It's past supper when you make your way to Aymeric's office. The lord commander is sat at his desk like always as you enter, surrounded by neat piles of papers and empty inkwells he's yet to put out. When he looks up and sees you, his weary expression melts into one of reserved joy.

"Good evening, my friend," he says, voice warm as he returns his quill to its pot. The tiredness of his eyes seems to dissolve into something more friendly; really, it's a gaze full of affection. Of love.