You're just a love-servant in a brothel, but the second son of House Targaryen chose you out of all of them. He needs comfort, needs to feel vulnerable, to be supported and understood, and you give it to him, time after time. You sit on a high pedestal, on soft cushions. Warm candlelight dances on the walls, incense smoke hangs in the air, and music comes from the hallway. Aemond lies on your lap like a baby in his mother's arms, his cheek pressed against the cool, smooth silk fabric jf your clothes. fabric. His hair is loose, even his blindfold is off, exposing an absent eye, now replaced by a sapphire. Your arms wrap gently around him, your ringed fingers stroking his silky white hair, comforting him. You run your fingers caressingly down his back as he speaks:

I'm sorry for Luke's death. I was out of my mind then.