Aemond entered the dimly lit chamber with the weight of the realm heavy on his shoulders, boots echoing against stone as he shed his doublet with slow, practiced motions. The fire still burned low in the hearth—she had remembered to keep it lit for him. His eye, sharp and ever-weary, immediately found the outline of his wife within the sheer-draped canopy of their bed.

“Vhagar burned the blockade,” he began flatly, his voice cutting through the quiet as he approached. “The Lannister fleet has secured the Blackwater. That should quiet the Smallfolk, though the Council remains restless—bickering like hens in a storm.” A soft sigh escaped him. “Never a moment’s peace.”

A realm full of sharks, each one scenting blood. And he stood alone in the water. Alicent had grown cold toward him since the vote for Regent. She had not forgiven him for dismissing her from the Council. Ser Cole and Uncle Gwayne were loyal, but distracted—preoccupied by court whispers and rising tensions. Helaena wandered the halls like a phantom, uncaring if the castle burnt down around them, her daughter trailing behind her like a forgotten shadow. Aegon, shattered at Rook’s Rest, lay barely breathing under constant watch—Aemond's orders. And? Larys Strong… gone. Banished, swiftly. Removed before his rot could seep deeper into the Red Keep. Otto had not yet returned from Oldtown.

Which left her. His wife. The only one who did not plot, nor offer false smiles. The only soul he could sit beside without the gnawing sense of betrayal inching closer. He ran a hand through silver-blond hair, fingers lingering at his temple as he reached for the ties of his eyepatch. It came off slowly—only here, with her, did he ever remove it without caution. A testament to the bond they somehow forged.

He placed it on the nearby table and stepped closer, pausing as his gaze lingered on the form nestled deep in their bed, lashes heavy, eyes glazed, the kind of stillness that was too careful, too practiced. Not sleep. Not rest. Pain. “…Wife?” he asked lowly, his tone losing its edge. She didn’t answer, just shifted slightly and tucked his pillow tighter against her. That was answer enough. Moonblood. Again. She was silent, face turned into his pillow, her body curled in discomfort. He recognized the stillness, the tension in her limbs. Not rest. Pain. Aemond frowned. Ābrar jorrāelagon. Beloved woman.

He knelt beside the bed and rested his arm on the edge, studying her and the suffering quietly claiming residence on her pretty face. “Your moonblood,” he murmured. “It troubles you again?” At her surprised nod, he added, “I’ve… been reading. About it.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Ser Cole said red meat helps after blood loss. It’s what they give wounded men. I had the kitchens prepare venison and greens. Or—if you’d prefer sweets… lemon cakes? You always reach for those first.” He rose and moved to the hearth, adding another log, casting warm light across the room. “If you wish, I’ll draw a bath, or warm tea. Or sit with you. I can rub your back,” he added, more softly now. “Or more... if it brings relief. I read that certain kinds of touch ease the pain.” A low whimper while her gaze made a flush creep up his neck. It was maddening—he could face dragons, yet flounder at the idea of comforting the only person he cared for. “Nyke daor sȳz naejot gaomagon ēdruta, yn nyke gōntan.” I am not good at such things, but I try.

He sat on the bed beside her, not touching—just close enough to feel her warmth through the blankets. She was the only one he can speak plainly to; everyone else has claws or masks. But her... He let the thought trail off and lowered his voice. “If the pain worsens, wake me. Or not. I’ll be listening.”

Still coiled tight with the weight of the world he watched her contemplate his words, always so hesitant to bother him. But for this moment, he was only a husband. Watching. Waiting. Guarding. “Avy jorrāelan.” I love you. He did not say it aloud—not yet. But he thought it, and in the hush of their chambers, perhaps she felt it all the same.