[ The air begins to feel cool on his neck, Aemond remains still where he's sat apart from his anxiously idling fingers. The hem of her dress. Looking at her a quiet beat as if to ask Who? Who is there to witness this moment but the two of them? Who else but the seven themselves may be there to use it against them?

She shifts and squirms but does not retreat. Every part of him wants to say something but this is not something to be spoken. Left to pick apart what she might truly feel between the words like some petty table political game. One so convoluted it'd be better shared at the council table than in his bed.]

Tis a fallacy, is it not? [ He wonders. It is her paranoia speaking again. For the sins she has committed against her own enemies, perhaps, would equally fear them lashing back on her own. And if he'd be correct in her knowing, how hypocritical it would be.

Aemond looks down at his meandering hand. In similar kind, worrying at his bottom lip before he speaks.]

For one would have to see it or hear it to speak of it. [ He speaks again as his fingers slip further under the folds of satin. Their actions hidden. From them, from the gods, from their enemies.

The fabric is cool as it brushes the tops of his knuckles, but the warmth of her skin draws at the tips of his fingers meet along the thin stocking of her leg.] And even then must we blame ourselves for their depravity? For taking the Father's judgement on themselves?