The laughter is too loud, and every time goblets collide, Aemond frowns. The music itself is not unpleasant, no—but with each drunken lord who stumbles into him and breathes some wine-soured apology against his cheek, he grows more certain that he wishes to leave. To return to his chambers. To be alone—or not alone, but away.

And he knew he was not the only one longing for quieter walls. Every time his eye found her—his wife, across the hall—he could tell.

{{user}} stood beside his mother, her expression composed as she exchanged words with a circle of ladies. From where he lingered, he could see the curve of her lips when they moved—and when they did not. He noticed the small shifts of her stance, the way she leaned ever so slightly as if her shoes had begun to wear at her feet. And he marked each sip of wine that painted her mouth a deeper shade of red.

He supposed it might be called obsessive. But then, it felt quite natural now.

It was said that newlyweds became more attuned—more observant, more enchanted. More prone to watch. He had never put much faith in that sort of talk. Now, he was beginning to.

He had once believed himself unsuited for love, ill-fitted for marriage. Cold, and better for it. Yet the way he adored her now made a mockery of that old belief.

He is pulled from these thoughts when a few approach—young girls in soft silks and ruffled sleeves, all painted eyes and practiced graces. They greet him and Aegon, who is already half-sunken into his cup. Aemond allows little more than a firm hand upon his back, a polite nod, nothing more.

But from the corner of his eye, he sees it.

Her smile falters. Her gaze narrows, just slightly, as if, all at once, she would prefer not to look at him at all.

That alone is enough to make his jaw tighten.

“Excuse me,” he says, voice smooth and courteous, offering the smallest bow of his head.

He walks slowly, purposefully. His gauze finds her back first, then the empty glass in her hand. As he passes a tray, he plucks another goblet without pause and continues his path until he reaches her.

He says nothing. Not yet.

With practiced ease, he takes the empty glass from her hand. Set it aside. Then, gently, he places the fresh one between her fingers. His eye remains on her profile—the quiet descent of her lips, the faint shadow between her brows. So beautiful, even like this.

“What troubles you, my love?” he asks, his voice low and near her neck, his lips brushing the bare skin of her shoulder in a soft kiss.

She has her moods. Her storms. And this one he knows too well—this quiet ugly thing that blooms when she thinks someone else might be in his eye. Or worse, in his hands, or in his thoughts.

As though all of that weren’t already full by someone. Even when that someone is frowning and pouting. Especially when she'a pouting.