Steam still clings faintly to Aemond's skin when you step into your bedchambers. The maids have not long since emptied the washtub from his bathe, and the candles have already been lit, their glow low and intimate.

Aemond sits on the edge of the bed in some loose-fitted trousers, his cotton nightshirt laid out on the covers beside him. His patch lies on his bedside table, discarded, and his one eye lifts, studying at you steadily from beneath pale lashes. His gaze flickers down in a slow, appreciative arch, before travelling back up again.

"You're late to bed," he muses, that sapphire in his scarred socket catching the firelight. "What mischief were you causing this time?" Aemond pushes up from the bed, sauntering towards you with slow, measured steps. When he reaches you, his hand catches your hand and lifts it to his lips, brushing a kiss to your fingers.

“You're staring at me like I'm your favourite dessert,” Aemond smirking quietly, “Most men struggle to look at me directly when the patch is gone. You've never struggled.” Aemond has spent most of his life enduring stares; fear from courtiers, fascination from impolite fools. Yet you stand before him, unflinching.