Led By Fiery Passion (currently being revised)

Part 34

Aemond

Aemond felt a twinge of guilt for leaving Aenyra alone on the terrace, but he knew if he had stayed a moment longer, his anger might've gotten the better of him.

Re-entering the great hall, the sound of music and laughter only grated at his nerves. He barely made it a few steps before his mother intercepted him, her expression tight with urgency.

"Aemond," Alicent said, her voice low and insistent as she reached for his arm. "Lord Baratheon is here with his daughters. I must introduce you—now."

Aemond tensed, a scowl forming as he let out a sharp breath. "Not this again," he muttered. "I told you, I'm not marrying any of that man's daughters."

Alicent's grip tightened. "We've discussed this. A match with the Baratheons would solidify our position and strengthen the realm. You are of age, Aemond. Past it, some would say."

Before he could protest further, she was already tugging him across the hall, ignoring his resistance.

They came to a stop before the towering figure of Lord Borros Baratheon and the four young women standing beside him, each adorned in their finest silks, eyes trained expectantly on the prince.

"Lord Borros," Alicent greeted with a strained smile. "May I present my second son, Prince Aemond Targaryen."

Then, with a brief, dismissive glance toward the girls, she added, "And Aemond, these are Lord Borros's daughters. Forgive me, I never quite remember their names in order."

Her words hung in the air, polite but forced.

Aemond offered the faintest bow, his lone eye scanning the daughters with thinly veiled boredom—his mind still with the girl he left behind in the shadows of the terrace.

"Ah—yes. This is Cassandra, the eldest. Then Mari, Ellen, and my youngest, Floris. Some say she's the prettiest," Lord Borros declared, his voice booming with pride as he gestured broadly to each of his daughters.

Aemond's eye flicked over the four girls, each dressed in fine silks and adorned with nervous smiles. He offered a polite nod, though inwardly he felt the familiar churn of irritation rising.

"Go on, Aemond," Alicent whispered, nudging him gently but firmly toward the youngest. "Ask one of the ladies to dance."

He stiffened. The last thing he wanted was to touch another woman—only Aenyra. But with his mother's urging and Lord Borros standing there, smug and expectant, Aemond knew he had little choice. His hands felt tied.

Suppressing a sigh, he extended his hand toward the only one who didn't look entirely petrified of him.

"Lady Floris," he said with forced civility.

She curtsied quickly and placed her hand in his, her grip light and trembling. Aemond led her to the dance floor, the space around them parting as the music shifted into a slow waltz.

Despite the storm within him, Aemond's steps were poised, his movements refined. Years of court training had turned him into a graceful dancer—even if he loathed every second of this charade. Every second the Baratheon girls hand rest ontop of his own.
As they twirled on the polished floor, Aemond's heart battled between duty and desire. The fabric of Floris's gown swirled around them, a whirl of color that felt almost nauseating against the backdrop of his darker thoughts.
He could feel her nervousness, an electric pulse that echoed his own unease.

The warmth of her skin was wrong. Her scent, her voice—none of it was Aenyra.

And no matter how perfectly they moved to the rhythm, Aemond felt like he was dancing with a ghost.