Aemond hardly went to Sept. Not unless his mother made him go with her or he wished to see you.

A Septa. The same one he could spend hours watching, the same one that stole his heart and the same one that let him stole hers.

Aemond knew it was bad. Sept was a sacred place, when people came to pray, to seek guidance and mercy of gods. But he was not seeking the mercy of gods but of hers. To let him stole the kisses from her pretty, pink lips or let him kneel not to prayer but before her. To let him see the silver strands of her hair, the same one perhaps his uncle or even his father passed down to her.

And now standing in the same corridor they always shared most romantic moments he couldn’t help but pull the veil down making her hair visible to his eye again. Few strands fell from her braid and he sighed in delight.

“Good gods how I wish you weren’t a Septa.” He whispered against your skin. “I would make you a princess, my wife” he mumbled.