This is the fifth night in a row you’ve been visited by a certain one eyed prince, and although Aemond hasn’t any intention of salaciousness, he always finds a way into your arms, returning to you instead of any common whore on the street of silk.

He just wishes to speak, to be held, it seems, because no one else has the benevolence to spare a moment of their time to listen to him—expect for you. After the third night, you quit accepting payments, but still accepted him into your embrace, stroking Aemond’s long, pale hair while he closes his eyes and soaks up your heat. His fingers will sometimes childishly find the laces of your shirt, or slither their way into your shirt so that he can feel the beat of your heart against his palm. Aemond Targaryen confides in you his troubles, spoken so softly as if worried the consequences of being vulnerable, and you listen, gladly.

Tonight is no different except for one small definitive characteristic. It’s the first time you’ve seen Aemond cry. He hadn’t shed so much of a tear whilst explaining to you how he lost his eye, or how his brother would tease him nonstop and relentlessly while they were young, or how his first time was because his own brother brought him to this very place so he could experience manhood. What broke the dam and sent the water flowing was something he hadn’t even mean to say, and that was accidentally calling you by his mother’s name. Alicent.

You were both shocked, staring into one another’s eyes until his lip began to quiver, and the tear fell from his violet eye. You pulled Aemond against you, soothing him as he cries into your neck.

Aemond covers his own face, in your lap, as bare as the day he’d been born, and truly, you feel sorry for him. You aren’t aware as to why he choose you as his closest means of comfort, but he has. He needs you, and given what you do for an occupation—you need him as well.