. Of course, he will. Do demons know how to iron?

The label taunts you. Not just the address, but the name.

Aemond Targaryen.

Isn’t that what Alys called him back then? Before you fell into the fog of nothingness. You were pretty sure it was his powers pulling you away from the conversation.

Something about this situation doesn’t feel right. All your feelings, thoughts, doubts, and concerns related to Aemond, the idea of what you could tell him, the desire to talk, it feels like it’s not going to be met halfway.

Vhagar. And now… you glance down at the garment bag again.

If he wanted an explanation or to talk, he would’ve already dropped by. No, what he’s after doesn’t seem like reconciliation, but rather what you asked for. Errands. Nothing more than that. To satisfy his pet, and now to fetch dry cleaning.

The sky is overcast when the taxi finally pulls up to the curb. A skyscraper looms in front of you. The glass-faced building already has a few lit-up windows, its rooftop disappearing into the clouds above. You squint upward, trying to count the windows. Impossible in such weather.

People come and go through the revolving doors, engrossed in their usual routine. But you hover on the pavement, feet nailed to the ground. That light, confident feeling blooming in your chest from earlier, the pride, the closure, has withered.

The mind-blowing sex might have been enough to blur your judgment, making you cultivate a false hope. But it was silly to assume it’d be the same for a demon. All your well-thought-out explanations to reconcile with him now disperse into the air. You need those. Aemond doesn't.

You shove yourself into the revolving door before you let yourself change your mind. It spins, and your heart races with it. You emerge into the lobby, blinking as though you’ve stepped through a portal. Another world.

The marble floor shimmers beneath your feet, reflecting the gilded glow from above, making it feel like you’re walking on water. Chandeliers are shaped like twisted vines; some coil into ouroboros loops—symbols of endless cycles. Even the air here seems burnished, gold-laced, as if you’ve wandered into a sacred place where nothing imperfect can survive.

You glance toward the guards as you cross the threshold, adjusting your grip on the suit. At this point, you’re not even sure you could come up with an adequate explanation of why you’re here. They're statues dressed up like men, carved in black and gray and glued to the entryway. Sphinx-like. You’re not sure they even breathe.

Each step toward the reception desk feels heavier than the last. The floor mirrors your hesitation, every reserved Converse-clad footfall echoing into a soft thud against the marble. Are they real? You wonder, scanning the rows of tall orange-hued trees by the main path, each one in a massive pot that likely cost more than your rent.

You don’t notice the moment you straighten the suit in your arms again, careful to hold it upright. The setting itself urges you to be perfect, like everything else in here. The ache in your bicep spreads, a quiet throb, but your face is composed like never before.

Congratulations. You wanted an errand. You got it.

“Um, hello…” you murmur as you near the desk, your words small against the vastness around you. The rich pink peonies glance your way, polite, graceful, as if they’re here to greet you most exquisitely.

The receptionist doesn’t move. Her gaze is fused to the screen, her fingers dancing in perfect tempo. For a moment, you’re unsure if you spoke at all.

“Elevators are to your left, miss,” she replies without looking up. Her French-tipped nails tap in a rhythm so precise you wonder if she once played piano. 

You glance toward the elevator. The number above it glows 1. Waiting. Inviting. Something about this place pulls at you, soft and glittering. Like a mermaid song. Sailors know better than to follow it.

“I—I don’t need the elevator.”

You drag your gaze back to her, shifting the suit to your other hand. Not the numb one. The fabric sticks to your palm. You're ready to curse the universe for this day. Because, of course, when your ex shows up and arranges the meeting, nothing goes well.

She finally looks up. Her hazel eyes skim your face, calculating, as if reading your entire history in one breath. Then her gaze softens. Sympathy, maybe. Though you utterly hope you don’t look half as bad as you feel. Her features are so symmetrical that it unsettles you.

“How can I help you then?”

“This is for apartment… 1099.” You squint at the label, though you repeated the number a dozen times in the taxi. You could probably say it if someone shook you awake in the middle of the night.

She types swiftly, clearly has been in this job a while, then says, “Aemond Targaryen.” It’s not a question, yet you nod cautiously.

Hearing his name aloud rattles something loose in your chest. You feel it behind you, a flicker of shadow just past your shoulder, but when you glance, there’s nothing. Only marble.

The building is too quiet. There should be so many residents, and yet it’s only you. You swallow, trying to keep your worries at bay.

“Do I leave it here?” you ask, trying not to sound rushed.

Her eyes narrow with a hint of suspicion. “Why not go up and give it to the owner?”

The question takes you aback, like you’re a cat caught up on the owner’s dining table. A soft ding sounds from the elevator, as if it, too, thinks it’s time.

“I—I can’t.”

She raises a brow, her nails tapping lightly against the table. A musician, for sure.

“Aren’t you the delivery?”

“No, I’m not,” you reply, biting your inner cheek. Once, you thought making a pact with a demon meant freedom from suffering. Turns out it’s just double hell.

“Well,” she shrugs, slipping seamlessly back into her customer-service smile, “there’s no note from Mr. Targaryen authorizing any delivery.”

“And?” you ask, gaping at her blankly.

The air thickens around you, faintly perfumed, like someone must’ve lit a candle somewhere nearby.

Her gaze locks onto yours, like this is some kind of contest, a challenge. Let’s see who blinks first. Before the silence turns any more awkward, she speaks. “I’m not allowed to accept it.”

There’s no mockery or cruelty in her tone. If anything, she sounds like someone who’s memorized protocol down to the footnotes. But it doesn’t help.

You feel yourself fraying. The pressure in your arm finally wins. The suit dips, grazing the pristine floor.

Your eyes snag on the neat little nametag pinned to her crisp blouse.

Floris.

“Excuse me—um—Floris, but I can’t and I won’t go to his apartment.”

You see her lips part in an attempt to object, but you act first, placing the suit firmly on the reception desk. Floris’ eyes widen, as if you’ve disrupted a sacred cathedral. You narrowly miss a slim porcelain vase, pale and trembling like it resents the disturbance, too.

“Miss, you can’t leave it here!” Floris snaps, halfway out of her chair now. To your strange relief, she looks human after all. She’s certainly not someone who chases rule-breakers. Still… if it came down to it, sneakers beat heels.

“Too bad,” you mutter, already turning away. You cradle your aching elbow like it’s a wound from the battle you’ve just won. “Guess Mr. Targaryen will have to bring his ass downstairs himself.”

You don’t wait to hear her outburst. The Sphinxes guarding the door stay still.

Good.

You can feel the tiny raindrops in the air, not quite a rain, more like a damp breath on your skin that carries the notes of relief. The droplets gather on your hair strands too, as if the weather is trying to calm the rage within you.

You take deep inhales and exhales, trying to return to your senses. The building is right behind you, but it doesn’t hold such power over you anymore.

The plan to take a taxi flops the moment you realize your phone has died. It was exactly 7 p.m. when it switched off. Maybe it’s for the better. No one will reach out to you this evening anyway. Though you doubt Cregan would be texting, “Where are you?” His ego wouldn’t let him do that.

People pass you in different directions. You close your eyes, imagining there’s no one but you. But it’s not that easy, not when a familiar voice sends goosebumps across your skin.

“Figured you wouldn’t drop by.”

Aemond’s voice is like a gentle kiss pressed against your cheek.

He’s right beside you, standing as if he’s always been there. Head tilted back, eyes lifted to the sky like he, too, is trying to make sense of the weather. Not a footstep. Not a sound. Just there. Classic demon style.

His outfit is simple— jeans, a black t-shirt. Something like a snake chain glints in the light, half-hidden under the fabric. He could never pass for a casual passerby. Not with that regal posture, quiet confidence, those never-blinking eyes, like he can’t afford to miss a second of life.

“Just like you,” you retort, trying to calm your silly, racing heart, which beats in hectic excitement.

Something in the air shifts, the way it always does when he’s near. Like someone drapes an invisible coat over your shoulders on a chilly day.

A low, velvety hum follows, almost a purr. He turns to face you, and when your eyes meet, it’s like those excruciating weeks of distance wash away.

Your anger simmers down, like sand slipping through fingers. You want to clench your fists to hold onto it, but you can’t. Not when he’s looking at you like that. Like it’s the first time.

His expression is unreadable. At first, almost bored. But then something shifts, a faint warmth seeps into that sapphire cold. Like staring at a blurred face in a crowd, only to recognize, a moment later, that it’s the dearest person in the world.

You’ll never understand how looking at someone can stir so much. Feelings bloom in your chest, drowning out reason, swallowing up words. The script you mentally rehearsed, the beeping of cars, the noise of the street…they all dull around him.

Suddenly, there’s a thought. Words spill out before you mull them over. Before you assess whether they align with your carefully crafted plan.

“Why didn’t you come?” It’s reproachful. Raw. Telling far more about your feelings than you’d like.

There’s not even a flicker of surprise on his face. It makes you wonder if the same question has been haunting him.

“I’m nothing but a name away.”

One day, you’ll reflect on that line — the aching beauty of it, the absolute devotion it implies. Yet today, the simplicity makes you frown. You feel like a child asking a huge, existential question, only to be met with an unoriginal adult response. 

Would you ever understand how it’s possible to want someone so much and still want to run?

His face stays neutral, the enviable calm of someone who’s either figured everything out, or is wise enough to never try.

I want to tell you so much, I don’t know where the first sentence starts and the last one ends.

A crease forms between his brows, faint but visible in the wash of headlights from the street. You might’ve missed it in daylight. A hint that he struggles to understand you just as much as you struggle to understand yourself.

At one point, it feels like someone turned up the heat. Your cheeks grow warm under his gaze. It’s too much. Now you understand why the waiter was so nervous in the café last time.

You haven’t practiced blinking—you want to say aloud, but given the time and circumstances separating you, you opt for a question instead.

“Are you trying to burn a hole in me?” you ask, folding your arms, fully aware of how defensive the posture is.

He tilts his head slightly, and now, somehow, he looks even more curious than before.

“Why would you say that?”

“God, not literally,” you mutter, shifting your weight. The idea of explaining figurative language to a demon is… oddly résumé-worthy. “It’s just… a phrase.”

“That’s a strange one.”

“Not really.” You shrug, pushing away the part of you that’s also wondering why anyone would come up with it. “Feels fitting for moments like this.”

He hums as if deep in thought, but his look carries a trace of disbelief. Does he think you’re mocking him?

Then his lips curl into the ghost of a smile. A loud tell that the menace is coming.

Before you can mentally prepare, he’s already a step ahead. And a step closer. His gaze, as hypnotic as ever, freezes you in place as he towers over you.

“Am I not allowed to admire you?”

Your lips part slightly, stunned by the casual audacity. By the proximity. By the way his eyes shamelessly track your mouth. Your strict no-kissing policy is now hanging by a thread.

His chest lifts with a deep breath, like he’s trying to stay in control, to hold on to the remnants of self-restraint.

First, he ghosts you. Then sends you on literal dry-cleaning errands. Now he’s shamelessly flirting?

Thoughts collide inside you like moths against a lit-up window at night.

“Goodbye, Aemond,” you say, turning sharply. Your sneakers squeak faintly against the wet sidewalk. Each step is an echo of your thundering pulse. You dodge a man in a business coat, slip around a couple tangled in PDA, heart hammering as if you’re outpacing sirens.

Don’t turn around. Don’t turn around. A silent mantra. Doomed to be interrupted.

“Would you like to take a taxi?”

Of course, he’s right behind you. His voice cuts through the traffic noise.

You glance sideways, he’s barely trying. One of his strides for every four of yours. For him, this is a stroll. For you, a sprint.

“I’ll walk,” you mutter. Then correct yourself mentally. Sprint.

“Good choice.”

The way he says it stirs a memory: that same shade of praise in his voice as that night. Of all times for that image to flash: you’re on all fours, panting under him, his eyes devouring you in the mirror. This is peak appropriate.

The pressure against your chest is incredible, as if the flashback knocks all the air out of your lungs. Getting hit by a car doesn’t sound like such a terrible alternative right now. Instead, you nearly miss a step and almost collide with a garbage bin, but his hand catches your wrist, pulling you closer in a smooth, automatic gesture, like he saw it coming all along.

You only cast him a look, as if to say: I’m still angry. But his gaze is fixed on the path ahead.

A new tactic?

Neon sighs. Laughter. Siren.

You mentally name each sound, each sight, just to drown out the noise inside your head. To calm the feelings in your chest.

You pass a kiosk, where the mingling scent of greasy meat and fried onions curls around you. The combination is far from appealing, but your stomach tightens. Right. You skipped dinner.

“You don’t have to walk with me, you know?” You say it without turning. God knows what might be in his eyes.

He stays silent a bit longer than usual, as if your question deserves careful consideration before being answered.

“I thought you’d want to compensate for my absence,” he finally says, slipping behind you and brushing past a woman steering a baby stroller.

A cluster of people waiting at the traffic light clogs the path ahead, funneling you both into a narrow gap, pinned by his presence. He stands close behind you, his taller frame pressing warmth against your upper back. You swear you can feel its steady rise and fall.

You lift your gaze. Yep, he’s that close.

“What’s that even supposed to mean?” Your brow furrows.

“You pointed it out,” he says, leaning closer. You can practically feel his breath against your ear. A familiar scent, forest after rain and cigarettes, engulfs you. Soothing, grounding, even amidst the smog and street food.

“Minutes ago,” he adds, clarifying.

“That was just an observation. Not… an invitation.” You bite the tip of your tongue.

“Mmm.”

You shoot him a sharp look. He clearly interprets it in his own way. If only you could peel that smugness off him and kick its ass.

You resume walking, only to pause at the corner, hesitating.

Were you meant to pass the bakery? No? Then this way is—

“Left,” he says, effortlessly correcting your course, or rather, prying into your thoughts. “Unless you’ve changed apartments.”

You curse under your breath, but Aemond is already heading in the right direction, unbothered, clearly enjoying the walk. At one point, you understand those poor kids who throw toys at their parent’s back.

“The night wandering random neighborhoods, or a walk with me?” he calls back, now walking backward, so elegantly it’s like he’s on a catwalk. The playful smirk decorates his bow lips, his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his dark jeans. Yes, the audience would drool over him. “Your choice.”

You check your phone. The screen stays black when you press the button. Just your reflection stares back—a lost puppy.

“Why do you even bother?” you ask, catching up. Your breath is uneven, of course, he didn’t slow down to wait for you. Half a step separates you, but the pavement narrows, the crowd surges, and you bump into him lightly. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even glance back. Still, you can’t shake the feeling that something else is on his mind, something he’s carefully keeping you shut out of.

“Weren’t you the one who wanted my ass downstairs?” he replies, amusement blooming across his face, easing your suspicions. Of course, he’d been nearby, listening in.

You click your tongue. “I knew you relished my suffering.”

“On that, we disagree,” his voice dips, just like it always does in the most intimate moments. “Your pleasure tastes better on my tongue.”

The double meaning hits like a sucker punch. Your breath catches.

One thing is certain now: you could never play by the rules you’ve set. The “just an errand” clause only works when he’s not around. His presence short-circuits your logic. When a match meets gasoline, fire is inevitable.

“The errand’s earlier than three weeks,” you say, a weak attempt to change the subject. To regain control.

“Is it?”

You glance at him, trying to gauge the sincerity of the question. His face is unreadable. Just a glint in his eyes, unrelenting, like a storm. Could a demon lose track of time?

“Aha,” you mutter, shifting closer as a noisy group of teenagers passes. Your hands brush. And for a moment, his broad palm turns outward in a silent, warm, irresistible invitation.

A gesture? Or a trick of your mind?

You can’t tell what’s real anymore, what’s conjured by your fantasies.

You cross your arms over your chest, pulling back like a scaredy-cat. The cringe flares through you, but not Aemond. He’s poised. Only his fingers twitch slightly, an unconscious attempt to reach for something already gone.

The stairwell smells of stone and old paint, slightly damp. Too narrow for two to walk side by side. His footsteps echo behind you. Gods, you can feel his warmth, draping over your back like delicate lace.

You don’t ask what he wants. You wouldn’t be surprised if he vanished the moment the door clicks open.

But a small part of you hopes he doesn’t.  Maybe, just maybe, he harbors unresolved matters, too.  Maybe now’s the time to confront them.  To dot all the I’s.

Aemond slips past you, a fleeting brush, like a cat too proud to ask for pets. Ironic, you think, as the key clinks against the shelf. This might be the first time he’s truly entered through the door.

He pauses at the threshold of the living room. One shoulder leans into the doorframe, gaze slicing through the dark like it’s searching for something already known. You flick on the hallway lamp. The dim glow spills outward, casting fractured shadows like veins across the walls.

You toe off your shoes slowly, almost hesitantly, as if trying to win some time before the inevitable. Your stomach tightens unpleasantly, your whole body anticipating the conversation. Do you launch into your rehearsed speech? Or hold your ground, demanding answers?

Why is it so cold?

Steam rises from your parted lips. Before the words can leave your mouth, a sound registers from the living room.

Once. Twice.

A scrape. A rustle. Muffled. Something faintly reminiscent of the noise on that line.

You stand beside Aemond, frowning toward the dark. The forest-dark has seeped in through the windows, swallowing everything.

Again, a rustle.

A bird?

You go still. That animal stillness, the kind that comes when your brain is calculating: fight or freeze. Your hand inches closer to Aemond's, seeking protection.

Something’s wrong. You glance at Aemond.. Whatever’s waiting in the dark doesn’t seem to faze him, and probably poses no threat to you.

“Go ahead,” he says, chin tilting toward the switch. His voice is calm. Too calm. Not smug, not mocking, just… off. Almost like the very first night you met.

You hesitate, fingers hovering over the flicker like you’re about to touch a hot stove.

Flick.

You close your eyes. The light is too bright, or maybe this is just one of the ways you try to protect yourself from whatever is in there.

But nothing prepares you for it.

You cover your mouth with a hand, but the gasp escapes anyway.

In the center of the room sits a man, bound to your chair. His head lolls forward, swaying slightly, like a broken pendulum trying to remember how time moves. His eyes, still clouded, scan the room in jittery bursts, as if everything blurs and flows.

Then his gaze snags on yours.

Cregan.

The man you used to love.

You’re the catalyst, the final wake-up call that makes his eyes widen in horror. The plot twist in a nightmare he never imagined you’d be part of.

Chains wrap around his chest, arms, and legs, metal gleaming as he jerks against them in a futile attempt to break free. His protests die in his throat, stifled by the gag; his screams reduced to the muffled bellowing of a wounded animal calling to a pack that’s already left it behind.

There are moments in everyone’s life when the body moves faster than the mind. When instinct overrides thought. When there's no time to read the room, only to act.

“Oh gods, Cregan!”

Adrenaline kicks into your system like a punch. You drop to your knees before him, tugging at the chains. The metallic rustle fills the room, clinking sounds too cheerful, like a parrot that won’t shut up during a funeral.

The knots are savage. The locks, iron-heavy. A collar, thick and tight, clasps around his throat like a leash.

Sweat drenches his skin. His dark hair clings to his forehead in damp strands. His chest heaves with sharp, rasped breaths like he’s just run a marathon. You haven’t seen him in almost six months, and in all that time, he’d always been composed.

The calmness is now washed away.

“Aemond!” you cry. “Help me!”

You yank at a lock, knuckles whitening. A chain jerks taut with a creak, and Cregan groans behind the gag, flinching. One wrist is bleeding beneath the metal, the skin broken. You’re only making it worse.

Sweat, iron, and now blood fill your nose, sharp and acidic. And under it all, a sour rot: fear.

“Shit, hold on,” you whisper, trying to swallow the nausea rising in your throat. “We’ll get you out, okay? We’ll fix it, just—”

You reach out for the gag. Your hand freezes midair. Inches from Cregan’s mouth.

At first, it feels like invisible needles prick your skin. But then... nothing. Your arm goes numb. Paralyzed. You stare at your fingers, willing them to move, but they don’t. It’s as if your brain has forgotten how to perform the simplest command. Nothing comes but a reluctant twitch.

Cregan’s eyes go wide, darting past you over your shoulder, toward Aemond. He shakes his head in tight, panicked jerks, humming a warning you can’t understand. But the desperation is unmistakable, like he’s just realized something you haven’t.

When your arm finally responds, it recoils violently, curling into your chest. Your skin is cold. If you didn’t know better, you might think you’d plunged your limb into a bucket of ice water.

What the hell...?

You rise slowly, turning to face the only explanation possible.

Aemond hasn’t shifted from the doorway, but his posture has changed, no longer relaxed. Arms folded. Muscles drawn taut beneath black fabric. His lips pressed into a flat, unforgiving line, like he’s enduring the scene that revolts him.

“This isn’t funny.” You barely recognize your own voice, your hand still clutched to your chest.

“Why not?” His gaze drifts lazily between you and Cregan. “You and your long-lost love. A touching reunion.” There’s not an undertone of sincerity, more like he’s studying two insects trapped beneath a glass.

Your mind stutters, fails to form questions; every possibility is too grotesque to voice. The world’s logic breaks down. You clench your fists until your nails bite into your skin. If it’s a dream, panic will wake you up. Your skin prickles, but the vision doesn’t break.

“Aemond, did you—”

He tilts his head, a serpentine movement, without a blink. He patiently waits for you to voice the question he already knows, he can hear it ringing in your mind.

“Did you do this?” You ask, nodding toward Cregan.

A muffled cry bursts through the gag. Cregan thrashes in the chair, chains clattering like bones. He answers for Aemond, panic and fury pouring from him in wordless rage.

A nervous laugh bubbles up from your chest as you press your hand against your forehead. Only now do you notice Cregan’s wearing your favorite t-shirt. He clearly thought you’d meet. Sadly, the circumstances are different.

“This is insane,” you mutter, scanning the room, hoping to find confirmation of your suspicion. This can’t be real. Your shoes, your coat, the dresses. The teddy bear lies on its side, its back turned to the chaos, like it can’t bear to watch.

“Unclasp those.” You point at the chains. Aemond is painfully still.

“Now,” you add louder, but the word comes out desperate.

Cregan strains against the bindings, chair legs screeching across the floor. Futile. If he keeps this up, he’ll tip and split his skull open.

“Cregan, don’t.” You reach for his shoulder in a soothing gesture.

And Aemond...

There it is. That smile.

Not wide. Not obvious. You’ve known him too long not to see it. Just a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth, savoring the moment, feeding off the suffering.

It ignites something in you. A rush of anger, impossible to ignore.

Before you can even process it, you’re at his side, grabbing his forearm with every ounce of strength you can muster, tugging him toward you. You can’t stand him standing there, motionless, detached, like a theatre spectator or a twisted statue crafted solely to haunt you in sleep and waking life.

“Why are you doing this?”

He looks down at your hand. Small, thin wrist, too weak to make a difference. Then his eyes lift to yours, and for the first time, you feel it. A look that makes you recoil, a look that speaks louder than words.

Pathetic.

Your hand falls limp by your side, still burning with the warmth of his skin, a mark you can’t rub off.

You trace the familiar facial features that have become so dear to your heart. The twitch of his lips, a movement he might have learned from another human once, or maybe something wholly his own. You’ve come to understand that it means something, some flicker of emotion within him. And now, more than ever, you ache to know what it means.

“Aemond…”

Your voice trembles with every memory, every warm feeling you ever had for him. Does he remember the teddy bear? The pineapple pizza argument? The sleepless nights? This room is filled with fragments of you, and now pieces of your heart are scattered across the floor beneath you as you appeal for his mercy, while he remains silent.

But his face betrays nothing. It’s as though the Aemond you once knew is no longer there but sealed behind walls, leaving only a stranger in his place. Aemond, who could once read your thoughts, can’t even see the pain written in capital letters all over your face.

He straightens, taking a step toward you. His thumb gently nudges your chin, guiding your gaze to his. The touch is soft. Yet it hurts.

“Don’t you know, my little dove?”

Your chest tightens. That name, said in that voice, soft, slightly hoarse. You hadn’t realized how much you missed it until now. You lean into his touch, giving in, instinctively. Foolishly.

Only to be met by the cold, controlled realm of his reign.

“I’m doing it for you.”

For me?

Your lashes flutter. Tears fall, uninvited, like rain from a sky that didn’t mean to cry. They land on his hand. Aemond stares at the droplets, inspecting them like they’re something foreign, something wrong. The touch you leaned into, sought comfort in, recoils. His hand jerks back, and his face shifts, not with compassion, but with something else: unease, or is it aversion? Like your tears burn him.

He doesn’t wipe them away. Instead, he shakes his hand with a quick, dismissive flick. As though your pain is something to be rid of, something filthy.

Aemond brushes past you without so much as a glance, as if you’re no longer worth his attention. His shoulder grazes your hand. The contact is fleeting, yet it stings.

You’ve never been in control. That’s a statement.

Cregan abandons his futile struggle the moment Aemond approaches. Whether it’s fear, or some inhuman force pulsing off Aemond’s very skin, he goes still. Not a twitch. Not a word. Only a sharp, ragged breath betrays that he’s still here.

“I don’t understand,” you whisper, your throat burning, as though you’ve just swallowed glass.

Aemond reaches for the chains. One touch, and the metal groans. The links uncoil, loosening like a serpent unwrapping itself from its prey, just enough to let Cregan draw breath. He leans back, spine pressed hard to the chair, as if trying to retreat into it. He doesn’t know what Aemond is. But he knows it’s not something human.

“We wouldn’t want him to choke, would we?” Aemond could sing a lullaby in that voice.

He begins to pace behind the chair, hands clasped neatly at his back, as if measuring the room from the mirror to the far wall. Each step stretches Cregan’s agony, each step a cruel echo of the final moments before a judge pronounces the sentence. A judge who takes his time, savoring the weight of the punishment.

For mercy shall not be found here.

He halts behind the chair, sudden as a stopped clock. The time has come. His long fingers, once delicately tracing the curve of your waist, the softness of your thighs, now clutch the top rail like a weapon.

His shadow swallows Cregan whole, dark, unnatural. A reminder that whoever stands before you is something other.

You take a deep breath, only to inhale more dread. You search for words, for an explanation, for this madness to end. With every passing second, your headache grows, as if ivy is coiling inside your skull, its thorns piercing deeper.

“That’s who you wanted, isn’t it?”

Aemond’s voice cuts through the haze in your mind, meaningless. His mouth pulls tight at the sight of your blank stare, a flicker of distaste crossing his face as his gaze drops to Cregan, like he can’t quite believe that this trembling figure is the man you could have sold your soul for.

“Before we made the deal, you wanted him.”

“But—” you move forward, just a step, and the world tilts. The floor lurches, or maybe it’s just your mind fracturing. Yes, you wanted Cregan. But why would Aemond do this? Why now?

“You said I had to choose,” you manage, grasping at the fading thread of reason.

Aemond shrugs.

“I’ve changed my mind.”

His answers are simple, quick, businesslike. Let’s get it done. Nothing in his posture or voice suggests he might be bluffing, or telling the truth. Yet if all feels like a meticulously staged performance, like everything around you is designed to make you believe this twisted story is real. Or is it not?

Aemond stands there, perfectly still. An unyielding, unnatural force. A grace that feels too perfect for this world. Someone who stands above all that is mortal, all that is petty and fragile.

How can someone so beautiful be so lethal?

“He’ll be yours. Just say it.”

Demon speaks in a sweet, luring voice that could make one follow him straight into hell.

“Why?” A question, no more than a whisper.

The silence stretches out like a field of scorched flowers.

But your entire body trembles, the delicate fabric of your dress offering no shield against his relentless presence.

Just give me the truth. Please.

You’re not sure if he hears you, but then there’s the faintest glimmer that something softer stirs within him. A spark, warm, familiar. Aemond’s gaze dips for a brief moment, and a subtle spasm tugs at his features, as though your pleas have become crows in his mind—loud, shrill, their croaks mocking: See. See what you have done.

His fingers rise to his temple, brushing it like he might scare them off. In that instant, you feel the crushing weight of your headache ease, as if part of your agony has passed to him. Like a crack in the dam letting the river flow, leaving you momentarily lighter.

But the shadow of softness is fleeting, dissipating before you can grasp it. Like a hangman remembering the gallows. His sapphire eyes darken, as though the sea is being smothered by ice, the depths concealed, sealed beneath a frozen surface.

Ice that would shatter your bones.

Ice that would leave blood in the snow.

No one survives winter like that.

“All those excruciating feelings of yours…” The confession, or rather a verdict, is announced, cold, detached. There’s no hint of sympathy, no trace of remorse. “I’m fed up with them. With you. I don’t want to feel your longing anymore.”

Longing.

That bitter ache that has filled your days, your nights, these endless, hollow weeks. It wasn’t just a feeling. It was like radiation dust, clinging to your insides, poisoning you with every breath. It burned through your lungs, lodged in your bones, dulled every dream, and infected every thought with a hopeless ache. A torture, without him. 

Hell. 

You feel like you’re drowning in it, and all you want is to pull him back into the warmth, share it with him.

But Aemond? He wants nothing of it. He wants you out of his veins.

The next blow lands with brutal finality, before you can even form a word, a protest, a plea. He can’t afford you taking the reins, can’t risk you disrupting the plan he’s so meticulously crafted.

“I figured Cregan should suffice.”

His words come out flat. Matter-of-fact.

Everything clicks into place. Aemond has twisted it all, misinterpreted your longing in the most cruel, distorted way possible. Like in a math equation, he’s taken your numbers out of it, replacing them with his own.

You might be the one who sentenced both of you to this end. But he... he’s the one here to pull the guillotine.

“You… you made him contact me?”

Aemond laughs, but it’s no longer the laugh of a god, or a devil. It’s the laugh of a madman. A wild creature handed matches in a world soaked with gasoline.

You glance at Cregan, a silent plea in your eyes, but his gaze offers nothing, only regret.

“Oh, the bastard wanted it,” Aemond spits, his teeth grinding. Fingers, or something sharper, dig into the chair’s back. The wood creaks beneath his grip. It might be the chair that will break now or Cregan’s neck.

Tears blur your vision again, but this time they sting as they streak down your cheeks. This time, no one is there to catch them.

Cregan’s interest and sincerity you fell for was just a… performance. A trick. Curated by Aemond.

Whether you’d said yes or no, it didn’t matter.

Cregan was always going to end up here. A twisted early birthday present, rewrapped in chains. Not a man with agency. A trick to fill in the blank in Aemond’s story. The story he’s made for you.

Aemond doesn’t see your heartbreak. He chooses not to.

He leans down beside Cregan, as though he could tear his throat apart with his teeth.

“Didn’t you want it, Cregan?”

Cregan has thought about you. The warmth of your body. The softness of your touch. You’ve crossed his mind more than he’ll ever admit.

Whatever Cregan thinks about you no longer matters to you. But it matters to Aemond. It feeds his rage, urging him deeper into his cruelty.

“You can nod.” Aemond, a thoughtful prompter, encourages Cregan to nod frantically, his eyes flicking to you without meeting your gaze.

The pulse hammers in the side of Cregan’s neck, the veins taut with pressure, as if they might burst. If Aemond doesn’t kill him, fear will.

“He just needed a… push.” Aemond wrinkles his nose, as though the thought, or Cregan’s smell, repulses him.

He pulls back again, retreating to your writing table like a beast caged too long. His fingers brush the edge of your work, trailing across the pages, over your hurried handwriting. As if looking for something to anchor him.

What feels like a nightmare to you, to Cregan, isn’t even half the hell Aemond could unleash. This is restraint.

“You’re… disgusting,” you breathe out, but no phrase can match your fury. Your grief. Your despair.

Aemond doesn’t flinch, much to your disdain. His eyes remain on the paper in his hand, scanning the outline of the world you built. The one he wasn’t meant to be part of.

But he is.

With Cregan, the words hardly became sentences. But Aemond…Aemond makes the stories bloom. He’s a long-awaited spring in a land punished by harsh, eternal winter. The thaw that ruins and renews all at once.

“And yet… I was the one who came when no one else listened.” 

He lets the paper fall back onto the table. The flutter is loud, as if the words are breaking down against the wooden surface, their meaning scattered all over the floor.

Cregan glances at you, his expression muddled with confusion. He’s probably started wondering if you’re the reason for this menace. But explaining anything to him is the last thing on your agenda.

“It was a mistake.” The weight of your words is softened by the hurt.

Aemond chuckles, and the room darkens as if in response, shadows listening to their master.

“I’m willing to give him to you on a silver platter. There’ll be no other suggestion,” he coaxes. But there’s something under it, a thin thread of weariness in his gaze.

You look at Cregan. He probably has no clue what’s going on. The meaning of your conversation must be totally lost on him.

And if Aemond untied him, would he even stay of his own free will? Would you want him to stay?

Back then… if you had chosen Cregan over your writing, would this still have ended in ruin? Would it still hurt this much?

You wipe your cheeks, hiding away the remnants of hurt. The gesture is clumsy, trembling. At such points, you disdain being nothing but a human.

“I don’t want it this way.”

Demon or not, he won’t write your story for you.

Something flickers in Aemond’s gaze.

Confusion. Real. Rare. He reads people like maps, but not now.  Or maybe he never did. Maybe his ability to see into a human mind only gave him control, not the understanding of their complexities.

“Alright,” he snaps, his composure fraying at the edges.

He moves toward you, each of his steps stealing the light, his shadow swallowing it whole.

“Then fucking stop this torture,” he growls, his words laced with poison, but deeper, underneath, you feel it. Despair. His earlier words echo in your mind: “The stronger the bond, the more influenced a demon is.” And, as if to prove your suspicion, he adds, “Stop sending this ache through our bond.”

One step, and your back hits the wall. Another step, and there’s no distance between you. He’s close enough for you to see the tremor at his jaw. He’s a fire ready to consume everything in his path.

It shouldn’t matter to him at all what you feel. But if it does…

Your hands press to his chest, not to push him away, but to steady yourself. You rise onto your toes, eyes locking with his, because his eyes have never lied to you.

“Ache or not, why do you care?”

Aemond stiffens, as if you’ve become Medusa and he’s been foolish enough to meet your gaze.

For this question alone, for the implication within it, he could kill you.

His eyes hollow out. Become black wells.

The abyss, staring back.

Hell, burned to ash.

Why do I care?

The question he’s been asking himself ever since your last meeting. To care had never been part of his design. A function he’d never had. Until you came.

At first, it was just a glitch. A symptom, mild and unassuming, which he chose to overlook. Then it turned into a disease. It grew within him, cell by cell, day by day, until it was too late.

He feeds off the emotions of others. That’s the bargain. That’s the way. But your yearning? It poisons him. It robs him of strength and satisfaction, like suddenly all other emotions dull, rot.

He blames you for it all. This weakness, this feeling, couldn’t possibly be his.

You gave it roots. Planted something unnamed inside him, a feeling that made itself at home. And he knows nothing about such things. Every ounce of knowledge he’s gathered from humanity feels useless, because there’s the shocking truth: humans don’t truly understand it either. They give it names: love, affection, devotion, and a million others. But no one truly holds power over it.

He figures out quite soon that to let the feeling live, he’d have to kill his essence so this virus could thrive in his body.

To let the feeling die, he’d have to smother you with his own hands.

But as long as there’s a deal, nothing can tear you both apart. Nothing can tear you out of his system. Not even this outrageous, disgusting ache.

So he goes for a deal that brings him even more disdain. The only way to set himself free. So he shoves Cregan into your arms to shut up the gnawing ache in your chest. Perhaps his own would shut up for good, too.

For he is a demon. Bound. Chained to the human he can’t shake. To you. Your tears are forever imprinted on his hand. Salt etched into skin. And he’ll cherish it.

But worst of all, you’re the human who longs for someone else.

You are the flower that blooms again each morning, greeting him with colour and scent, after he spent the night before uprooting you.

You are his mirror. And what he sees in you… it sickens him. Because when your ache mirrors his own, he can’t think, can’t breathe.

You are his mirror, and he is yours.

The truth, the one you've kept locked away, buried beneath ache and denial, trembles on the tip of your tongue. You could still bury it for good. Let you both be free.

But instead, you choose to do the bravest thing: to admit it.

To yourself first.

And then, finally, to Aemond. Rage and betrayal be damned.

Cregan’s muffled sounds falter into quiet as you speak:

“It’s not him that I long for.”

Aemond flinches, pain flashing across his face like a wound reopened, as if you just dragged a dagger across his eye. Whatever story he’s written in his head, whatever twisted logic he's used to justify this torment, you’ve just shattered it. And still, you see it clearly now: he wants to be wrong.

“Don’t mess with me.” He speaks low and regal, a king giving his final warning before condemning a traitor to death.

“I wish I were.” The bile tastes sour, but you swallow it.

There’s no flicker of belief in his eyes. Just that stubborn, blind confidence. Because that way it would be easier. He’s made his mind, he’s set the course, and now, you’re the compass that refuses to point the way he demands.

“Shall I remind you of the words you spoke before?”

You shake your head. “I remember them… but it’s not that simple.”

He scoffs, bitter in a way you’ve never heard before, and you fear he might disappear, vanish into the air.

“Everything was simple before you.”

You’re a liability. That’s what he means. You bite your lip until it bleeds. If Aemond resembles anything right now, it’s a blade cutting everything that comes close.

But you’ve never been wise when it comes to him.

So you take a step forward.

“You know I’m telling the truth,” you murmur.

“I know that I’m drowning in you,” he hisses, tempest building in his gaze.

He’s thunder.

You’re sunlight.

And somehow, you both exist in the same sky.

“Come here,” you whisper, your hands twitching at your sides, aching to touch him, yet trembling with the fear of being rejected.

He doesn’t move. One breath. Two.

His fists clench at his sides like he’s holding himself back from moving an inch closer. There’s a war inside him, making him waver. The only thing he knows is how to destroy, to tease apart, to peel away. No one’s ever offered him something this fragile, this gentle. No one’s ever offered him something he can’t tear apart. He doesn’t know how to step into forbidden territory, how to be without ruining it all. He craves and fears that craving.

He leans in, just barely, so subtle it might not even look like a shift. But you catch it, leaning toward him, meeting him halfway, slowly, carefully. Like this moment is the most brittle thing you both hold. His tall back curves, folding toward you like a warrior about to surrender to a goddess.

You both hover there, unsure, two beings on the verge of a kiss neither knows how to shape. You tilt your heads, adjusting subtly, afraid to misalign the fragile geometry of closeness.

A kiss, another forbidden territory, aches painfully in your chest.

At last, his forehead presses to yours. A simple gesture. Yet it feels like the right thing in the world.

His skin is warm. Yours is cold. A perfect, soothing contrast.

He needs you to soothe the fire that’s always threatening to burn him to ash.

You need him to finally give you the warmth you’ve been denied.

Aemond can’t go to the rooftop anymore. Not since Alys. It used to be a sanctuary, a place to breathe, to observe the world from a distance. But now it’s lost its magic. Just a trembling structure beneath the wind. Even the cityscape has dulled, no longer impressive.

Now, in this quiet between you, where breath follows breath, the stillness feels sacred, like a beggar stepping into a cathedral and seeing a god he once refused.

The sense of comfort Aemond sought in stone and solitude, he finally finds in you.

His breathing slows, falling into rhythm with yours. A quiet, synchronized dance. He forgets the cigarettes in his pocket. The purpose of the pact slips away. So does the belief that he was never meant to feel.

Even Cregan's presence fades, barely a shadow now.

“We can figure this out… together.” The words are meant just for him, the most courageous and vulnerable confession you’d say to no one else.

“What if it’s a mistake?” He echoes your fear, your own words, softened by his voice. He looks at you like you hold all the answers in the world, and maybe that terrifies him more than anything else.

You hesitate.

Once, you said forever. And then… you buried it.

You can’t offer consolation. Lie, and you both know will know about it.

So you give him the only thing you both can stand on: the truth.

“Some mistakes…” you say, eyes meeting his, they’re your favorite color again. “Some mistakes are worth it.”

And in this sacred space, where neither of you moves, it feels like the world has stopped asking him to be a demon.

Just this once.

Just for you.

“Oh,  I haven’t posted this photo on Facebook…” Her lashes, thick with black mascara, flutter with the realization. “Will you give me a second?”

“Sure,” you answer flatly, stepping back and leaning against the counter. You wonder if saying “no” would make a difference.

Her loud, cheerful “HAH” is followed by the rapid tapping of her thumbs, making you wonder if she’s already replying to comments. She must be retired by now, yet she’s one of those people whose age is difficult to guess. If only you could be that carefree. So many things wouldn’t matter. Your mind wouldn’t spiral. Perhaps your head wouldn’t have turned into a battlefield.

You can feel your phone watching you from across the kitchen table, curious too about what you’re going to reply to Cregan’s message: “I’ll be at our place tonight, at 7 PM. Join me?”

The moment he sent the first text weeks ago, part of you lit up, as if whispering, finally. As if this moment had always been meant to come. You hadn’t planned to talk about your writing progress, but message by message, you eventually opened up about your novel, set to be published at the end of the summer.

When he responded with “Glad your stubbornness persists,” it felt like a happiness injection. Unfortunately, it wasn’t long-lasting. The teddy bear, still sitting on the floor where you’d left him, no longer looked cheerful, like something in his buttoned eyes had dimmed.

“Done!” she announces proudly, as if she might’ve just been cast as Leonardo DiCaprio’s girlfriend. 

“Cool, um—Mrs. Silvi, would you like to see the flat?”

The question stumbles from your mouth, an awkward attempt to bring the conversation back on track. The abrupt transition triggers your inner people-pleaser to press the red panic button: SHE’LL EVICT YOU.

Luckily, she doesn’t seem to notice.

“Oh, sure! Let’s see it!” she chirps, and for a second, you swear, if you hadn’t reminded her, she’d leave without inspecting a thing.

You trail behind her, your slippers making a soft shuffle. If it weren’t for the height difference, you could’ve mistaken yourself for her shadow. Her perfume, sweet and oriental, wafts through the corridor, swallowed eagerly by the faded beige walls. The same scent that haunted the air for weeks after your move-in.

She abruptly pauses at the living room threshold, causing you to almost bump into her.

“Jeez!” she exclaims, her hand dramatically flying to her chest. She couldn’t have spotted the cigarette spots on the windowsill from that far.

“What a lovely thing!”

You come up beside her to follow her gaze, unsure of where this is heading. Relief sweeps through you when she lifts a teddy bear so delicately it might be mistaken for a brittle antique.

You hover at the threshold awkwardly, as if it’s your first time in the flat.

“Where did you get it?” she asks, brushing off some invisible dust from his fur.

But before your lips even part, she resumes, “Oh, I know!”

Her sly smirk makes you furrow. By now, you know better than to try inserting a word into her monologue. It’s pointless. Even if you do speak, she’ll just talk right over you.

“It must be your gentleman.”

Your mouth forms a silent O, which prompts her to giggle. She clearly interprets it a “yes”. Sylvi settles onto the sofa, the plush toy in her arms like a newborn. When she nods to the side, you have no choice but to sink down beside her.

“How I miss those times when I was younger,” she says, her voice laced with longing, her confession aimed at Ewan. “I mean, I am still young, but back then... I had a whole parade of gallants fighting over my heart.”

Weirdly or not, you have no doubt about that.

“They would’ve done anything for me. Bombarded me with presents, flowers, skipped classes just to walk me home after the conservatory. But I was always waiting. Waiting for the one. You know?” She pauses, and the conversation seems to have taken a turn you weren’t ready for. “The right one.”

Her gaze lands on you, expectant. You nod, perhaps too quickly, a gesture meant to mask the unsettling twist in your chest. The idea of the right one feels foreign. You thought you knew it back then, with Cregan. But now… things are messier than ever.

Gazing down at the teddy bear only fuels the guilt further.

If you agree to meet Cregan tonight, you’ll end up betraying… Aemond.

“Of course you know!” she continues, misreading your silence, her large, round Cleopatra-style earrings jingling as she nods her head. Her gaze flicks down to Ewan, then back to you. “You’re the writer,” she adds, her hand gently covering yours, pulling you back to the present. Her skin is slightly wrinkled but warm and soft. “These things must come naturally to you.”

You force a smile, clearly not planning to share your concerns about your ex and the demon.

Her eyes narrow, just a flicker. It’s a look of knowing, of recognition, as if something gave you away. It prompts her to open up further.

“My husband—” You brace yourself, anticipating a long story about him.

“—passed away two years ago.” Her hand twitches, then withdraws, as if through the touch she could reveal more than she’s willing to.

You blink, caught off guard by the revelation. “Oh God, I’m so sorry.”

“I married him… God knows why, to be honest.” She shakes her head, a weak smile tugging at her lips. Her gaze drifts, not quite seeing the teddy anymore, but something else, someone else.

“He didn’t meet half the criteria for the man I thought I was waiting for. And yet… he was the most real thing that ever happened to me. Drove me terribly mad.” The way she stresses the word is supposed to showcase her anger, but it seems like the only reason for the emotion is his absence.

“Why?”

The most intentional question you’ve asked her. A small part of you, perhaps a naïve one, wonders if this conversation might help you make up your mind. But the answer, as always, isn’t what you expect.

She smiles, but not at you.

Her gaze is hazy, clouded with memory.

“Because he’s always been on my mind.”

She silently passes the teddy to you, and your breath hitches, just like the day Aemond first placed it in your hands. Suddenly, you understand what the button eyes have been trying to tell you.

What started as a “flat inspection” has drifted so far from its original purpose that the word almost feels absurd. After a few more moments of chatting about exes and travels, she declares that she’s seen enough and announces that she’s late for a visit with an old friend.

“I’m so late!” Sylvi says, slipping on her heels. You can’t help but admire her energy. Her babbling personality manages to soothe your ache.

“Oh—almost forgot! I brought you a present!”

“For me?” you echo, watching her dig through her giant tote bag with such enthusiasm that you wouldn’t be surprised if she pulled out a puppy.

“Ta-dam!” She holds out a small green frog statue. It’s heavy in your hands, oddly so for something so small. The frog’s mouth is parted in a smile, and its body is speckled with a few white dots, like someone added a final touch just before placing it on the shelf.

Before your brain can dive into the connection, she explains, “It’s from a sacred place I visited! Said to bring good luck and scare evil spirits away,” she adds, leaning forward with a wink.

After she leaves, you place the frog on the windowsill. Its small, cheerful figure looks serene, fitting into the interior effortlessly. In the mirror, you catch your gaze and the conspicuous questions. A blessing or a warning?

The light purple dress hugs your curves perfectly. The silk showcases you with the kind of grace that makes you pause, stunned by your own reflection.

Sunset light spills across the room, gilding everything in soft amber. Funny, this small, unremarkable apartment that once felt like a stopgap now glows with the warmth of something earned. Something lived in. It’s still small, yes. But now, it feels like you. Like home.

You spin, just like you used to as a child, your hem fluttering in the golden light. Back then, moments like this made you believe you were a princess, and your story could only end one way: happily ever after.

Life had… other plans. For every problem resolved, another one waits in the wings, and not every battle ends with you victorious.

You’ve made up your mind. It’s time to win the battle with Cregan. No meeting. That book is closed and put aside into the depths of your mental library. The bitter truth has finally come into focus: even if you got back together, things wouldn’t be the same.

You don’t owe him a message, or an explanation. Not even a line. He’ll figure it out.

And nothing, nothing, can stop you from going out for a light stroll in this beautiful dress, grabbing takeout from anywhere but that café he called “our place.” It was always his favorite, never really yours.

The inner sense of triumph settles into your chest, and for the first time, in what seems forever, it feels like you’re doing things right.

Suddenly, a sound. The phone is ringing. You glance at the screen.

Unknown number.

The vibration ripples through your hand, intensifying the anxiety within you. Your mind is like a beehive, each thought a stinging bee ready to attack no one but you. Could it be Cregan? A new number, a new tactic to reel you in?

You pick it up. You don’t speak right away. Neither do they. The silence on the other end is eerily still. You hear them breathing, waiting for you to make the first step, or rather, say the first word.

“…Hello?” Your voice is low, hoarse with hesitation.

No answer. Instead, something rustles. A faint sound like fabric brushing too close to a microphone. Your own “hello” comes back to you, faintly distorted, half a second later.

Your thumb hovers over “end call,” every instinct screaming to press it. You see the duration of the call, seconds ticking by, and with them, the silence. This isn’t Cregan. It’s not even close. And yet… something about the way the line hums, the strange rasp of their breath, pulls you in. You feel like your ears are pressed against the very mouth of something living, and if you’re patient enough, it’ll pour its secrets into your ear.

Then—

“Finally.” The voice bursts through the line so abruptly you jolt, your fingers fumbling as the phone nearly crashes to the floor. “I feared you’d never pick up!”

The reproachful tone in the feminine voice gives you a flashback to your lousy boss from a year ago.

“We close in 35 minutes. This is your last chance to pick it up.”

You blink. Pick up what?

“Hello? Miss, are you there?”

“Yes. Um—who is this?”

“LOTUS.”

“Who?”

“Dry cleaning service.” Her exhale is sharp. She’s clearly someone counting down the minutes before she can leave. “You’d better hurry.”

“It must be some sort of mistake…”

“Are you Miss Y/N?”

“…Yes.”

“Then no mistake. The item’s paid for. Urgent cleaning. Ready today.”

“I—I never gave anything in.” 

“We’ll be closed all weekend,” she stretches out her words, creating an image of a teenage girl, bored to death with her part-time shift. “You’d better hurry.”

“Check the number again,” you say, sharper than intended.

That’s definitely a prank, you think, ready to pull the phone away and switch it off. Then it comes again. A low, thin buzzing sound, not quite static. Like another line clicking in. Another listener. Your pulse quickens.

“It’s your errand,” a different voice rasps, a mechanical one, as though the words are being pulled through a walkie-talkie.

Your heart skips a beat. “What did you say?”

Breathing again. Not just heard. Felt warm against your skin. Like the line between the call and your room has blurred.

The static cuts off.

“It’s your errand.” The reply is firmer, and definitely human this time. “Are we clear now?”

The silence is shorter this time. Like a self-preservation instinct tells you to act on your best behavior.

“…Yes.”

You only have time to use the bathroom before you’re slipping into your Converse. Great. You look like a prom queen who ran away the last second. Your hands are shaking as you reach for your keys, they fall on the floor with a clatter, as if yelling, “hurry up!”

17:43. Thirteen minutes left. You’ve never been to this place. It’s impossible. “Shit.”

To your surprise, the GPS says it’s a 10-minute walk, which doubles your odds. But apparently, navigating a map while shaking with nerves isn’t your forte. Right in the middle of a pedestrian crossing, you realize you’re headed in the wrong direction and spin around.

Brake screeches. A car stops inches from you, close enough to see the Mercedes emblem.

“ARE YOU FUCKING DUMB?”

“Sorry!” You jog back, dragging your embarrassment with you.

The navigation arrow keeps switching directions like it’s toying with you. But then you see it—the sign: LOTUS. A simple black sign in white letters, tucked between a pharmacy and a pet store.

You rush inside, like a robber who decides to commit the crime at the last minute.

The manager shakes his head at you, his gaze revealing doubts about whether you can be trusted with whatever you're supposed to pick up.

Eventually, he hands you the suit. You assume it’s the one, judging by the black garment bag. You have no idea how to carry it. It’s heavier than expected, and definitely meant for someone much taller. You try lifting your arm to keep the garment bag from dragging on the pavement, but its weight pulls you down as your muscles quickly burn. You wonder if carrying a dead body would be easier.

The address attached to the suit cover tells you nothing. But AEMOND TARGARYEN, in capital letters, does.

Cars rush past, horns blaring at slow pedestrians and mindless drivers. Yet, amidst the noise, one thought rises louder than everything else: There’s no way three weeks have passed since the previous errand. What the hell is going on?

The taxi crawls through the gridlocked street so slowly, you start thinking you’d have made it faster on foot. The road is a graveyard of idling engines and quarreling drivers, each urging the others to move faster, stuck in a city that refuses to move.

The suit lies next to you, sagging and folded in a way that would probably make the dry cleaner flinch. You’ve violated the “carry upright” instruction in every imaginable way. He’ll know. Of course, he will. Do demons know how to iron?

The label taunts you. Not just the address, but the name.

Aemond Targaryen.

Isn’t that what Alys called him back then? Before you fell into the fog of nothingness. You were pretty sure it was his powers pulling you away from the conversation.

Something about this situation doesn’t feel right. All your feelings, thoughts, doubts, and concerns related to Aemond, the idea of what you could tell him, the desire to talk, it feels like it’s not going to be met halfway.

Vhagar. And now… you glance down at the garment bag again.

If he wanted an explanation or to talk, he would’ve already dropped by. No, what he’s after doesn’t seem like reconciliation, but rather what you asked for. Errands. Nothing more than that. To satisfy his pet, and now to fetch dry cleaning.

The sky is overcast when the taxi finally pulls up to the curb. A skyscraper looms in front of you. The glass-faced building already has a few lit-up windows, its rooftop disappearing into the clouds above. You squint upward, trying to count the windows. Impossible in such weather.

People come and go through the revolving doors, engrossed in their usual routine. But you hover on the pavement, feet nailed to the ground. That light, confident feeling blooming in your chest from earlier, the pride, the closure, has withered.

The mind-blowing sex might have been enough to blur your judgment, making you cultivate a false hope. But it was silly to assume it’d be the same for a demon. All your well-thought-out explanations to reconcile with him now disperse into the air. You need those. Aemond doesn't.

You shove yourself into the revolving door before you let yourself change your mind. It spins, and your heart races with it. You emerge into the lobby, blinking as though you’ve stepped through a portal. Another world.

The marble floor shimmers beneath your feet, reflecting the gilded glow from above, making it feel like you’re walking on water. Chandeliers are shaped like twisted vines; some coil into ouroboros loops—symbols of endless cycles. Even the air here seems burnished, gold-laced, as if you’ve wandered into a sacred place where nothing imperfect can survive.

You glance toward the guards as you cross the threshold, adjusting your grip on the suit. At this point, you’re not even sure you could come up with an adequate explanation of why you’re here. They're statues dressed up like men, carved in black and gray and glued to the entryway. Sphinx-like. You’re not sure they even breathe.

Each step toward the reception desk feels heavier than the last. The floor mirrors your hesitation, every reserved Converse-clad footfall echoing into a soft thud against the marble. Are they real? You wonder, scanning the rows of tall orange-hued trees by the main path, each one in a massive pot that likely cost more than your rent.

You don’t notice the moment you straighten the suit in your arms again, careful to hold it upright. The setting itself urges you to be perfect, like everything else in here. The ache in your bicep spreads, a quiet throb, but your face is composed like never before.

Congratulations. You wanted an errand. You got it.

“Um, hello…” you murmur as you near the desk, your words small against the vastness around you. The rich pink peonies glance your way, polite, graceful, as if they’re here to greet you most exquisitely.

The receptionist doesn’t move. Her gaze is fused to the screen, her fingers dancing in perfect tempo. For a moment, you’re unsure if you spoke at all.

“Elevators are to your left, miss,” she replies without looking up. Her French-tipped nails tap in a rhythm so precise you wonder if she once played piano. 

You glance toward the elevator. The number above it glows 1. Waiting. Inviting. Something about this place pulls at you, soft and glittering. Like a mermaid song. Sailors know better than to follow it.

“I—I don’t need the elevator.”

You drag your gaze back to her, shifting the suit to your other hand. Not the numb one. The fabric sticks to your palm. You're ready to curse the universe for this day. Because, of course, when your ex shows up and arranges the meeting, nothing goes well.

She finally looks up. Her hazel eyes skim your face, calculating, as if reading your entire history in one breath. Then her gaze softens. Sympathy, maybe. Though you utterly hope you don’t look half as bad as you feel. Her features are so symmetrical that it unsettles you.

“How can I help you then?”

“This is for apartment… 1099.” You squint at the label, though you repeated the number a dozen times in the taxi. You could probably say it if someone shook you awake in the middle of the night.

She types swiftly, clearly has been in this job a while, then says, “Aemond Targaryen.” It’s not a question, yet you nod cautiously.

Hearing his name aloud rattles something loose in your chest. You feel it behind you, a flicker of shadow just past your shoulder, but when you glance, there’s nothing. Only marble.

The building is too quiet. There should be so many residents, and yet it’s only you. You swallow, trying to keep your worries at bay.

“Do I leave it here?” you ask, trying not to sound rushed.

Her eyes narrow with a hint of suspicion. “Why not go up and give it to the owner?”

The question takes you aback, like you’re a cat caught up on the owner’s dining table. A soft ding sounds from the elevator, as if it, too, thinks it’s time.

“I—I can’t.”

She raises a brow, her nails tapping lightly against the table. A musician, for sure.

“Aren’t you the delivery?”

“No, I’m not,” you reply, biting your inner cheek. Once, you thought making a pact with a demon meant freedom from suffering. Turns out it’s just double hell.

“Well,” she shrugs, slipping seamlessly back into her customer-service smile, “there’s no note from Mr. Targaryen authorizing any delivery.”

“And?” you ask, gaping at her blankly.

The air thickens around you, faintly perfumed, like someone must’ve lit a candle somewhere nearby.

Her gaze locks onto yours, like this is some kind of contest, a challenge. Let’s see who blinks first. Before the silence turns any more awkward, she speaks. “I’m not allowed to accept it.”

There’s no mockery or cruelty in her tone. If anything, she sounds like someone who’s memorized protocol down to the footnotes. But it doesn’t help.

You feel yourself fraying. The pressure in your arm finally wins. The suit dips, grazing the pristine floor.

Your eyes snag on the neat little nametag pinned to her crisp blouse.

Floris.

“Excuse me—um—Floris, but I can’t and I won’t go to his apartment.”

You see her lips part in an attempt to object, but you act first, placing the suit firmly on the reception desk. Floris’ eyes widen, as if you’ve disrupted a sacred cathedral. You narrowly miss a slim porcelain vase, pale and trembling like it resents the disturbance, too.

“Miss, you can’t leave it here!” Floris snaps, halfway out of her chair now. To your strange relief, she looks human after all. She’s certainly not someone who chases rule-breakers. Still… if it came down to it, sneakers beat heels.

“Too bad,” you mutter, already turning away. You cradle your aching elbow like it’s a wound from the battle you’ve just won. “Guess Mr. Targaryen will have to bring his ass downstairs himself.”

You don’t wait to hear her outburst. The Sphinxes guarding the door stay still.

Good.

You can feel the tiny raindrops in the air, not quite a rain, more like a damp breath on your skin that carries the notes of relief. The droplets gather on your hair strands too, as if the weather is trying to calm the rage within you.

You take deep inhales and exhales, trying to return to your senses. The building is right behind you, but it doesn’t hold such power over you anymore.

The plan to take a taxi flops the moment you realize your phone has died. It was exactly 7 p.m. when it switched off. Maybe it’s for the better. No one will reach out to you this evening anyway. Though you doubt Cregan would be texting, “Where are you?” His ego wouldn’t let him do that.

People pass you in different directions. You close your eyes, imagining there’s no one but you. But it’s not that easy, not when a familiar voice sends goosebumps across your skin.

“Figured you wouldn’t drop by.”

Aemond’s voice is like a gentle kiss pressed against your cheek.

He’s right beside you, standing as if he’s always been there. Head tilted back, eyes lifted to the sky like he, too, is trying to make sense of the weather. Not a footstep. Not a sound. Just there. Classic demon style.

His outfit is simple— jeans, a black t-shirt. Something like a snake chain glints in the light, half-hidden under the fabric. He could never pass for a casual passerby. Not with that regal posture, quiet confidence, those never-blinking eyes, like he can’t afford to miss a second of life.

“Just like you,” you retort, trying to calm your silly, racing heart, which beats in hectic excitement.

Something in the air shifts, the way it always does when he’s near. Like someone drapes an invisible coat over your shoulders on a chilly day.

A low, velvety hum follows, almost a purr. He turns to face you, and when your eyes meet, it’s like those excruciating weeks of distance wash away.

Your anger simmers down, like sand slipping through fingers. You want to clench your fists to hold onto it, but you can’t. Not when he’s looking at you like that. Like it’s the first time.

His expression is unreadable. At first, almost bored. But then something shifts, a faint warmth seeps into that sapphire cold. Like staring at a blurred face in a crowd, only to recognize, a moment later, that it’s the dearest person in the world.

You’ll never understand how looking at someone can stir so much. Feelings bloom in your chest, drowning out reason, swallowing up words. The script you mentally rehearsed, the beeping of cars, the noise of the street…they all dull around him.

Suddenly, there’s a thought. Words spill out before you mull them over. Before you assess whether they align with your carefully crafted plan.

“Why didn’t you come?” It’s reproachful. Raw. Telling far more about your feelings than you’d like.

There’s not even a flicker of surprise on his face. It makes you wonder if the same question has been haunting him.

“I’m nothing but a name away.”

One day, you’ll reflect on that line — the aching beauty of it, the absolute devotion it implies. Yet today, the simplicity makes you frown. You feel like a child asking a huge, existential question, only to be met with an unoriginal adult response. 

Would you ever understand how it’s possible to want someone so much and still want to run?

His face stays neutral, the enviable calm of someone who’s either figured everything out, or is wise enough to never try.

I want to tell you so much, I don’t know where the first sentence starts and the last one ends.

A crease forms between his brows, faint but visible in the wash of headlights from the street. You might’ve missed it in daylight. A hint that he struggles to understand you just as much as you struggle to understand yourself.

At one point, it feels like someone turned up the heat. Your cheeks grow warm under his gaze. It’s too much. Now you understand why the waiter was so nervous in the café last time.

You haven’t practiced blinking—you want to say aloud, but given the time and circumstances separating you, you opt for a question instead.

“Are you trying to burn a hole in me?” you ask, folding your arms, fully aware of how defensive the posture is.

He tilts his head slightly, and now, somehow, he looks even more curious than before.

“Why would you say that?”

“God, not literally,” you mutter, shifting your weight. The idea of explaining figurative language to a demon is… oddly résumé-worthy. “It’s just… a phrase.”

“That’s a strange one.”

“Not really.” You shrug, pushing away the part of you that’s also wondering why anyone would come up with it. “Feels fitting for moments like this.”

He hums as if deep in thought, but his look carries a trace of disbelief. Does he think you’re mocking him?

Then his lips curl into the ghost of a smile. A loud tell that the menace is coming.

Before you can mentally prepare, he’s already a step ahead. And a step closer. His gaze, as hypnotic as ever, freezes you in place as he towers over you.

“Am I not allowed to admire you?”

Your lips part slightly, stunned by the casual audacity. By the proximity. By the way his eyes shamelessly track your mouth. Your strict no-kissing policy is now hanging by a thread.

His chest lifts with a deep breath, like he’s trying to stay in control, to hold on to the remnants of self-restraint.

First, he ghosts you. Then sends you on literal dry-cleaning errands. Now he’s shamelessly flirting?

Thoughts collide inside you like moths against a lit-up window at night.

“Goodbye, Aemond,” you say, turning sharply. Your sneakers squeak faintly against the wet sidewalk. Each step is an echo of your thundering pulse. You dodge a man in a business coat, slip around a couple tangled in PDA, heart hammering as if you’re outpacing sirens.

Don’t turn around. Don’t turn around. A silent mantra. Doomed to be interrupted.

“Would you like to take a taxi?”

Of course, he’s right behind you. His voice cuts through the traffic noise.

You glance sideways, he’s barely trying. One of his strides for every four of yours. For him, this is a stroll. For you, a sprint.

“I’ll walk,” you mutter. Then correct yourself mentally. Sprint.

“Good choice.”

The way he says it stirs a memory: that same shade of praise in his voice as that night. Of all times for that image to flash: you’re on all fours, panting under him, his eyes devouring you in the mirror. This is peak appropriate.

The pressure against your chest is incredible, as if the flashback knocks all the air out of your lungs. Getting hit by a car doesn’t sound like such a terrible alternative right now. Instead, you nearly miss a step and almost collide with a garbage bin, but his hand catches your wrist, pulling you closer in a smooth, automatic gesture, like he saw it coming all along.

You only cast him a look, as if to say: I’m still angry. But his gaze is fixed on the path ahead.

A new tactic?

Neon sighs. Laughter. Siren.

You mentally name each sound, each sight, just to drown out the noise inside your head. To calm the feelings in your chest.

You pass a kiosk, where the mingling scent of greasy meat and fried onions curls around you. The combination is far from appealing, but your stomach tightens. Right. You skipped dinner.

“You don’t have to walk with me, you know?” You say it without turning. God knows what might be in his eyes.

He stays silent a bit longer than usual, as if your question deserves careful consideration before being answered.

“I thought you’d want to compensate for my absence,” he finally says, slipping behind you and brushing past a woman steering a baby stroller.

A cluster of people waiting at the traffic light clogs the path ahead, funneling you both into a narrow gap, pinned by his presence. He stands close behind you, his taller frame pressing warmth against your upper back. You swear you can feel its steady rise and fall.

You lift your gaze. Yep, he’s that close.

“What’s that even supposed to mean?” Your brow furrows.

“You pointed it out,” he says, leaning closer. You can practically feel his breath against your ear. A familiar scent, forest after rain and cigarettes, engulfs you. Soothing, grounding, even amidst the smog and street food.

“Minutes ago,” he adds, clarifying.

“That was just an observation. Not… an invitation.” You bite the tip of your tongue.

“Mmm.”

You shoot him a sharp look. He clearly interprets it in his own way. If only you could peel that smugness off him and kick its ass.

You resume walking, only to pause at the corner, hesitating.

Were you meant to pass the bakery? No? Then this way is—

“Left,” he says, effortlessly correcting your course, or rather, prying into your thoughts. “Unless you’ve changed apartments.”

You curse under your breath, but Aemond is already heading in the right direction, unbothered, clearly enjoying the walk. At one point, you understand those poor kids who throw toys at their parent’s back.

“The night wandering random neighborhoods, or a walk with me?” he calls back, now walking backward, so elegantly it’s like he’s on a catwalk. The playful smirk decorates his bow lips, his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his dark jeans. Yes, the audience would drool over him. “Your choice.”

You check your phone. The screen stays black when you press the button. Just your reflection stares back—a lost puppy.

“Why do you even bother?” you ask, catching up. Your breath is uneven, of course, he didn’t slow down to wait for you. Half a step separates you, but the pavement narrows, the crowd surges, and you bump into him lightly. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even glance back. Still, you can’t shake the feeling that something else is on his mind, something he’s carefully keeping you shut out of.

“Weren’t you the one who wanted my ass downstairs?” he replies, amusement blooming across his face, easing your suspicions. Of course, he’d been nearby, listening in.

You click your tongue. “I knew you relished my suffering.”

“On that, we disagree,” his voice dips, just like it always does in the most intimate moments. “Your pleasure tastes better on my tongue.”

The double meaning hits like a sucker punch. Your breath catches.

One thing is certain now: you could never play by the rules you’ve set. The “just an errand” clause only works when he’s not around. His presence short-circuits your logic. When a match meets gasoline, fire is inevitable.

“The errand’s earlier than three weeks,” you say, a weak attempt to change the subject. To regain control.

“Is it?”

You glance at him, trying to gauge the sincerity of the question. His face is unreadable. Just a glint in his eyes, unrelenting, like a storm. Could a demon lose track of time?

“Aha,” you mutter, shifting closer as a noisy group of teenagers passes. Your hands brush. And for a moment, his broad palm turns outward in a silent, warm, irresistible invitation.

A gesture? Or a trick of your mind?

You can’t tell what’s real anymore, what’s conjured by your fantasies.

You cross your arms over your chest, pulling back like a scaredy-cat. The cringe flares through you, but not Aemond. He’s poised. Only his fingers twitch slightly, an unconscious attempt to reach for something already gone.

The stairwell smells of stone and old paint, slightly damp. Too narrow for two to walk side by side. His footsteps echo behind you. Gods, you can feel his warmth, draping over your back like delicate lace.

You don’t ask what he wants. You wouldn’t be surprised if he vanished the moment the door clicks open.

But a small part of you hopes he doesn’t.  Maybe, just maybe, he harbors unresolved matters, too.  Maybe now’s the time to confront them.  To dot all the I’s.

Aemond slips past you, a fleeting brush, like a cat too proud to ask for pets. Ironic, you think, as the key clinks against the shelf. This might be the first time he’s truly entered through the door.

He pauses at the threshold of the living room. One shoulder leans into the doorframe, gaze slicing through the dark like it’s searching for something already known. You flick on the hallway lamp. The dim glow spills outward, casting fractured shadows like veins across the walls.

You toe off your shoes slowly, almost hesitantly, as if trying to win some time before the inevitable. Your stomach tightens unpleasantly, your whole body anticipating the conversation. Do you launch into your rehearsed speech? Or hold your ground, demanding answers?

Why is it so cold?

Steam rises from your parted lips. Before the words can leave your mouth, a sound registers from the living room.

Once. Twice.

A scrape. A rustle. Muffled. Something faintly reminiscent of the noise on that line.

You stand beside Aemond, frowning toward the dark. The forest-dark has seeped in through the windows, swallowing everything.

Again, a rustle.

A bird?

You go still. That animal stillness, the kind that comes when your brain is calculating: fight or freeze. Your hand inches closer to Aemond's, seeking protection.

Something’s wrong. You glance at Aemond.. Whatever’s waiting in the dark doesn’t seem to faze him, and probably poses no threat to you.

“Go ahead,” he says, chin tilting toward the switch. His voice is calm. Too calm. Not smug, not mocking, just… off. Almost like the very first night you met.

You hesitate, fingers hovering over the flicker like you’re about to touch a hot stove.

Flick.

You close your eyes. The light is too bright, or maybe this is just one of the ways you try to protect yourself from whatever is in there.

But nothing prepares you for it.

You cover your mouth with a hand, but the gasp escapes anyway.

In the center of the room sits a man, bound to your chair. His head lolls forward, swaying slightly, like a broken pendulum trying to remember how time moves. His eyes, still clouded, scan the room in jittery bursts, as if everything blurs and flows.

Then his gaze snags on yours.

Cregan.

The man you used to love.

You’re the catalyst, the final wake-up call that makes his eyes widen in horror. The plot twist in a nightmare he never imagined you’d be part of.

Chains wrap around his chest, arms, and legs, metal gleaming as he jerks against them in a futile attempt to break free. His protests die in his throat, stifled by the gag; his screams reduced to the muffled bellowing of a wounded animal calling to a pack that’s already left it behind.

There are moments in everyone’s life when the body moves faster than the mind. When instinct overrides thought. When there's no time to read the room, only to act.

“Oh gods, Cregan!”

Adrenaline kicks into your system like a punch. You drop to your knees before him, tugging at the chains. The metallic rustle fills the room, clinking sounds too cheerful, like a parrot that won’t shut up during a funeral.

The knots are savage. The locks, iron-heavy. A collar, thick and tight, clasps around his throat like a leash.

Sweat drenches his skin. His dark hair clings to his forehead in damp strands. His chest heaves with sharp, rasped breaths like he’s just run a marathon. You haven’t seen him in almost six months, and in all that time, he’d always been composed.

The calmness is now washed away.

“Aemond!” you cry. “Help me!”

You yank at a lock, knuckles whitening. A chain jerks taut with a creak, and Cregan groans behind the gag, flinching. One wrist is bleeding beneath the metal, the skin broken. You’re only making it worse.

Sweat, iron, and now blood fill your nose, sharp and acidic. And under it all, a sour rot: fear.

“Shit, hold on,” you whisper, trying to swallow the nausea rising in your throat. “We’ll get you out, okay? We’ll fix it, just—”

You reach out for the gag. Your hand freezes midair. Inches from Cregan’s mouth.

At first, it feels like invisible needles prick your skin. But then... nothing. Your arm goes numb. Paralyzed. You stare at your fingers, willing them to move, but they don’t. It’s as if your brain has forgotten how to perform the simplest command. Nothing comes but a reluctant twitch.

Cregan’s eyes go wide, darting past you over your shoulder, toward Aemond. He shakes his head in tight, panicked jerks, humming a warning you can’t understand. But the desperation is unmistakable, like he’s just realized something you haven’t.

When your arm finally responds, it recoils violently, curling into your chest. Your skin is cold. If you didn’t know better, you might think you’d plunged your limb into a bucket of ice water.

What the hell...?

You rise slowly, turning to face the only explanation possible.

Aemond hasn’t shifted from the doorway, but his posture has changed, no longer relaxed. Arms folded. Muscles drawn taut beneath black fabric. His lips pressed into a flat, unforgiving line, like he’s enduring the scene that revolts him.

“This isn’t funny.” You barely recognize your own voice, your hand still clutched to your chest.

“Why not?” His gaze drifts lazily between you and Cregan. “You and your long-lost love. A touching reunion.” There’s not an undertone of sincerity, more like he’s studying two insects trapped beneath a glass.

Your mind stutters, fails to form questions; every possibility is too grotesque to voice. The world’s logic breaks down. You clench your fists until your nails bite into your skin. If it’s a dream, panic will wake you up. Your skin prickles, but the vision doesn’t break.

“Aemond, did you—”

He tilts his head, a serpentine movement, without a blink. He patiently waits for you to voice the question he already knows, he can hear it ringing in your mind.

“Did you do this?” You ask, nodding toward Cregan.

A muffled cry bursts through the gag. Cregan thrashes in the chair, chains clattering like bones. He answers for Aemond, panic and fury pouring from him in wordless rage.

A nervous laugh bubbles up from your chest as you press your hand against your forehead. Only now do you notice Cregan’s wearing your favorite t-shirt. He clearly thought you’d meet. Sadly, the circumstances are different.

“This is insane,” you mutter, scanning the room, hoping to find confirmation of your suspicion. This can’t be real. Your shoes, your coat, the dresses. The teddy bear lies on its side, its back turned to the chaos, like it can’t bear to watch.

“Unclasp those.” You point at the chains. Aemond is painfully still.

“Now,” you add louder, but the word comes out desperate.

Cregan strains against the bindings, chair legs screeching across the floor. Futile. If he keeps this up, he’ll tip and split his skull open.

“Cregan, don’t.” You reach for his shoulder in a soothing gesture.

And Aemond...

There it is. That smile.

Not wide. Not obvious. You’ve known him too long not to see it. Just a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth, savoring the moment, feeding off the suffering.

It ignites something in you. A rush of anger, impossible to ignore.

Before you can even process it, you’re at his side, grabbing his forearm with every ounce of strength you can muster, tugging him toward you. You can’t stand him standing there, motionless, detached, like a theatre spectator or a twisted statue crafted solely to haunt you in sleep and waking life.

“Why are you doing this?”

He looks down at your hand. Small, thin wrist, too weak to make a difference. Then his eyes lift to yours, and for the first time, you feel it. A look that makes you recoil, a look that speaks louder than words.

Pathetic.

Your hand falls limp by your side, still burning with the warmth of his skin, a mark you can’t rub off.

You trace the familiar facial features that have become so dear to your heart. The twitch of his lips, a movement he might have learned from another human once, or maybe something wholly his own. You’ve come to understand that it means something, some flicker of emotion within him. And now, more than ever, you ache to know what it means.

“Aemond…”

Your voice trembles with every memory, every warm feeling you ever had for him. Does he remember the teddy bear? The pineapple pizza argument? The sleepless nights? This room is filled with fragments of you, and now pieces of your heart are scattered across the floor beneath you as you appeal for his mercy, while he remains silent.

But his face betrays nothing. It’s as though the Aemond you once knew is no longer there but sealed behind walls, leaving only a stranger in his place. Aemond, who could once read your thoughts, can’t even see the pain written in capital letters all over your face.

He straightens, taking a step toward you. His thumb gently nudges your chin, guiding your gaze to his. The touch is soft. Yet it hurts.

“Don’t you know, my little dove?”

Your chest tightens. That name, said in that voice, soft, slightly hoarse. You hadn’t realized how much you missed it until now. You lean into his touch, giving in, instinctively. Foolishly.

Only to be met by the cold, controlled realm of his reign.

“I’m doing it for you.”

For me?

Your lashes flutter. Tears fall, uninvited, like rain from a sky that didn’t mean to cry. They land on his hand. Aemond stares at the droplets, inspecting them like they’re something foreign, something wrong. The touch you leaned into, sought comfort in, recoils. His hand jerks back, and his face shifts, not with compassion, but with something else: unease, or is it aversion? Like your tears burn him.

He doesn’t wipe them away. Instead, he shakes his hand with a quick, dismissive flick. As though your pain is something to be rid of, something filthy.

Aemond brushes past you without so much as a glance, as if you’re no longer worth his attention. His shoulder grazes your hand. The contact is fleeting, yet it stings.

You’ve never been in control. That’s a statement.

Cregan abandons his futile struggle the moment Aemond approaches. Whether it’s fear, or some inhuman force pulsing off Aemond’s very skin, he goes still. Not a twitch. Not a word. Only a sharp, ragged breath betrays that he’s still here.

“I don’t understand,” you whisper, your throat burning, as though you’ve just swallowed glass.

Aemond reaches for the chains. One touch, and the metal groans. The links uncoil, loosening like a serpent unwrapping itself from its prey, just enough to let Cregan draw breath. He leans back, spine pressed hard to the chair, as if trying to retreat into it. He doesn’t know what Aemond is. But he knows it’s not something human.

“We wouldn’t want him to choke, would we?” Aemond could sing a lullaby in that voice.

He begins to pace behind the chair, hands clasped neatly at his back, as if measuring the room from the mirror to the far wall. Each step stretches Cregan’s agony, each step a cruel echo of the final moments before a judge pronounces the sentence. A judge who takes his time, savoring the weight of the punishment.

For mercy shall not be found here.

He halts behind the chair, sudden as a stopped clock. The time has come. His long fingers, once delicately tracing the curve of your waist, the softness of your thighs, now clutch the top rail like a weapon.

His shadow swallows Cregan whole, dark, unnatural. A reminder that whoever stands before you is something other.

You take a deep breath, only to inhale more dread. You search for words, for an explanation, for this madness to end. With every passing second, your headache grows, as if ivy is coiling inside your skull, its thorns piercing deeper.

“That’s who you wanted, isn’t it?”

Aemond’s voice cuts through the haze in your mind, meaningless. His mouth pulls tight at the sight of your blank stare, a flicker of distaste crossing his face as his gaze drops to Cregan, like he can’t quite believe that this trembling figure is the man you could have sold your soul for.

“Before we made the deal, you wanted him.”

“But—” you move forward, just a step, and the world tilts. The floor lurches, or maybe it’s just your mind fracturing. Yes, you wanted Cregan. But why would Aemond do this? Why now?

“You said I had to choose,” you manage, grasping at the fading thread of reason.

Aemond shrugs.

“I’ve changed my mind.”

His answers are simple, quick, businesslike. Let’s get it done. Nothing in his posture or voice suggests he might be bluffing, or telling the truth. Yet if all feels like a meticulously staged performance, like everything around you is designed to make you believe this twisted story is real. Or is it not?

Aemond stands there, perfectly still. An unyielding, unnatural force. A grace that feels too perfect for this world. Someone who stands above all that is mortal, all that is petty and fragile.

How can someone so beautiful be so lethal?

“He’ll be yours. Just say it.”

Demon speaks in a sweet, luring voice that could make one follow him straight into hell.

“Why?” A question, no more than a whisper.

The silence stretches out like a field of scorched flowers.

But your entire body trembles, the delicate fabric of your dress offering no shield against his relentless presence.

Just give me the truth. Please.

You’re not sure if he hears you, but then there’s the faintest glimmer that something softer stirs within him. A spark, warm, familiar. Aemond’s gaze dips for a brief moment, and a subtle spasm tugs at his features, as though your pleas have become crows in his mind—loud, shrill, their croaks mocking: See. See what you have done.

His fingers rise to his temple, brushing it like he might scare them off. In that instant, you feel the crushing weight of your headache ease, as if part of your agony has passed to him. Like a crack in the dam letting the river flow, leaving you momentarily lighter.

But the shadow of softness is fleeting, dissipating before you can grasp it. Like a hangman remembering the gallows. His sapphire eyes darken, as though the sea is being smothered by ice, the depths concealed, sealed beneath a frozen surface.

Ice that would shatter your bones.

Ice that would leave blood in the snow.

No one survives winter like that.

“All those excruciating feelings of yours…” The confession, or rather a verdict, is announced, cold, detached. There’s no hint of sympathy, no trace of remorse. “I’m fed up with them. With you. I don’t want to feel your longing anymore.”

Longing.

That bitter ache that has filled your days, your nights, these endless, hollow weeks. It wasn’t just a feeling. It was like radiation dust, clinging to your insides, poisoning you with every breath. It burned through your lungs, lodged in your bones, dulled every dream, and infected every thought with a hopeless ache. A torture, without him. 

Hell. 

You feel like you’re drowning in it, and all you want is to pull him back into the warmth, share it with him.

But Aemond? He wants nothing of it. He wants you out of his veins.

The next blow lands with brutal finality, before you can even form a word, a protest, a plea. He can’t afford you taking the reins, can’t risk you disrupting the plan he’s so meticulously crafted.

“I figured Cregan should suffice.”

His words come out flat. Matter-of-fact.

Everything clicks into place. Aemond has twisted it all, misinterpreted your longing in the most cruel, distorted way possible. Like in a math equation, he’s taken your numbers out of it, replacing them with his own.

You might be the one who sentenced both of you to this end. But he... he’s the one here to pull the guillotine.

“You… you made him contact me?”

Aemond laughs, but it’s no longer the laugh of a god, or a devil. It’s the laugh of a madman. A wild creature handed matches in a world soaked with gasoline.

You glance at Cregan, a silent plea in your eyes, but his gaze offers nothing, only regret.

“Oh, the bastard wanted it,” Aemond spits, his teeth grinding. Fingers, or something sharper, dig into the chair’s back. The wood creaks beneath his grip. It might be the chair that will break now or Cregan’s neck.

Tears blur your vision again, but this time they sting as they streak down your cheeks. This time, no one is there to catch them.

Cregan’s interest and sincerity you fell for was just a… performance. A trick. Curated by Aemond.

Whether you’d said yes or no, it didn’t matter.

Cregan was always going to end up here. A twisted early birthday present, rewrapped in chains. Not a man with agency. A trick to fill in the blank in Aemond’s story. The story he’s made for you.

Aemond doesn’t see your heartbreak. He chooses not to.

He leans down beside Cregan, as though he could tear his throat apart with his teeth.

“Didn’t you want it, Cregan?”

Cregan has thought about you. The warmth of your body. The softness of your touch. You’ve crossed his mind more than he’ll ever admit.

Whatever Cregan thinks about you no longer matters to you. But it matters to Aemond. It feeds his rage, urging him deeper into his cruelty.

“You can nod.” Aemond, a thoughtful prompter, encourages Cregan to nod frantically, his eyes flicking to you without meeting your gaze.

The pulse hammers in the side of Cregan’s neck, the veins taut with pressure, as if they might burst. If Aemond doesn’t kill him, fear will.

“He just needed a… push.” Aemond wrinkles his nose, as though the thought, or Cregan’s smell, repulses him.

He pulls back again, retreating to your writing table like a beast caged too long. His fingers brush the edge of your work, trailing across the pages, over your hurried handwriting. As if looking for something to anchor him.

What feels like a nightmare to you, to Cregan, isn’t even half the hell Aemond could unleash. This is restraint.

“You’re… disgusting,” you breathe out, but no phrase can match your fury. Your grief. Your despair.

Aemond doesn’t flinch, much to your disdain. His eyes remain on the paper in his hand, scanning the outline of the world you built. The one he wasn’t meant to be part of.

But he is.

With Cregan, the words hardly became sentences. But Aemond…Aemond makes the stories bloom. He’s a long-awaited spring in a land punished by harsh, eternal winter. The thaw that ruins and renews all at once.

“And yet… I was the one who came when no one else listened.” 

He lets the paper fall back onto the table. The flutter is loud, as if the words are breaking down against the wooden surface, their meaning scattered all over the floor.

Cregan glances at you, his expression muddled with confusion. He’s probably started wondering if you’re the reason for this menace. But explaining anything to him is the last thing on your agenda.

“It was a mistake.” The weight of your words is softened by the hurt.

Aemond chuckles, and the room darkens as if in response, shadows listening to their master.

“I’m willing to give him to you on a silver platter. There’ll be no other suggestion,” he coaxes. But there’s something under it, a thin thread of weariness in his gaze.

You look at Cregan. He probably has no clue what’s going on. The meaning of your conversation must be totally lost on him.

And if Aemond untied him, would he even stay of his own free will? Would you want him to stay?

Back then… if you had chosen Cregan over your writing, would this still have ended in ruin? Would it still hurt this much?

You wipe your cheeks, hiding away the remnants of hurt. The gesture is clumsy, trembling. At such points, you disdain being nothing but a human.

“I don’t want it this way.”

Demon or not, he won’t write your story for you.

Something flickers in Aemond’s gaze.

Confusion. Real. Rare. He reads people like maps, but not now.  Or maybe he never did. Maybe his ability to see into a human mind only gave him control, not the understanding of their complexities.

“Alright,” he snaps, his composure fraying at the edges.

He moves toward you, each of his steps stealing the light, his shadow swallowing it whole.

“Then fucking stop this torture,” he growls, his words laced with poison, but deeper, underneath, you feel it. Despair. His earlier words echo in your mind: “The stronger the bond, the more influenced a demon is.” And, as if to prove your suspicion, he adds, “Stop sending this ache through our bond.”

One step, and your back hits the wall. Another step, and there’s no distance between you. He’s close enough for you to see the tremor at his jaw. He’s a fire ready to consume everything in his path.

It shouldn’t matter to him at all what you feel. But if it does…

Your hands press to his chest, not to push him away, but to steady yourself. You rise onto your toes, eyes locking with his, because his eyes have never lied to you.

“Ache or not, why do you care?”

Aemond stiffens, as if you’ve become Medusa and he’s been foolish enough to meet your gaze.

For this question alone, for the implication within it, he could kill you.

His eyes hollow out. Become black wells.

The abyss, staring back.

Hell, burned to ash.

Why do I care?

The question he’s been asking himself ever since your last meeting. To care had never been part of his design. A function he’d never had. Until you came.

At first, it was just a glitch. A symptom, mild and unassuming, which he chose to overlook. Then it turned into a disease. It grew within him, cell by cell, day by day, until it was too late.

He feeds off the emotions of others. That’s the bargain. That’s the way. But your yearning? It poisons him. It robs him of strength and satisfaction, like suddenly all other emotions dull, rot.

He blames you for it all. This weakness, this feeling, couldn’t possibly be his.

You gave it roots. Planted something unnamed inside him, a feeling that made itself at home. And he knows nothing about such things. Every ounce of knowledge he’s gathered from humanity feels useless, because there’s the shocking truth: humans don’t truly understand it either. They give it names: love, affection, devotion, and a million others. But no one truly holds power over it.

He figures out quite soon that to let the feeling live, he’d have to kill his essence so this virus could thrive in his body.

To let the feeling die, he’d have to smother you with his own hands.

But as long as there’s a deal, nothing can tear you both apart. Nothing can tear you out of his system. Not even this outrageous, disgusting ache.

So he goes for a deal that brings him even more disdain. The only way to set himself free. So he shoves Cregan into your arms to shut up the gnawing ache in your chest. Perhaps his own would shut up for good, too.

For he is a demon. Bound. Chained to the human he can’t shake. To you. Your tears are forever imprinted on his hand. Salt etched into skin. And he’ll cherish it.

But worst of all, you’re the human who longs for someone else.

You are the flower that blooms again each morning, greeting him with colour and scent, after he spent the night before uprooting you.

You are his mirror. And what he sees in you… it sickens him. Because when your ache mirrors his own, he can’t think, can’t breathe.

You are his mirror, and he is yours.

The truth, the one you've kept locked away, buried beneath ache and denial, trembles on the tip of your tongue. You could still bury it for good. Let you both be free.

But instead, you choose to do the bravest thing: to admit it.

To yourself first.

And then, finally, to Aemond. Rage and betrayal be damned.

Cregan’s muffled sounds falter into quiet as you speak:

“It’s not him that I long for.”

Aemond flinches, pain flashing across his face like a wound reopened, as if you just dragged a dagger across his eye. Whatever story he’s written in his head, whatever twisted logic he's used to justify this torment, you’ve just shattered it. And still, you see it clearly now: he wants to be wrong.

“Don’t mess with me.” He speaks low and regal, a king giving his final warning before condemning a traitor to death.

“I wish I were.” The bile tastes sour, but you swallow it.

There’s no flicker of belief in his eyes. Just that stubborn, blind confidence. Because that way it would be easier. He’s made his mind, he’s set the course, and now, you’re the compass that refuses to point the way he demands.

“Shall I remind you of the words you spoke before?”

You shake your head. “I remember them… but it’s not that simple.”

He scoffs, bitter in a way you’ve never heard before, and you fear he might disappear, vanish into the air.

“Everything was simple before you.”

You’re a liability. That’s what he means. You bite your lip until it bleeds. If Aemond resembles anything right now, it’s a blade cutting everything that comes close.

But you’ve never been wise when it comes to him.

So you take a step forward.

“You know I’m telling the truth,” you murmur.

“I know that I’m drowning in you,” he hisses, tempest building in his gaze.

He’s thunder.

You’re sunlight.

And somehow, you both exist in the same sky.

“Come here,” you whisper, your hands twitching at your sides, aching to touch him, yet trembling with the fear of being rejected.

He doesn’t move. One breath. Two.

His fists clench at his sides like he’s holding himself back from moving an inch closer. There’s a war inside him, making him waver. The only thing he knows is how to destroy, to tease apart, to peel away. No one’s ever offered him something this fragile, this gentle. No one’s ever offered him something he can’t tear apart. He doesn’t know how to step into forbidden territory, how to be without ruining it all. He craves and fears that craving.

He leans in, just barely, so subtle it might not even look like a shift. But you catch it, leaning toward him, meeting him halfway, slowly, carefully. Like this moment is the most brittle thing you both hold. His tall back curves, folding toward you like a warrior about to surrender to a goddess.

You both hover there, unsure, two beings on the verge of a kiss neither knows how to shape. You tilt your heads, adjusting subtly, afraid to misalign the fragile geometry of closeness.

A kiss, another forbidden territory, aches painfully in your chest.

At last, his forehead presses to yours. A simple gesture. Yet it feels like the right thing in the world.

His skin is warm. Yours is cold. A perfect, soothing contrast.

He needs you to soothe the fire that’s always threatening to burn him to ash.

You need him to finally give you the warmth you’ve been denied.

Aemond can’t go to the rooftop anymore. Not since Alys. It used to be a sanctuary, a place to breathe, to observe the world from a distance. But now it’s lost its magic. Just a trembling structure beneath the wind. Even the cityscape has dulled, no longer impressive.

Now, in this quiet between you, where breath follows breath, the stillness feels sacred, like a beggar stepping into a cathedral and seeing a god he once refused.

The sense of comfort Aemond sought in stone and solitude, he finally finds in you.

His breathing slows, falling into rhythm with yours. A quiet, synchronized dance. He forgets the cigarettes in his pocket. The purpose of the pact slips away. So does the belief that he was never meant to feel.

Even Cregan's presence fades, barely a shadow now.

“We can figure this out… together.” The words are meant just for him, the most courageous and vulnerable confession you’d say to no one else.

“What if it’s a mistake?” He echoes your fear, your own words, softened by his voice. He looks at you like you hold all the answers in the world, and maybe that terrifies him more than anything else.

You hesitate.

Once, you said forever. And then… you buried it.

You can’t offer consolation. Lie, and you both know will know about it.

So you give him the only thing you both can stand on: the truth.

“Some mistakes…” you say, eyes meeting his, they’re your favorite color again. “Some mistakes are worth it.”

And in this sacred space, where neither of you moves, it feels like the world has stopped asking him to be a demon.

Just this once.

Just for you.

“Oh,  I haven’t posted this photo on Facebook…” Her lashes, thick with black mascara, flutter with the realization. “Will you give me a second?”

“Sure,” you answer flatly, stepping back and leaning against the counter. You wonder if saying “no” would make a difference.

Her loud, cheerful “HAH” is followed by the rapid tapping of her thumbs, making you wonder if she’s already replying to comments. She must be retired by now, yet she’s one of those people whose age is difficult to guess. If only you could be that carefree. So many things wouldn’t matter. Your mind wouldn’t spiral. Perhaps your head wouldn’t have turned into a battlefield.

You can feel your phone watching you from across the kitchen table, curious too about what you’re going to reply to Cregan’s message: “I’ll be at our place tonight, at 7 PM. Join me?”

The moment he sent the first text weeks ago, part of you lit up, as if whispering, finally. As if this moment had always been meant to come. You hadn’t planned to talk about your writing progress, but message by message, you eventually opened up about your novel, set to be published at the end of the summer.

When he responded with “Glad your stubbornness persists,” it felt like a happiness injection. Unfortunately, it wasn’t long-lasting. The teddy bear, still sitting on the floor where you’d left him, no longer looked cheerful, like something in his buttoned eyes had dimmed.

“Done!” she announces proudly, as if she might’ve just been cast as Leonardo DiCaprio’s girlfriend. 

“Cool, um—Mrs. Silvi, would you like to see the flat?”

The question stumbles from your mouth, an awkward attempt to bring the conversation back on track. The abrupt transition triggers your inner people-pleaser to press the red panic button: SHE’LL EVICT YOU.

Luckily, she doesn’t seem to notice.

“Oh, sure! Let’s see it!” she chirps, and for a second, you swear, if you hadn’t reminded her, she’d leave without inspecting a thing.

You trail behind her, your slippers making a soft shuffle. If it weren’t for the height difference, you could’ve mistaken yourself for her shadow. Her perfume, sweet and oriental, wafts through the corridor, swallowed eagerly by the faded beige walls. The same scent that haunted the air for weeks after your move-in.

She abruptly pauses at the living room threshold, causing you to almost bump into her.

“Jeez!” she exclaims, her hand dramatically flying to her chest. She couldn’t have spotted the cigarette spots on the windowsill from that far.

“What a lovely thing!”

You come up beside her to follow her gaze, unsure of where this is heading. Relief sweeps through you when she lifts a teddy bear so delicately it might be mistaken for a brittle antique.

You hover at the threshold awkwardly, as if it’s your first time in the flat.

“Where did you get it?” she asks, brushing off some invisible dust from his fur.

But before your lips even part, she resumes, “Oh, I know!”

Her sly smirk makes you furrow. By now, you know better than to try inserting a word into her monologue. It’s pointless. Even if you do speak, she’ll just talk right over you.

“It must be your gentleman.”

Your mouth forms a silent O, which prompts her to giggle. She clearly interprets it a “yes”. Sylvi settles onto the sofa, the plush toy in her arms like a newborn. When she nods to the side, you have no choice but to sink down beside her.

“How I miss those times when I was younger,” she says, her voice laced with longing, her confession aimed at Ewan. “I mean, I am still young, but back then... I had a whole parade of gallants fighting over my heart.”

Weirdly or not, you have no doubt about that.

“They would’ve done anything for me. Bombarded me with presents, flowers, skipped classes just to walk me home after the conservatory. But I was always waiting. Waiting for the one. You know?” She pauses, and the conversation seems to have taken a turn you weren’t ready for. “The right one.”

Her gaze lands on you, expectant. You nod, perhaps too quickly, a gesture meant to mask the unsettling twist in your chest. The idea of the right one feels foreign. You thought you knew it back then, with Cregan. But now… things are messier than ever.

Gazing down at the teddy bear only fuels the guilt further.

If you agree to meet Cregan tonight, you’ll end up betraying… Aemond.

“Of course you know!” she continues, misreading your silence, her large, round Cleopatra-style earrings jingling as she nods her head. Her gaze flicks down to Ewan, then back to you. “You’re the writer,” she adds, her hand gently covering yours, pulling you back to the present. Her skin is slightly wrinkled but warm and soft. “These things must come naturally to you.”

You force a smile, clearly not planning to share your concerns about your ex and the demon.

Her eyes narrow, just a flicker. It’s a look of knowing, of recognition, as if something gave you away. It prompts her to open up further.

“My husband—” You brace yourself, anticipating a long story about him.

“—passed away two years ago.” Her hand twitches, then withdraws, as if through the touch she could reveal more than she’s willing to.

You blink, caught off guard by the revelation. “Oh God, I’m so sorry.”

“I married him… God knows why, to be honest.” She shakes her head, a weak smile tugging at her lips. Her gaze drifts, not quite seeing the teddy anymore, but something else, someone else.

“He didn’t meet half the criteria for the man I thought I was waiting for. And yet… he was the most real thing that ever happened to me. Drove me terribly mad.” The way she stresses the word is supposed to showcase her anger, but it seems like the only reason for the emotion is his absence.

“Why?”

The most intentional question you’ve asked her. A small part of you, perhaps a naïve one, wonders if this conversation might help you make up your mind. But the answer, as always, isn’t what you expect.

She smiles, but not at you.

Her gaze is hazy, clouded with memory.

“Because he’s always been on my mind.”

She silently passes the teddy to you, and your breath hitches, just like the day Aemond first placed it in your hands. Suddenly, you understand what the button eyes have been trying to tell you.

What started as a “flat inspection” has drifted so far from its original purpose that the word almost feels absurd. After a few more moments of chatting about exes and travels, she declares that she’s seen enough and announces that she’s late for a visit with an old friend.

“I’m so late!” Sylvi says, slipping on her heels. You can’t help but admire her energy. Her babbling personality manages to soothe your ache.

“Oh—almost forgot! I brought you a present!”

“For me?” you echo, watching her dig through her giant tote bag with such enthusiasm that you wouldn’t be surprised if she pulled out a puppy.

“Ta-dam!” She holds out a small green frog statue. It’s heavy in your hands, oddly so for something so small. The frog’s mouth is parted in a smile, and its body is speckled with a few white dots, like someone added a final touch just before placing it on the shelf.

Before your brain can dive into the connection, she explains, “It’s from a sacred place I visited! Said to bring good luck and scare evil spirits away,” she adds, leaning forward with a wink.

After she leaves, you place the frog on the windowsill. Its small, cheerful figure looks serene, fitting into the interior effortlessly. In the mirror, you catch your gaze and the conspicuous questions. A blessing or a warning?

The light purple dress hugs your curves perfectly. The silk showcases you with the kind of grace that makes you pause, stunned by your own reflection.

Sunset light spills across the room, gilding everything in soft amber. Funny, this small, unremarkable apartment that once felt like a stopgap now glows with the warmth of something earned. Something lived in. It’s still small, yes. But now, it feels like you. Like home.

You spin, just like you used to as a child, your hem fluttering in the golden light. Back then, moments like this made you believe you were a princess, and your story could only end one way: happily ever after.

Life had… other plans. For every problem resolved, another one waits in the wings, and not every battle ends with you victorious.

You’ve made up your mind. It’s time to win the battle with Cregan. No meeting. That book is closed and put aside into the depths of your mental library. The bitter truth has finally come into focus: even if you got back together, things wouldn’t be the same.

You don’t owe him a message, or an explanation. Not even a line. He’ll figure it out.

And nothing, nothing, can stop you from going out for a light stroll in this beautiful dress, grabbing takeout from anywhere but that café he called “our place.” It was always his favorite, never really yours.

The inner sense of triumph settles into your chest, and for the first time, in what seems forever, it feels like you’re doing things right.

Suddenly, a sound. The phone is ringing. You glance at the screen.

Unknown number.

The vibration ripples through your hand, intensifying the anxiety within you. Your mind is like a beehive, each thought a stinging bee ready to attack no one but you. Could it be Cregan? A new number, a new tactic to reel you in?

You pick it up. You don’t speak right away. Neither do they. The silence on the other end is eerily still. You hear them breathing, waiting for you to make the first step, or rather, say the first word.

“…Hello?” Your voice is low, hoarse with hesitation.

No answer. Instead, something rustles. A faint sound like fabric brushing too close to a microphone. Your own “hello” comes back to you, faintly distorted, half a second later.

Your thumb hovers over “end call,” every instinct screaming to press it. You see the duration of the call, seconds ticking by, and with them, the silence. This isn’t Cregan. It’s not even close. And yet… something about the way the line hums, the strange rasp of their breath, pulls you in. You feel like your ears are pressed against the very mouth of something living, and if you’re patient enough, it’ll pour its secrets into your ear.

Then—

“Finally.” The voice bursts through the line so abruptly you jolt, your fingers fumbling as the phone nearly crashes to the floor. “I feared you’d never pick up!”

The reproachful tone in the feminine voice gives you a flashback to your lousy boss from a year ago.

“We close in 35 minutes. This is your last chance to pick it up.”

You blink. Pick up what?

“Hello? Miss, are you there?”

“Yes. Um—who is this?”

“LOTUS.”

“Who?”

“Dry cleaning service.” Her exhale is sharp. She’s clearly someone counting down the minutes before she can leave. “You’d better hurry.”

“It must be some sort of mistake…”

“Are you Miss Y/N?”

“…Yes.”

“Then no mistake. The item’s paid for. Urgent cleaning. Ready today.”

“I—I never gave anything in.” 

“We’ll be closed all weekend,” she stretches out her words, creating an image of a teenage girl, bored to death with her part-time shift. “You’d better hurry.”

“Check the number again,” you say, sharper than intended.

That’s definitely a prank, you think, ready to pull the phone away and switch it off. Then it comes again. A low, thin buzzing sound, not quite static. Like another line clicking in. Another listener. Your pulse quickens.

“It’s your errand,” a different voice rasps, a mechanical one, as though the words are being pulled through a walkie-talkie.

Your heart skips a beat. “What did you say?”

Breathing again. Not just heard. Felt warm against your skin. Like the line between the call and your room has blurred.

The static cuts off.

“It’s your errand.” The reply is firmer, and definitely human this time. “Are we clear now?”

The silence is shorter this time. Like a self-preservation instinct tells you to act on your best behavior.

“…Yes.”

You only have time to use the bathroom before you’re slipping into your Converse. Great. You look like a prom queen who ran away the last second. Your hands are shaking as you reach for your keys, they fall on the floor with a clatter, as if yelling, “hurry up!”

17:43. Thirteen minutes left. You’ve never been to this place. It’s impossible. “Shit.”

To your surprise, the GPS says it’s a 10-minute walk, which doubles your odds. But apparently, navigating a map while shaking with nerves isn’t your forte. Right in the middle of a pedestrian crossing, you realize you’re headed in the wrong direction and spin around.

Brake screeches. A car stops inches from you, close enough to see the Mercedes emblem.

“ARE YOU FUCKING DUMB?”

“Sorry!” You jog back, dragging your embarrassment with you.

The navigation arrow keeps switching directions like it’s toying with you. But then you see it—the sign: LOTUS. A simple black sign in white letters, tucked between a pharmacy and a pet store.

You rush inside, like a robber who decides to commit the crime at the last minute.

The manager shakes his head at you, his gaze revealing doubts about whether you can be trusted with whatever you're supposed to pick up.

Eventually, he hands you the suit. You assume it’s the one, judging by the black garment bag. You have no idea how to carry it. It’s heavier than expected, and definitely meant for someone much taller. You try lifting your arm to keep the garment bag from dragging on the pavement, but its weight pulls you down as your muscles quickly burn. You wonder if carrying a dead body would be easier.

The address attached to the suit cover tells you nothing. But AEMOND TARGARYEN, in capital letters, does.

Cars rush past, horns blaring at slow pedestrians and mindless drivers. Yet, amidst the noise, one thought rises louder than everything else: There’s no way three weeks have passed since the previous errand. What the hell is going on?

The taxi crawls through the gridlocked street so slowly, you start thinking you’d have made it faster on foot. The road is a graveyard of idling engines and quarreling drivers, each urging the others to move faster, stuck in a city that refuses to move.

The suit lies next to you, sagging and folded in a way that would probably make the dry cleaner flinch. You’ve violated the “carry upright” instruction in every imaginable way. He’ll know. Of course, he will. Do demons know how to iron?

The label taunts you. Not just the address, but the name.

Aemond Targaryen.

Isn’t that what Alys called him back then? Before you fell into the fog of nothingness. You were pretty sure it was his powers pulling you away from the conversation.

Something about this situation doesn’t feel right. All your feelings, thoughts, doubts, and concerns related to Aemond, the idea of what you could tell him, the desire to talk, it feels like it’s not going to be met halfway.

Vhagar. And now… you glance down at the garment bag again.

If he wanted an explanation or to talk, he would’ve already dropped by. No, what he’s after doesn’t seem like reconciliation, but rather what you asked for. Errands. Nothing more than that. To satisfy his pet, and now to fetch dry cleaning.

The sky is overcast when the taxi finally pulls up to the curb. A skyscraper looms in front of you. The glass-faced building already has a few lit-up windows, its rooftop disappearing into the clouds above. You squint upward, trying to count the windows. Impossible in such weather.

People come and go through the revolving doors, engrossed in their usual routine. But you hover on the pavement, feet nailed to the ground. That light, confident feeling blooming in your chest from earlier, the pride, the closure, has withered.

The mind-blowing sex might have been enough to blur your judgment, making you cultivate a false hope. But it was silly to assume it’d be the same for a demon. All your well-thought-out explanations to reconcile with him now disperse into the air. You need those. Aemond doesn't.

You shove yourself into the revolving door before you let yourself change your mind. It spins, and your heart races with it. You emerge into the lobby, blinking as though you’ve stepped through a portal. Another world.

The marble floor shimmers beneath your feet, reflecting the gilded glow from above, making it feel like you’re walking on water. Chandeliers are shaped like twisted vines; some coil into ouroboros loops—symbols of endless cycles. Even the air here seems burnished, gold-laced, as if you’ve wandered into a sacred place where nothing imperfect can survive.

You glance toward the guards as you cross the threshold, adjusting your grip on the suit. At this point, you’re not even sure you could come up with an adequate explanation of why you’re here. They're statues dressed up like men, carved in black and gray and glued to the entryway. Sphinx-like. You’re not sure they even breathe.

Each step toward the reception desk feels heavier than the last. The floor mirrors your hesitation, every reserved Converse-clad footfall echoing into a soft thud against the marble. Are they real? You wonder, scanning the rows of tall orange-hued trees by the main path, each one in a massive pot that likely cost more than your rent.

You don’t notice the moment you straighten the suit in your arms again, careful to hold it upright. The setting itself urges you to be perfect, like everything else in here. The ache in your bicep spreads, a quiet throb, but your face is composed like never before.

Congratulations. You wanted an errand. You got it.

“Um, hello…” you murmur as you near the desk, your words small against the vastness around you. The rich pink peonies glance your way, polite, graceful, as if they’re here to greet you most exquisitely.

The receptionist doesn’t move. Her gaze is fused to the screen, her fingers dancing in perfect tempo. For a moment, you’re unsure if you spoke at all.

“Elevators are to your left, miss,” she replies without looking up. Her French-tipped nails tap in a rhythm so precise you wonder if she once played piano. 

You glance toward the elevator. The number above it glows 1. Waiting. Inviting. Something about this place pulls at you, soft and glittering. Like a mermaid song. Sailors know better than to follow it.

“I—I don’t need the elevator.”

You drag your gaze back to her, shifting the suit to your other hand. Not the numb one. The fabric sticks to your palm. You're ready to curse the universe for this day. Because, of course, when your ex shows up and arranges the meeting, nothing goes well.

She finally looks up. Her hazel eyes skim your face, calculating, as if reading your entire history in one breath. Then her gaze softens. Sympathy, maybe. Though you utterly hope you don’t look half as bad as you feel. Her features are so symmetrical that it unsettles you.

“How can I help you then?”

“This is for apartment… 1099.” You squint at the label, though you repeated the number a dozen times in the taxi. You could probably say it if someone shook you awake in the middle of the night.

She types swiftly, clearly has been in this job a while, then says, “Aemond Targaryen.” It’s not a question, yet you nod cautiously.

Hearing his name aloud rattles something loose in your chest. You feel it behind you, a flicker of shadow just past your shoulder, but when you glance, there’s nothing. Only marble.

The building is too quiet. There should be so many residents, and yet it’s only you. You swallow, trying to keep your worries at bay.

“Do I leave it here?” you ask, trying not to sound rushed.

Her eyes narrow with a hint of suspicion. “Why not go up and give it to the owner?”

The question takes you aback, like you’re a cat caught up on the owner’s dining table. A soft ding sounds from the elevator, as if it, too, thinks it’s time.

“I—I can’t.”

She raises a brow, her nails tapping lightly against the table. A musician, for sure.

“Aren’t you the delivery?”

“No, I’m not,” you reply, biting your inner cheek. Once, you thought making a pact with a demon meant freedom from suffering. Turns out it’s just double hell.

“Well,” she shrugs, slipping seamlessly back into her customer-service smile, “there’s no note from Mr. Targaryen authorizing any delivery.”

“And?” you ask, gaping at her blankly.

The air thickens around you, faintly perfumed, like someone must’ve lit a candle somewhere nearby.

Her gaze locks onto yours, like this is some kind of contest, a challenge. Let’s see who blinks first. Before the silence turns any more awkward, she speaks. “I’m not allowed to accept it.”

There’s no mockery or cruelty in her tone. If anything, she sounds like someone who’s memorized protocol down to the footnotes. But it doesn’t help.

You feel yourself fraying. The pressure in your arm finally wins. The suit dips, grazing the pristine floor.

Your eyes snag on the neat little nametag pinned to her crisp blouse.

Floris.

“Excuse me—um—Floris, but I can’t and I won’t go to his apartment.”

You see her lips part in an attempt to object, but you act first, placing the suit firmly on the reception desk. Floris’ eyes widen, as if you’ve disrupted a sacred cathedral. You narrowly miss a slim porcelain vase, pale and trembling like it resents the disturbance, too.