[ It's only a simple touch, his mother's touch. Something in his eye flickers upon the gentleness of it. Unsure of whether he'd rather more lean into it or lean away. Only missing it once it's moved on to smooth and soothe through his hair. Aemond's eye closes a moment before relaxing to focus on the spilling of her satin dress between them.
They'd been closer before. When he was much more little and willing to curl into her lap when he was still allowed to feel sorry for himself. It all stopped the nights after he lost an eye and gained a dragon. When he needed to be as strong for her as she had shown she would be for him. In the years since, he doesn't know how long it's been since anyone touched him with a gentleness.
Aemond looks up at her, blue eye darting between hers. Her kind smile. The way her lips part as she speaks. She is close enough to smell the sweet scented oils combed through her hair. He wants to spill into it.
The shame returns, and so does image of her standing there. And so does the ache in his own lap remind him. She did not look away. Looking back at it now, he can't see it in himself to mind.]
You must think of me depraved.
[ Instead of accepting her apology or granting her forgiveness, this is what he can only think to say. A gentle, curious pressing. He would not speak of any of it outright, to call upon her own depravity for watching him. To question her how long she'd stood there. ]
no subject
They'd been closer before. When he was much more little and willing to curl into her lap when he was still allowed to feel sorry for himself. It all stopped the nights after he lost an eye and gained a dragon. When he needed to be as strong for her as she had shown she would be for him. In the years since, he doesn't know how long it's been since anyone touched him with a gentleness.
Aemond looks up at her, blue eye darting between hers. Her kind smile. The way her lips part as she speaks. She is close enough to smell the sweet scented oils combed through her hair. He wants to spill into it.
The shame returns, and so does image of her standing there. And so does the ache in his own lap remind him. She did not look away. Looking back at it now, he can't see it in himself to mind.]
You must think of me depraved.
[ Instead of accepting her apology or granting her forgiveness, this is what he can only think to say. A gentle, curious pressing. He would not speak of any of it outright, to call upon her own depravity for watching him. To question her how long she'd stood there. ]