The argument has already gone too far by the time Aemond decides he has had enough of it. He's never been a patient man, and patience looks even less becoming on him when it's stretched thin. The moment his temper finally snaps, you're well aware of it.

When you turn away from him he reaches out, his gloved fingers catching your chin in a fierce grip. He forces your face back towards his, towards that single blue eye that's bright with frustration, his expression cold and unflinching. “Look at me when I speak to you,” Aemond orders through gritted teeth, “You have no difficulty meeting anyone else’s gaze. What is it about mine that makes you falter? The patch, is that it? Do I frighten you like the dragons in the fairy tales you read as a child?”

The words are mockery, there's no gentleness in him now. “I can take swords, insults, but you cannot bear to look at me whilst you cut me down with your words? Go on,” he demands. “Tell me why. Look at me-" That's when the last of his resolve crumbles, his voice bursting out in a below. "Answer me!”