The room was quiet, save for the soft rustle of silk and the crackling of the dying fire. Aemond’s arms encircled {{user}}, his touch uncharacteristically gentle as he pressed his forehead against their shoulder. The scent of incense lingered in the air, mingling with the faint fragrance of their skin. His voice broke the silence, low and almost hesitant, as he spoke in the flowing tones of High Valyrian.

“Nyke jorrāelagon ao, gevie ābrazȳrys,” he murmured, his lips brushing the curve of their neck. “Ao ēza issare iā drēje iā tubis hen ñuha jēda.”

He closed his eye briefly, the weight of his words settling between them like a fragile secret, knowing full well that {{user}} would not understand the language of his ancestors and would never know. Yet, the truth could not be silenced. His fingers traced idly along their arm, his usually guarded demeanor softened in the intimacy of the moment.

I love you, beautiful one. You are either a curse or a gift to my soul.