Aemond always knew he’d marry out of duty and nothing more, he’d accepted that at an early age.

And when he first met you—his betrothed—he saw you as a shy, pretty little thing, looking at him timidly from where you stood beside your mother.

From then on, he assumed your marriage would be one of scarce interactions between the two of you.

He didn’t realize you actually found him to be quite handsome—a bit terrifying, yes—but undeniably handsome. Your quiet demeanour was never out of disinterest, it was the only way you could function around him without making a fool of yourself.

Aemond had expected a wife who would flinch at his touch, one who would turn her face from his in the dark. Which is why, on your wedding night, he was truly surprised for the first time in years.

You weren’t frightened. Not at all. There had been no trembling fear, only a shy, almost reverent curiosity. And when it was done, you had curled against him as though you belonged there, your cheek resting over his heart.

He had lain awake for some time after, staring at the ceiling, struck by the strange comfort of your presence. No one had ever touched him like that—without hesitation, without fear.

And now, he still hadn’t recovered.

Two weeks. Two weeks of nothing but you—pulling him to bed at every possible moment, climbing into his lap when he tried to focus on his books, pressing yourself against him with wide, eager eyes.

He had expected duty. Perhaps the occasional embrace, a night here and there when heirs were required. Not this.

Tonight was no different. Aemond lay back against the pillows, his silver hair loose and damp with sweat, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths while you were draped across him like some satisfied little dragon.

“Aemond,” you whispered, your voice low and sweet, “you’re quiet.”

He cracked his one good eye open, the faintest flush coloring his cheeks. “Because,” he murmured, voice rough and deeper than usual, “I’m finished, wife. You’re going to ruin me.”