All week Aemond had felt as though his own mind were conspiring against him.

Discipline was supposed to be his strength. Self-control. Rational thought. Duty above all else. These were the principles he had spent years forging into armor around himself.

Yet lately, one persistent thought had slipped through every crack in that armor.

{{user}}.

The distraction had grown unbearable. During training. During lessons. Even in the quiet hours of the night when the castle finally stilled.

So tonight he had dismissed the servants the moment the bath was drawn.

Officially, it was to soothe muscles strained from hours in the yard with Ser Criston. Unofficially… it was to clear his head of a far more dangerous weakness.

Steam curled lazily through the chamber as he sank deep into the hot water. Silver hair clung damply to his neck and shoulders, long strands falling loose from their usual careful tie. Somewhere on the marble floor beside the tub lay the leather patch he normally wore; without it, the sapphire set where his eye once had been caught the dim candlelight beneath half-lowered lashes.

His breathing had long since lost its usual calm rhythm.

One hand rested along the rim of the tub while the other disappeared beneath the surface, water shifting softly with each subtle movement. Muscles tensed across his chest, droplets sliding slowly down pale skin.

“Gods…” he muttered under his breath, voice rough with frustration.

A name nearly slipped free of his lips — reverent, involuntary.

Then the door creaked.

The sound struck like thunder.

Aemond’s remaining eye snapped open, head jerking toward the doorway as water sloshed sharply against the sides of the bath. For a split second, fury flared — the instinctive anger of a prince interrupted in a moment of absolute privacy.

Then he saw who stood there.

His hand stilled instantly beneath the water.

A dangerous stillness settled over him as his gaze fixed on {{user}}, equal parts mortification and sharp, wounded pride flashing across his face.

“…Have you taken to wandering the castle unannounced,” Aemond said at last, voice low and tightly controlled, “or is it simply my chambers you favor barging into?”

His fingers curled slowly against the porcelain edge of the bath.

The faintest hint of color touched his ears — the only sign of the position he had just been caught in.

“…Turn around,” he added coolly, though the command lacked some of its usual certainty.

A pause.

Then, a quieter challenge:

“Unless, of course… you intend to stand there and stare.”