[ The lord's droning fades into background noise. Ser Tyland speaks up to shoot down whatever nonsense the elder lord is babbling. The young prince should pay more attention. Even when he knows nothing else of this council will serve him, he still had some interest in the workings. As though some day he might sit in the great chair himself, weighing in on these decisions in his mother's place. Nowhere close to such a thing, and to think of it is still considered treasonous on many counts. Still, he finds himself wondering. If such a duty was ever requested of him.
For now, his attention is torn. Instead he follows the trace of his mother's finger along the collar of her dress. A bruised crescent along her neck that he does not immediately recognize. When he does, his eye flits away, falling upon the Hand and the rest of the table who does not seem to have noticed. The chair creaks beneath him as he adjusts, smiling down at the table for a moment before washing away any sign of that pride.
The heat threatens to rise on his neck again. Trying now to focus heavily on the subject matter before his mind tries to wander away. A part feeling shameful for having marked her, which would threat whispers should any of her ladies catch a peek at it. The desire to leave her more, perhaps somewhere easier to conceal under her dresses. Little memories for her to run her fingers over and think of him. A thought he didn't think to drive him wild.
Aemond shifts to take a drink from his cup. The weak wine washing over his tongue provides a distraction to reset as his grandsire speaks in response over the current matter. Looking briefly to him, almost as if he is trying to clue the young prince in on paying closer attention as he delegates.
He has not a clue what the hell is going on, but resumes pretending to do so. Likely like half the table seems to be similarly engaged. ]
no subject
For now, his attention is torn. Instead he follows the trace of his mother's finger along the collar of her dress. A bruised crescent along her neck that he does not immediately recognize. When he does, his eye flits away, falling upon the Hand and the rest of the table who does not seem to have noticed. The chair creaks beneath him as he adjusts, smiling down at the table for a moment before washing away any sign of that pride.
The heat threatens to rise on his neck again. Trying now to focus heavily on the subject matter before his mind tries to wander away. A part feeling shameful for having marked her, which would threat whispers should any of her ladies catch a peek at it. The desire to leave her more, perhaps somewhere easier to conceal under her dresses. Little memories for her to run her fingers over and think of him. A thought he didn't think to drive him wild.
Aemond shifts to take a drink from his cup. The weak wine washing over his tongue provides a distraction to reset as his grandsire speaks in response over the current matter. Looking briefly to him, almost as if he is trying to clue the young prince in on paying closer attention as he delegates.
He has not a clue what the hell is going on, but resumes pretending to do so. Likely like half the table seems to be similarly engaged. ]