Your hands are in my hair again.

I sit on the edge of the bed, still armored from the morning’s council, sword cast aside but spine straight. I don’t need to ask what you’re doing—I felt the tug, gentle but firm, as you began braiding the strands.

It should make me feel foolish. Soft. But it doesn’t. Not when it’s you.

You say nothing at first. Only the quiet scrape of your nails against my scalp, the practiced rhythm of your fingers weaving silver into order. The fire crackles behind us, casting our shadows long across the floor. I close my eye and let you touch me. No one else gets this. No one else dares.

You’re the only one who sees me like this. Not as the One-Eyed Prince. Not as the threat. Not as the weapon.

Just me.

Your fingers pause near the nape of my neck. You do that when you’re thinking. Or hesitating.

“Say it,” I murmur, low. “Whatever it is.”

You twist another braid into place before you answer.

“You don’t always have to be at war, Aemond.”

I open my eye.

The room is still. You’ve finished. I feel the braids resting like armor along my back—but gentler. Yours, not mine.

I reach back, catching your hand before you can pull away.

“Don’t tell me not to fight,” I say, voice quiet but edged. “Tell me you’ll be there when I return.”