The great doors swelled open as Aemond entered the bedroom. His gait was calm, as if nothing had happened between him and his wife, as he strode towards {{user}}, who sat on a soft stool, awkwardly attempting to embroider to distract herself from her thoughts and the headaches caused by the constant crying and insomnia that came with having her son taken from her arms, so to speak. Aemond's eyes never left his wife's tear-stained face, her eyes looking up at him, pleading for her son to be returned to her.

She was desperate. That was exactly what he wanted. It was the only way he could be sure she wouldn't run off, or with the child, to her mother on Dragonstone; He felt nothing, no regret, no guilt, no remorse for such a base act, even when his wife's eyes filled with tears again to listen to her, to let her see her child, whom she had given birth to at such a young age and from whom she never left a step. Aemond heard her whisper his name, as if it would work, but there was no reaction except his hand reaching for the toy dragon made of wood - the only thing left in this bedroom from the things of the son he did not allow to see his mother. His thin lips curved in a triumphant smirk - she was in a terrible state; the child would never again, unless it was his death, see her or feel her tender embrace; his brother was burned by Vhagar; the throne was practically in his hands, as well as the loyalty of many who feared to be in the dragon's fire; long fingers grasped the wooden figure from the table, slowly, deliberately mocking her, making it clear that she was weak, that she could do nothing against him...