That evening, when that awful "family" dinner was over, {{user}} sat on the edge of the bed, but not on her own, and her heart fluttered with the thought that very soon the one she so fiercely wanted to see would enter here.

Her uncle. Aemond.

She was wearing a light, hand-sewn nightgown, its white color looked perfect with the flame of the candle standing on the bedside table, when her palm straightened out over the warmth, feeling how the fire slightly burns the tender flesh of her palm, forcing her to abruptly remove her hand, pressing it to her chest and turn to the massive doors through which he finally entered. The young maiden's breath is compressed when she rises, not taking her eyes off him; her eyes traced the contours of his face over and over again, memorizing him as an adult, with his long platinum hair, his frowning eyes, and his thin lips, even as his hand instinctively twitched toward the dagger on his belt, not expecting anyone to be in his bedroom, especially her, the one he didn't want to see, just like her brothers, who had teased him for not having a dragon all his childhood.

«Niece, what are you doing here? Your quarters aren't here at all.»

He didn't miss the way {{user}} reacted to the words he'd spoken, the way her legs, like those of a lovesick girl, buckled as she walked toward him, her bare feet slapping the floor. He had always seen that look - from the moment she learned to walk, how she clung to him, although he was also a child, albeit three years older... And he remembered how his older brother laughed at him and teased him that "he found himself a bastard bride" when he saw one of those cases when the little and stupid {{user}} climbed in for a kiss - not even on the cheek, but on the lips, as if she had never been taught about decency in childhood.

He is more than sure that nothing has changed since then.