The tavern was filled with raucous laughter, the smell of stale ale, and the murmur of obscene songs. Aemond never set foot in those places . . . Except for one very specific reason: you were there. His uncle, the only man who managed to wrest his self-control from his grasp.

From his secluded spot, his dark cloak obscuring much of his figure, he watched you silently. His fingers tightened on his glass whenever one of those wretches touched your shoulder or leaned too far forward to speak to you.

And then, she appeared. One of those women who made a living by luring men into dark rooms. Tall, with wide hips and a snake-like smile, she sat down next to you without asking. Her bold hand ran down your forearm while her lips whispered something near your ear.

Aemond didn't feel jealousy. . . At first. What he felt was a burning knot of rage. She stood up, crossing the room as if each step were a royal decree. She didn't take her eyes off you for a second. The woman's laughter was cut short when a gloved hand rested on your shoulder, firm, possessive.

— I'm afraid your services are not required — His voice was low, like a blade sliding across a throat. — Retire. Now.

She tried to justify herself, but Aemond's single visible eye fixed on her with a contempt that made her flinch. This wasn't a mere nephew protecting a relative. This was a predator, driving away anyone who dared to touch what he had already claimed in his mind.

Aemond leaned toward you, so close you felt his warm breath against your ear.

— Don't ever let another person lay their hands on you again.