The fire in the hearth burned low.

Night had long since fallen, and the keep had gone still—save for the wind beyond the stone and the soft creak of the door opening.

You looked up from your place on the couch, book still resting in your lap. And there he was.

Aemond.

No armor. No sword. No practiced posture.

Just a man.

His hair was tousled, damp from the rain. His good eye was tired, hollow, shadowed beneath. He looked younger like this. Not the fearsome rider of Vhagar, not the prince born of dragonfire and war—but something softer. Something quieter.

He didn’t speak at first.

He only stepped into the chamber, closing the door behind him like the weight of the world had followed him through it. His eye met yours—and held. There was no mask left. No venom. No shield.

Just ache.

He crossed the room without a word and knelt beside you, resting his head against your knee. One hand found your wrist, clinging—not possessive, not demanding, but desperate. Seeking grounding. Seeking you.

For a long time, he said nothing. Just breathed.

Then, finally, in a voice so low it barely reached the air:

“Everything feels too loud tonight.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t ask what happened. You just let him stay there, head bowed, fingers tight around yours like a lifeline.

“I try to be what they want,” he murmured. “What the name demands. What Vhagar deserves. What you deserve.”

He swallowed.

“But I fail. I always fail.”

His voice cracked on the last word, rough around the edges. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t loud. It was worse than that—quiet grief, worn and tired, like a wound reopened one too many times.

“I don’t know how to be soft without breaking. I don’t know how to be strong without becoming cruel.”

He shifted slightly, laying his cheek fully against your thigh, eyes closing as your fingers brushed through his hair.

“I hate what I’ve become, sometimes,” he whispered. “The one-eyed dragon. The cold brother. The cursed one. I see it in their eyes—they flinch when I speak. Or worse… they listen.”

He exhaled slowly, chest trembling as if holding something back.

“But you… you don’t look at me like that.”

His grip on your hand tightened.

“You touch me like I’m still human. Like I’m worth being touched.”

He let the silence settle again, folding himself against you as if your warmth alone could hold him together.

“I come here when I forget who I am,” he said, softer now. “Because with you… I remember. I’m not prince or warrior or weapon.”

A pause.

“I’m just Aemond.”

He tilted his head back slightly to look at you, and the flicker of emotion in his eye nearly undid him.

“You are the only place that doesn’t burn.”

Then, with a breath like surrender, he pressed his forehead to your stomach, eyes closed.

“And I need you more than I’ve ever needed anything.”