[ Despite his blood, this is something else. Something darker than what is excused in the long line of Valyrian tradition. She is not one of them, she is also his mother. But he has also been her confidant, her defender. The one who still sees her when no one else is looking. He knows her sacrifices in that she never takes what she wants.

He knows the look in her eye when she sees something she wants and yet takes no action. To see her suffer in silence, and he has witnessed her suffer so much from all those around her. In the way she speaks to him now strikes similar in those times before. Where she speaks as what is expected of her, and yet her face speaks differently. The hand at his leg speaks differently.

Aemond's breath rattles as she tips his chin upright, looking at her in a way that shows he is spiraling. The press of her fingertips feel hot and jolting. He shifts almost to try and trick her hand closer. To ease his ache. His body tenses, the hand still poised into the blankets grip them tightly as if it is the one hinge left that keeps him from plunging into her. ]

It is too late. The thoughts of you have already spoiled my mind. [ his confession is soft, only meant for the space between them. Sheltered by the grazing of her thumb. Confessing his sins does not come without exposing hers. ] And you came to me in a moment where I try to relieve myself of them and yet did not turn away. They spoil you as well.

[ His hand does not travel further, the curve of her thigh braced between the web of his thumb and forefinger. Grazing and warm, her skin is absolutely soft. ] Perhaps if we purge ourselves of them, they will set us free.