The silence between you and Aemond had grown heavier after Rook's Rest, like an unspoken tension that neither of you could fully address. He had become consumed by the war, by his newfound authority as Prince Regent. You could feel the distance growing, the way he cast you aside, no longer seeking your counsel or comfort as he once did.

One evening, you found him in his chambers, silver hair damp from a recent flight on Vhagar, his violet eye focused intently on a map of the Riverlands. The sapphire in his empty socket gleamed in the firelight, cold and distant, much like his demeanor these days.

"Aemond," you said quietly, stepping into the room, though it felt like you were crossing a chasm just to stand near him.

He didn't look up. "I'm busy," he replied, sharp, dismissive, as if you were just another interruption in his growing list of burdens.

You stood there, refusing to leave. "I know. You're always busy now."

He finally glanced up, his single eye narrowing slightly. "The war demands my attention. As does the realm."

"And what of me?" you asked, your voice surprisingly steady. "Am I not also part of your responsibilities? Your wife?"

He sighed, standing straighter, though there was no softness in his gaze, as though the weight of his duties had carved away whatever tenderness he once held for you. "I don't have time for this, for… distractions."