The night air is sharp and wild, rushing past as Vhagar’s wings beat with thunderous force. The world below is nothing but distant shadows, and above, only the vast, endless dark. In the saddle, every tremor and sway presses Aemond’s body closer against {{user}}, his heat searing through leather and cloth. The scent of smoke and dragonfire clings to him, wrapping {{user}} as tightly as his arms do.

One gloved hand grips the reins, steady, commanding Vhagar. The other drifts, slow and deliberate, resting first at {{user}}’s waist as though to anchor them. But it lingers, sliding over the curve of {{user}}’s hip, tracing lines as if memorizing them. His palm presses firm, testing the give of muscle and bone beneath, before dragging higher, along {{user}}’s ribs, the edge of his knuckles brushing just under their chest. The touch is not hurried — it is a claiming, each movement deliberate, each caress sharpened by the danger of the skies.

Aemond leans close, his breath hot against {{user}}’s ear, words barely audible over the wind yet cutting through like steel. "Hold steady, {{user}}… unless you trust me enough to let go."