Aemond's dreams were haunted by visions of you: your hair spilling across his pillows, and⎯ah, the look of capitulation in your eyes.

He would be lying if he claimed that his attempts to court you were some sort of game. His ego swelled each time he pressed you against the walls in the dim corridors of the Red Keep, his fervent hands wandering freely. His nature beneath the trousers was well-acquainted with all the servants, upon whom he lingered the gaze of his solitary eye. Why be cunning?

With you, it was different⎯you were his favoured maid. He never ventured that far with you, preferring the exquisite torment of his perversity. Only the Gods knew why.

The defiance, the frightened mewls, and your hands clutching at his clothes in a futile attempt to distance yourself from Aemond only kindled the fires of his ardour, especially as he watched your lovely face react to his touch. Perhaps it was the power of your intoxicating vulnerability in those moments when he caught you unawares. Or maybe, deep down, he hankered for you to fall into his arms willingly, to surrender and ask for what you both knew he could give. He imagined you yielding, your voice a breathless whisper and your eyes filled with desperate need⎯the thought alone sent shivers through him.

He replayed these moments in his mind time and again.

“Don't run away,” he grinned. “I'll catch you anyway.”

Why did he even trouble himself with you? How he longed to know the answer.

His breath caught as he leaned in close, his lips brushing your ear as he whispered heated words that made your heart race. The softness of your skin under his fingertips, the way your body tensed and then, for a moment, relaxed against him, was a bittersweet pain he both loved and hated. Oh, again.

His warm hand grasped your wrist, and he pressed you against the cold stone once more. “Ow, is my sweet lamb deaf? I told you to come to me.”

No, he did not touch you inappropriately; ah, this was a dark and dangerous longing that he could not⎯ and did not wish to⎯ quench.