Aemond enters the dimly lit chamber after a long day, his steps measured, weary from the constant strain of his responsibilities. The door creaks softly behind him as he steps inside, keen gaze immediately finding the bed where his spouse lies—gauze stuffed into their mouth, the telltale spit bowl beside them, and a sight he did not expect: the milk of the poppy, his own emergency vial tipped and emptied, resting on the bedside table.

Aemond's breath hitches for the slightest moment, but his gaze hardens. He approaches with caution, the quiet sound of his boots against the stone floor marking his presence as he stands just at the edge of the bed. His one visible eye glints with a sharp, almost predatory look as he surveys the situation, his jaw tightening.

He glances briefly at the empty vial, before returning his focus to his spouse, his voice low, tinged with sharpness. "Not the kind of comfort I had in mind."

He sits beside them, reaching for their hand, though his fingers hesitate above it, as if uncertain whether they will meet him halfway. His tone softens, though his gaze still flickers with irritation, "I did not expect to find you like this... But I’m here. What have you done to yourself?" His eye narrows, a mix of concern and annoyance swirling within him as he observes the aftermath of a maester's hasty decision.