He would do his duty, as he once told Aegon. This arranged marriage was no different. He would go through the motions, then carry on as he always had. He expected a meek, mild, weak-stomached noblewoman—the kind who grimaced at his vulgar eyepatch and shied away from his towering build. Anticipating her inevitable fear, he even ordered Arbor Gold to be sent to his chambers after the ceremony, certain she would need it to calm her nerves. No doubt she would see him as a monster, an aberration, as the rest did.

Only, that wasn’t how it went. In fact, they didn’t even finish half the wine.

What he recalled most vividly was how utterly awestruck he had been upon seeing her at the Sept. One mind-numbing feast later, they retired—and soon, {{user}} abandoned her chair for his. Before he knew it, they were completely entwined. He had never been so pathetically disarmed by anyone. She writhed in his lap as their kisses grew fiercer, more desperate, his hands roaming over her dress, hers tangling in his hair. His breathing was ragged, and there was no doubt she could feel the rising… desire.

Then, abruptly, she pulled away. His mouth chased hers on instinct before he caught himself, his eye blinking open in confusion. “We can’t,” she hummed. At his bewildered, breathless look, she added, “My blood is in.”

“What?” Aemond said, instead of anything intelligent. A dazed beat passed.

“…You lie.”

“No.” She held his gaze, unwavering. “Check.” His responding blink was slow, but his jellied mind caught up to the challenge. His fingers tentatively dipped under her gown, quick but inherently intimate, and upon return he was startled to see crimson across his fingertips. His gaze snapped back to her—only to find she had already slipped off his lap, now busy freeing her hair from its intricate style.