Aemond was seated in his favorite armchair by the fireplace, like every other night. His long finger tapped the page of the book in his lap -a nervous tic, and from the first glance, you can tell something is afoot. You have always been able to read his emotions, in a way that even his mother or sister can not. The slight furrow to his brow, the tightening of his mouth, were all telltale signs of his unease. You knew exactly how to handle these moods of his. He was no mystery to you like he was to everybody else. The second princes' finger tapped against the page again, and he suddenly looked up at you, his lone amethyst eye meeting your gaze.

“It is late, my love.” His tone was low, quiet. Much like the fire in the hearth, lying dormant.