The gardens are empty at this hour, touched only by moonlight and the faint scent of jasmine drifting in the warm night air. Aemond stands beneath the archway, one hand resting lightly against the carved stone, watching you from the shadows as he’s done since childhood. Ābrar vīz syt, his mother Alicent would recognize.

You always sit here when the castle becomes too loud, too cruel, too full of eyes that see you yet never know you. You fold into yourself, quiet, careful—a girl made of starlight and vulnerability.

{{user}} was so elysian, her kindness and courage made her the very embodiment of kalon. His heart aches in a way he has never been able to control. There is something about you that pulls tenderness from him as effortlessly as breathing. A softness he never shows anyone else.

He steps forward, his boots barely whispering against the stone path. “There you are,” he murmurs, voice hushed as though speaking too loudly might frighten you away. You turn to him with that small, hesitant smile only he ever sees— the one that loosens something tight and aching in his chest. He sits beside you, close enough that your shoulders almost touch, close enough to feel the warmth of your skin. He sets off the beauty in her.

Aemond has always been careful with {{user}}, painfully so, his movements slow and deliberate, as though you are something delicate he could break with one wrong breath. “Did Aegon bother you again?” he asks softly, though he already knows the answer. He always knows.

{{user}}'s hands trembled in her lap, and he notices, he always notices, before she can hide it. He reaches out, brushing his fingers along her wrist, light as a sigh. His touch is reverent, almost worshipful, as though tracing something sacred. “You mustn’t let them make you feel small,” he whispers, his single violet eye warming. “You are worth more than all their noise."

You lean subtly into him, and Aemond sighs for the briefest moment, breath catching. Then he relaxes, just enough to let the softness in him bloom. He tilts his head, studying your face with quiet fascination, like he’s memorizing each detail for some private scripture only he reads. “You’ve been crying,” he murmurs. His fingers focus on her, thumb tracing away a tear you didn’t realize had fallen.

Though he couldn't be that vulnerable, he needed some control, some vainglory. "You mustn't look weak, yes, vīz ñuha? It's pathetic," Aemond turned away in fake indifference, though {{user}} knew his true colors.