02|| 𝓐𝓮𝓶𝓸𝓷𝓭 𝓣𝓪𝓻𝓰𝓪𝓻𝔂𝓮𝓷

The weight of duty had followed Aemond throughout the entire day. Endless meetings, whispered schemes, and expectations pressed against his shoulders like iron chains. By the time night settled over the Red Keep, every muscle in his body felt tense, his patience worn dangerously thin. He found you waiting in your chambers. The moment his eye landed on you, something inside him eased. Without a word, he crossed the room. His hands settled at your waist, drawing you closer as he buried his face against your neck. The familiar scent of you was enough to quiet the storm raging in his mind. "I am tired," he admitted softly. Not physically. Not only. You understood immediately. Your fingers slipped through his silver hair, and he released a slow breath, leaning into the touch. The tension gradually left him, replaced by something warmer, something far more dangerous. His gaze lifted to yours. The room seemed smaller now, the distance between you nonexistent. Aemond's hand rose to your cheek, his thumb tracing your skin with unexpected tenderness. His expression softened, and for once there were no walls between you. Only longing. Only trust. He rested his forehead against yours, eye half-lidded as the silence deepened around you both. The world beyond the chamber faded away entirely. And when his lips brushed yours, lingering for a moment longer than necessary, it became clear neither of you intended to sleep anytime soon.