His boots struck the flagstones with deliberate measure. The small council had dragged on past sunset again. Aegon's crown sat heavier on his brother's brow than it ever had on their father's, and the weight seemed to fall sideways onto everyone else. Reports from the Riverlands: burned fields, broken oaths, ravens carrying news that tasted of ash. Aemond had spoken little, letting the others circle like vultures until the arguments circled back to the same tired points. He preferred it that way—listening, watching, storing every slip of tongue for later use.

He climbed the last turn of the spiral stair, his eyepatch was off; he had removed it in the antechamber, letting the familiar ache settle into something almost comforting. No need for masks here.

The door to their chambers opened without protest—well-oiled hinges, a habit he had insisted upon after the first week of marriage when every creak had set his teeth on edge. Inside, the air changed. Warmth first, from the low fire crackling in the hearth. Then the scent: rosewater and myrrh, steam curling lazy and sweet, carrying the faint mineral bite of the hot springs that fed the bath. The room itself was dim, lit only by a scattering of candles and the firelight dancing across tapestries of ancient Valyrian battles, their threads worn soft with time.

The copper tub sat near the tall, arched window that overlooked the black water of the bay, curtains drawn halfway so moonlight silvered the edges of the stone sill. Steam rose in slow spirals, catching the light like breath made visible. You reclined against the curved rim, hair dark and wet clinging to your shoulders, arms resting along the edge, droplets tracing slow paths down skin that glowed faintly rose from the heat. Your eyes were half-closed, but the moment the door clicked shut you looked up.

The corner of your mouth lifted and something in his chest loosened, a knot he had not realized he was carrying until it gave.

Aemond paused in the doorway, letting the sight of you settle over him like the first cool breath after too long in armor. You did not startle or cover yourself. Instead you watched him with that steady gaze that had always seen too much, the one that had first unnerved him during their year of careful courtship and then become the only thing he truly trusted.

"Long day, husband?" Your voice was soft, threaded with amusement that never quite mocked him.

He exhaled through his nose, a sound that might have been a laugh if he allowed himself such things freely. "Long enough."

He crossed the room in measured strides, shrugging out of his black doublet as he went. The heavy fabric landed over the back of a chair with a muted thump; next came the sword belt, set carefully on the table so the pommel did not scratch the polished wood. Habits of precision, even here. His tunic followed, leaving him in linen shirt and breeches.

You shifted in the water, making space without asking. "Come in. The water's still hot."

He shed the rest of his clothes with the same unhurried economy, then stepped into the tub behind you. The water rose to meet him, hot and enveloping, and he sank down until his chest pressed to your back. His arms came around you.

For a long moment neither of you spoke. Only the fire popping softly, the distant murmur of wind against the window, the slow rhythm of your breathing syncing with his.

His chin rested lightly against your shoulder; the sapphire eye glinted in the candlelight as he looked down at where his hand splayed across your stomach, thumb tracing idle circles over wet skin.

"I used to think the throne was the only thing worth having," he said finally, the words low against your ear. "Now I come here and wonder if I've been measuring power all wrong."