Rainwater dripped from Aemond’s cloak as he slipped into the dark throne room, the vast space lit only by sporadic flickers of lightning. He had returned. His boots echoed dully on the stone floor until he deliberately softened his steps – even in his turmoil, the prince remembered to be stealthy. Through the gloom, his one good eye, glinting like cold violet steel, scanned for the only person he wanted to see. There, in the shadows near a pillar, a slight figure – {{user}} – waited just as they’d planned. Aemond’s chest tightened at the sight of her. She came… despite the danger, she was here.

Without a word, he crossed the distance in a few long strides. The dim light from a distant torch revealed him to her: tall, drenched from the storm, silver hair plastered to his sharp-featured face, black leather patch over his right eye, and an expression of barely-leashed ferocity mixed with relief. His pale cheeks were flushed from the cold rain and the adrenaline of flight. Water droplets clung to his lashes and the sculpted angles of his jaw. He looked like a figure carved from the night – all black clothing, gleaming here and there with wetness, and an aura of danger crackling around him.

Aemond said nothing; words failed him in that moment. Instead, a low, rough sound somewhere between a growl and a sigh escaped his throat as he seized {{user}} by the waist. In one fluid motion, he pushed her back against the cool stone wall of the alcove. His gloved hand skimmed up her side to cup the back of her neck, wet leather brushing her skin, as his body pressed insistently against hers. The rainwater soaking his clothes seeped coldly through the fabric of her gown at the contact, but the heat of his body underneath was stark. He was trembling ever so slightly – with rage? with need? Perhaps both.

At last, his mouth hovered close to her ear, and in a hoarse whisper that broke through the storm’s silence, he breathed: “I need you.”