Chapter 1: The Proposition

Warning - Explicit Content Ahead!

By: DoublingDownOnRed

The streets of King's Landing were darker than usual, the shadows seeming to cling to the walls like damp, fetid breath. Aemond Targaryen walked with purpose, his cloak pulled tightly around him, the hood shadowing his face. The sapphire in his eye socket glinted under the faint light of the moon, a sharp, cold contrast to the darkness that enveloped him. The weight of his sword at his side was a comforting presence, a reminder that he was not a man to be trifled with, even in the heart of the city's underbelly.

His brother's laughter still echoed in his ears, a cruel, mocking sound that had dug deep into his pride. Aegon had always been a thorn in his side, but tonight, his jibes had cut deeper than usual. The words had been laced with venom, a sneer curling Aegon's lips as he taunted Aemond about the whore he'd been with—the same one from your first time, little brother? Have you not grown tired of her yet?

Aemond's jaw tightened at the memory. Aegon had no idea what it was like, the weight of expectation, the constant pressure to prove oneself worthy of the Targaryen name. Aemond had learned to endure, to steel himself against the insults and the mockery, but tonight something inside him had snapped. He needed to escape the suffocating confines of the Red Keep, needed to find something—or someone—that would make him forget, if only for a few hours.

He didn't know where his feet were taking him until he found himself standing in front of a whorehouse he hadn't visited before. This place was different from the others, more discreet, more dangerous. It was the kind of place that didn't advertise its services, where the clientele preferred anonymity, and where the women were as skilled at keeping secrets as they were at plying their trade.

Aemond pushed the door open, stepping into the dimly lit interior. The smell of incense and cheap wine hung heavy in the air, mingling with the scent of sweat and the faint metallic tang of blood. The room was filled with low murmurs and soft laughter, but as he entered, a hush fell over the patrons, their eyes flicking toward him before quickly looking away. They recognized the danger in his presence, the power that radiated from him like heat from a forge.

He moved through the room with a predator's grace, his gaze sweeping over the women who lounged on the velvet cushions, their eyes gleaming with interest and calculation. But he wasn't looking for just anyone tonight. He needed something different, something that would erase the memory of Aegon's mocking laughter and the shame that had burned in his chest when his brother's words had hit their mark.

Then he saw her.

She was standing near the back of the room, partially hidden in the shadows, her silver-gold hair catching the light from a nearby candle. For a moment, Aemond felt his breath hitch in his throat. She looked like his sister, Helaena—the same delicate features, the same pale skin that seemed to glow in the darkness. But where Helaena was ethereal and distant, this woman was very much present, her eyes fixed on him with an intensity that sent a jolt of something hot and dangerous through his veins.

He took a step toward her, and she moved forward to meet him, her movements graceful and controlled. She wore a gown of deep crimson, the color a stark contrast to her pale complexion, and as she approached, he could see the faint flush of her cheeks, the way her violet eyes never wavered from his.

Aemond could tell immediately that she was no ordinary whore. She carried herself with a confidence that spoke of training, of careful preparation. Mysaria's hand was all over this. He had heard whispers of how Lady Misery had her fingers in every dark corner of the city, how she trained her girls to be whatever a man needed them to be, and how she could use them to collect secrets as easily as any spymaster.

But even knowing that, Aemond found himself drawn to this woman, to the way she seemed to see him—not just as a prince or a Targaryen, but as something more, something dangerous and raw.

"My lord," she said, her voice low and smooth, the kind of voice that could melt iron.

Aemond didn't respond immediately. He studied her, his single eye taking in every detail, from the way she stood to the way her gaze never faltered. There was something about her that made the blood roar in his ears, that made him want to forget who he was and what he was expected to be.

"Come," he said finally, his voice rougher than he intended, and she obeyed without hesitation, her hand slipping into his as if it had always belonged there.

As he led her toward one of the private rooms, Aemond felt a sense of anticipation building within him, the kind that came before a storm. This woman, this distraction, was exactly what he needed. Not because she looked like his sister—though that was a part of it—but because she represented something new, something that would wash away the bitterness that had been eating at him since his brother's taunts.

As he led her toward one of the private rooms, Aemond felt a sense of anticipation building within him, the kind that came before a storm. This woman, this distraction, was exactly what he needed. Not because she looked like his sister—though that was a part of it—but because she represented something new, something that would wash away the bitterness that had been eating at him since his brother's taunts.

He pushed the door open with more force than necessary, the wood groaning in protest as it swung inward. The room was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of incense and something more earthy, more primal. He didn't pause, didn't hesitate, guiding her inside with a hand that was firm, almost rough, as if he needed to exert control over something—someone—anything to drown out the chaos within him.

Once inside, he turned to face her, his gaze sweeping over her form, taking in the pale hair that spilled over her shoulders, the sharp angles of her face that reminded him too much of Helaena. His breath came in short, controlled bursts as he fought to maintain his composure, to keep the rising tide of anger and frustration at bay.

She stood there, watching him with eyes that were both knowing and calm, a stark contrast to the turmoil roiling inside him. The flickering candlelight played across her features, highlighting the delicate lines of her face, the almost ethereal quality of her presence. She was a vision of the past and present, a reflection of something he had once desired but could never have. And now, here she was, offering herself to him, not with the desperate eagerness of a common whore, but with a quiet, steady confidence that both intrigued and infuriated him.

Aemond's hand shot out, grasping her wrist with a force that might have made another woman flinch, but she didn't. Instead, she stepped closer, her body brushing against his as she allowed herself to be pulled into his orbit, like a moon drawn to a planet, powerless to resist its gravity.

He could feel the warmth of her skin beneath his fingers, the steady pulse of her heartbeat, and for a moment, it was enough to distract him from the maelstrom in his mind. But only for a moment. His grip tightened, his fingers digging into her flesh as if trying to anchor himself to something real, something tangible, in the midst of the storm.

"You think you know me?" His voice was a low growl, filled with the kind of bitterness that had been festering for years. "You think you can come here, look at me like that, and think you understand what it is I want?"

She met his gaze without flinching, those violet eyes steady, unyielding. "I know what you need, my lord," she replied, her voice soft, soothing, like the lull of the sea on a calm night. "And I know how to give it to you."

There was no fear in her voice, no hesitation, and that only stoked the fire inside him. He wanted to break that calm exterior, to shatter the composure she wore like armor, and in doing so, perhaps shatter something within himself. But even as the thought crossed his mind, another part of him—the part that remembered his first time with the woman Aegon had thrown away—wanted something else. He wanted comfort, a reprieve from the relentless pressure that had been building since the war began, since his brother's words had cut him to the bone.

Without warning, he pulled her closer, his other hand moving to the back of her neck, fingers tangling in her hair as he forced her to meet his gaze. The roughness of the gesture was intentional, a test, to see if she would falter, if she would show even a hint of the fear he was so used to inspiring in others. But she didn't. Instead, she leaned into his touch, her body pressing against his as she looked up at him with those steady, unblinking eyes.

She reached up, her hand gently covering his on the back of her neck, not to push him away, but to guide him, to show him that she was not afraid, that she understood his need for control, for dominance. Yet, in that moment, there was something else in her touch, something that reminded him of the way the harlot Aegon had mocked him for had treated him—something almost maternal, a calm acceptance that threatened to unravel him.

Aemond's breath hitched, his grip loosening slightly as the anger that had been coursing through him began to wane, replaced by something far more complex and unsettling. His fingers, still tangled in her hair, relaxed their hold as he looked down at her, truly seeing her for the first time since they had entered the room. The anger, the need to dominate, was still there, simmering just beneath the surface, but it was tempered now by the unexpected gentleness in her touch.

She seemed to sense the shift in him, her hand moving from his to trail lightly down his arm, her fingers brushing against the rough fabric of his sleeve before coming to rest on his chest. Her touch was firm, but not forceful, and she applied just enough pressure to remind him of her presence, to anchor him in the moment.

"I know what you need," she repeated, her voice even softer now, a whisper that seemed to wrap around him like a comforting embrace. "Let me give it to you."

For a moment, Aemond hesitated, caught between the conflicting desires raging within him. He had come here to take, to claim something that was his, to silence the voices that had tormented him since Aegon's jibes. But now, with her standing so close, her breath warm against his cheek, he found himself wavering. She wasn't like the others, wasn't like the woman Aegon had cast aside all those years ago. There was something about her that drew him in, something that made him want to surrender to the calm she offered, if only for a little while.

But Aemond Targaryen did not surrender. He did not yield.

With a sudden, almost violent motion, he pushed her back against the wall, his body pressing against hers as he loomed over her, his hand still firmly gripping the back of her neck. His lips hovered just inches from hers, his breath hot and ragged as he struggled to regain control of the situation, to remind himself of why he had come here in the first place.

Her eyes never left his, and even as he pinned her to the wall, she showed no fear, no resistance. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, exposing the delicate curve of her neck, offering herself to him in a way that was both submissive and inviting. It was a gesture that should have ignited the fire within him, should have fueled his need to dominate, to take what he wanted without hesitation.

But instead, it disarmed him.

Aemond's breath came in uneven gasps, his body trembling with the effort to maintain control. He wanted to be rough, wanted to assert his dominance, to prove that he was not the boy who had been mocked by his brother. But as he looked down at her, at the way she held herself with such quiet strength, he felt something else—something he hadn't felt in years.

He felt vulnerable.

He hated it. And yet, he couldn't bring himself to push her away, couldn't bring himself to do what he had intended when he brought her here. Instead, he found his hand moving of its own accord, sliding from the back of her neck to the side of her face, his thumb brushing lightly across her cheekbone. The softness of her skin beneath his calloused fingers sent a shiver down his spine, a sensation that was as unsettling as it was unfamiliar.

She closed her eyes at his touch, leaning into his hand, her breath hitching slightly as she did. The sound of it, the way her body seemed to relax against him, stirred something deep within him, something that had been buried for far too long. He wanted to be rough, to take control, to assert his power over her, but the way she responded to his touch made it impossible to do so.

Aemond's lips finally found hers, but the kiss was not the harsh, demanding one he had intended. Instead, it was slow, almost tender, his mouth moving against hers with a softness that surprised even him. He could feel her responding in kind, her hands sliding up his arms to rest on his shoulders, pulling him closer as their kiss deepened. Her lips were soft and warm against his, moving with a deliberate slowness that matched the rhythm of his own. It was as if she was guiding him, coaxing him into something gentler, something more intimate than he had originally intended.

Aemond's hand, still cradling her face, began to move, his thumb brushing over her cheek, tracing the line of her jaw with a touch that was both reverent and possessive. The sensation of her skin under his fingers was intoxicating, grounding him in a way that he hadn't expected. It was as if, in this moment, the world outside ceased to exist, leaving only the two of them in this dimly lit room, lost in each other.

He felt her sigh softly against his lips, a sound that sent a ripple of warmth through him, melting the last of the tension in his shoulders. Without realizing it, he relaxed his hold on her, his body pressing into hers not with force, but with something akin to need. The storm inside him, the one that had driven him to this place, began to dissipate, replaced by a quiet calm that he hadn't felt in years.

When they finally broke apart, Aemond rested his forehead against hers, his breath coming in slow, measured exhales as he tried to process what had just happened. Her eyes were still closed, her lips slightly parted, and he could see the faint rise and fall of her chest as she breathed in unison with him.

The silence between them was thick with unspoken words, with the weight of emotions that neither of them seemed ready to confront. Aemond knew he should say something, should assert himself, remind her who he was, what he expected. But the words wouldn't come. Instead, he found himself drawn to the way she looked in this moment—so peaceful, so accepting—and it unnerved him.

She opened her eyes slowly, meeting his gaze with a softness that made his chest tighten. "My lord," she whispered, her voice barely audible, but in the quiet of the room, it was as if she had shouted. "You don't have to hold back. You can take what you want."

Her words were an invitation, but not the kind he had expected. There was no fear in them, no pleading, just a simple statement of fact. It was as if she understood him, understood the battle raging inside him, and was offering herself as a balm, not just for his body, but for the turmoil in his soul.

Aemond swallowed hard, his hand moving from her face to rest on her shoulder, his fingers curling into the fabric of her gown. He could feel the warmth of her body through the thin material, the steady pulse of her heartbeat beneath his palm. She was so close, so real, and for a moment, he allowed himself to imagine that this wasn't just a transaction, that there was something more between them than the roles they had been assigned.

But the memory of Aegon's mocking voice crept back into his mind, reminding him of why he had come here, of what he had intended to do. He couldn't allow himself to be weak, couldn't allow himself to be swayed by the softness of her touch or the calm in her voice. He was a Targaryen, a dragon, and dragons did not bend to the whims of others.

His grip on her shoulder tightened, his other hand moving to her waist, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them. He could feel the rise and fall of her chest against his, the heat of her breath on his neck, and it fueled the fire that had been smoldering inside him since the moment he laid eyes on her.

"I will take what I want," he murmured, his voice low and rough, the edge of a growl still present in the back of his throat. His lips found hers again, this time with more force, more urgency, as he sought to reclaim the control he felt slipping away.

She responded with the same calm acceptance as before, her hands sliding down his back, fingers tracing the muscles beneath his tunic with a touch that was both soothing and maddening. It was as if she was trying to draw out the beast within him, coax it to the surface, not with fear or submission, but with a quiet confidence that made him want to both crush and protect her at the same time.

Their kiss deepened, his hands moving over her body with increasing intensity, seeking to memorize every curve, every inch of skin beneath the fabric of her gown. He wanted to consume her, to lose himself in the feel of her, to drown out the voices in his head that whispered of doubt and weakness.

But even as his touch grew rougher, more demanding, she remained steady, grounding him with her presence, her breathy moans against his lips a reminder that she was not just a body to be used, but a woman who seemed to understand him in a way that no one else ever had.

Aemond broke the kiss abruptly, his breath ragged as he stared down at her, his chest heaving with the effort to control the warring emotions within him. She looked up at him, her lips swollen from their kisses, her eyes filled with a mixture of desire and something deeper, something that made him feel exposed, vulnerable.

"What are you doing to me?" he whispered, more to himself than to her, the question slipping out before he could stop it.

She reached up, her hand cupping his cheek with that same motherly tenderness he had felt before. "I'm giving you what you need, my lord," she said softly, her thumb brushing over his skin in a soothing motion.

Aemond's breath hitched at her words, the calm assurance in her voice somehow soothing and unsettling all at once. He felt the tension in his body begin to ease, his rigid posture softening under her gentle touch. It was a feeling he was unaccustomed to—being cared for in this way—and it both disarmed and grounded him in a way that nothing else had.

Her other hand slid slowly down his chest, her fingers deftly working at the ties of his tunic. The fabric, worn and softened by years of use, yielded easily under her touch, and she began to peel it away, exposing the pale, scarred skin beneath. Aemond didn't stop her; he couldn't. The need for her touch, for the comfort she offered, overpowered any urge to resist.

As she pulled the tunic down over his shoulders, her hands moved with a practiced grace, yet there was something more in the way she touched him—an intimacy that went beyond mere physicality. Her fingers traced the lines of his muscles, the ridges of old scars, each touch a silent acknowledgment of the battles he had fought, both on the field and within himself.

The fabric slipped from his body, falling to the floor in a soft whisper of cloth against stone. She paused for a moment, her hands resting on his bare shoulders, her eyes meeting his with that same steady gaze that seemed to see straight through him.

"You carry so much weight, my lord," she murmured, her voice a soothing balm against the rawness of his emotions. "But you don't have to carry it alone. Let me help you."

There was no demand in her tone, no expectation—only a simple offer of solace, of something more than just the physical release he had come here seeking. And in that moment, Aemond felt something inside him begin to crack, the walls he had built around himself starting to crumble under the force of her quiet, unassuming care.

She guided him backward until the backs of his legs met the edge of the bed, and with a gentle nudge, she encouraged him to sit. He did so, his movements slow, almost hesitant, as if he was unsure of what would happen next, or perhaps unsure of how to let go of the control he so desperately clung to.

As he sat, she knelt before him, her hands continuing their exploration of his body, fingers dancing lightly over his chest, down to his abdomen, her touch both firm and tender. There was no rush in her movements, no urgency. It was as if she was taking her time to learn him, to understand the man beneath the title, beneath the scars and the armor he wore so tightly around his heart.

Aemond's breath came in shallow, uneven gasps as her hands roamed lower, her fingers brushing the waistband of his breeches. His entire body was taut, every muscle coiled with tension, not from fear or anger, but from the unfamiliar sensation of being treated with such care, such reverence.

She looked up at him, her eyes searching his as if seeking permission to continue. When he didn't pull away, didn't tell her to stop, she took it as a sign to proceed. Her fingers worked deftly at the ties of his breeches, and soon they were loose, the fabric pooling at his hips, exposing more of him to the cool air and her warm touch.

There was something about the way she looked at him—an intensity that made his pulse quicken, but it wasn't just desire in her eyes. There was a deeper understanding, a quiet acceptance that he had never seen in anyone else. It was as if she saw him, truly saw him, not just as a Targaryen prince, but as a man—flawed, scarred, and in need of something more than just physical release.

She leaned in closer, her breath warm against his skin as she placed a soft kiss just below his navel, her lips trailing a slow, deliberate path downwards. Aemond's breath hitched again, his grip on the bed tightening as he fought to maintain control, to keep himself from unraveling completely under her touch.

Her hands, so gentle yet confident, wrapped around his length, her fingers tracing every ridge, every vein with an almost reverent care. Aemond's head tilted back slightly, his eye closing as he allowed himself to focus solely on the sensations she was drawing out of him, sensations that were both overwhelming and strangely calming at the same time.

She moved with a deliberate slowness, her mouth following the path her hands had traced, her lips and tongue exploring him with a tenderness that was in stark contrast to the roughness he had expected, the roughness he had prepared himself for. But there was no rush in her movements, no sense of urgency. It was as if she was savoring every moment, every reaction she coaxed from him, and in doing so, she was pulling him further and further away from the anger, the bitterness that had brought him here.

Aemond's breath grew more ragged, his body tensing and relaxing in waves as she continued her work, her pace never quickening, never faltering. There was a patience in her, a steadiness that allowed him to let go, to release the control he had always held so tightly to. It was a strange feeling—being vulnerable, being cared for in this way—but it was also something he found himself craving more than he had realized.

As she took him deeper into her mouth, Aemond's hand instinctively moved to her head, his fingers threading through her silver-gold hair. But instead of gripping her, instead of forcing her to move faster, he found himself merely resting his hand there, a silent connection between them, a way to ground himself as the storm inside him began to quiet.

Her movements remained unhurried, her lips and tongue working him with a skill that was undeniable, yet it was the care in her actions that struck him the most. She wasn't just doing this to please him; she was doing it to soothe him, to offer him something he had never thought he would find in a place like this: comfort.

Aemond's breathing grew more erratic, his chest rising and falling with the effort to hold himself back, to keep from letting go completely. But as her mouth moved over him with that same maddening slowness, he felt the tension inside him start to break, the walls he had built around his heart and mind beginning to crumble under the weight of her gentleness.

He didn't want to lose control, didn't want to surrender to the sensations that were threatening to overwhelm him. But as she continued, her hands caressing his thighs, her mouth working him with a rhythm that was both torturous and perfect, he found it harder and harder to resist as her mouth continued its deliberate, measured work. Aemond's muscles tightened, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps, and his mind, usually sharp and focused, began to blur around the edges. It was as though she was drawing something out of him that he had buried deep, something he hadn't realized was still there—the need to be touched with care, to be seen not as the warrior or the dragon but as a man.

His hand, still tangled in her hair, relaxed its hold, his fingers sliding through the silky strands as if seeking something to anchor himself to. The tension in his body, the ever-present coil of anger and frustration that had driven him to this place, began to unravel, leaving him exposed in a way he hadn't expected. He could feel the heat building in his core, spreading outward in waves that made his body tremble with the effort to maintain control.

But she was relentless in her gentleness, never rushing, never pushing him beyond what he could handle. Her hands, so soft and steady, caressed his thighs, her fingers tracing patterns that seemed to calm the storm within him even as they stoked the fire in his blood. Every movement, every touch, was designed to coax him into letting go, into surrendering to the sensation, to the release that he so desperately needed but had been too afraid to seek.

Aemond's breath caught in his throat as the tension inside him reached its peak, his body tensing one final time before the inevitable release. He could feel the walls crumbling, the control he had clung to slipping away, and in that moment, he made a decision he hadn't intended to make: he let go.

With a low, guttural groan, Aemond's body jerked, his hand tightening in her hair as he finally surrendered to the pleasure she was giving him. The release was powerful, overwhelming, and it tore through him like a wave, crashing against the remnants of his control and washing away the anger, the bitterness, the doubts that had plagued him for so long.

She didn't falter, didn't pull away, her mouth continuing its slow, deliberate movements, drawing out every last shudder, every last tremor of pleasure until he was spent, his body slumping forward as the last of the tension drained from him. Aemond's hand slipped from her hair, falling to his side as he struggled to catch his breath, his mind reeling from the intensity of the experience.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of their breathing, the quiet intimacy of the room wrapping around them like a protective cocoon. She remained kneeling before him, her hands resting lightly on his thighs, her head bowed as she waited for him to recover, to find his footing again.

Aemond slowly opened his eye, blinking away the haze of pleasure as he looked down at her. The sight of her, so serene, so accepting, made something in his chest tighten again, but this time it wasn't from anger or fear. It was something softer, something more vulnerable, and it terrified him.

She looked up at him then, her eyes meeting his with that same calm, steady gaze that had both unnerved and soothed him from the moment he had first seen her. There was no triumph in her expression, no expectation—just a quiet understanding that left him feeling raw and exposed.

Without a word, she rose to her feet, her hands moving to his shoulders as she gently pushed him back onto the bed. Aemond didn't resist, didn't argue, allowing her to guide him, to take control of the situation in a way that felt oddly comforting.

She climbed onto the bed beside him, her body pressing against his as she wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close in an embrace that was as motherly as it was intimate. Aemond, still reeling from the intensity of his release, felt himself instinctively lean into her warmth, his head resting against her chest. The steady rhythm of her heartbeat against his ear was a soothing balm, grounding him in a way that he hadn't realized he needed.

Her fingers moved through his hair with slow, deliberate strokes, each caress designed to calm him, to ease the lingering tension in his muscles. She held him like a mother would hold a child, offering comfort and security in a way that was wholly unexpected, yet entirely welcome.

For a long time, neither of them spoke. And then suddenly, the mood shifted. 

Aemond lifted his head slightly to look at her, the vulnerability he had allowed himself to feel quickly morphing into something darker, more familiar. The calm acceptance in her eyes, the softness of her smile, all of it began to grate on him, stirring the old anger and bitterness that had been momentarily soothed.

He couldn't stand the way she looked at him, as if she understood him, as if she had some claim over his emotions. It made him feel exposed, weak, and that was something he could not tolerate. Not now. Not ever.

Without warning, he pulled away from her embrace, his expression hardening as the moment of tenderness evaporated. The sudden shift in his demeanor was sharp, jarring, and the hand that had once rested gently on her cheek now struck out with force, backhanding her across the face.

The sound of the slap echoed through the room, harsh and unforgiving. She gasped, her head snapping to the side, her hair falling over her face as she absorbed the blow. For a moment, the only sound in the room was their ragged breathing, his fueled by anger, hers by the shock of the sudden violence.

But she didn't cry out, didn't flinch away from him. Instead, she slowly turned her head back to face him, her cheek reddened from the strike, but her eyes still calm, still understanding. There was no fear in her expression, no anger, only that same motherly kindness that had been there from the beginning.

Aemond's chest heaved with the effort to contain the storm of emotions that had erupted within him. He expected her to recoil, to show fear or pain, something that would validate the anger he felt, something that would make him feel in control again. But instead, she simply looked at him with that unwavering gaze, as if she could see through the anger, through the violence, to the wounded boy beneath.

"You don't have to be this way, my lord," she said softly, her voice steady despite the blow she had just taken. "I understand your pain. I know you're hurting. But you don't have to face it alone."

Her words were like a dagger to his heart, piercing through the walls he had rebuilt in the wake of his earlier vulnerability. He hated her for it, hated the way she made him feel exposed, as if she could see the parts of him he had tried so hard to bury. But more than that, he hated himself for needing her comfort, for letting her get under his skin.

"Shut up," he snarled, his voice low and venomous. "You don't know anything about me."

Her gaze remained steady, her expression unchanged. "I know more than you think, my lord," she replied, her tone gentle but firm. "And I know that you're not the monster you pretend to be."

Aemond's hand twitched, as if he wanted to strike her again, to silence the words that cut too close to the truth. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. The anger still simmered beneath the surface, but it was tempered now by the gnawing sense of guilt that he couldn't quite shake.

"Leave," he ordered, his voice cold, trying to regain the control he had lost. "Get out."

She didn't argue, didn't try to protest. Instead, she reached out one last time, her fingers brushing against his cheek in a gesture that was achingly tender, as if she was trying to soothe the very pain he had just inflicted on her.

"I'll go, my lord," she said softly, "I shall let my mistress know you are to remain undisturbed."

With that, she stood, gathering her gown around her as she left the room. Aemond watched her go, his jaw clenched, his hands curled into fists at his sides.

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