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He’s always watching.
From dark corners and stretched out hallways.
From his place at the King’s table – eye like a piercing dagger, or like his sword, forever at the ready, strapped to his hip. His eye, perpetually stuck to your form, moving along with you, wherever you went.
Each time you catch his gaze, it feels like its cut has dug deeper into you, rearranging an emptiness therein your heart, within core. There’s an ember right inside of you, teetering and unstable and ready to burst aflame if only you’d be able to get closer to him.
Because he’s never touched, or said a thing.
Because he’s a Prince of House Targaryen, closer to Gods than men. And you’re nothing but a companion.
Even still, it doesn’t deter him – always watching, with an intensity you’d never before been a witness to. Always watching, regardless of the horrors he’s lived, of what he’s been robbed off. One would think he’d lose all potency, but the lack of an eye didn’t meddle with Aemond being an observant man.
Sometimes, you wonder if you’re dreaming it all. Wonder if your time spent inside Princess Helaena’s chambers have driven you to hallucinations where you’re desired by royalty. But it cannot be, as each time your own sight passes his, it is never unmatched.
It’s like a dance, performed at a distance. Two dancers, like magnets, drawn to one another from opposite sides of the ballroom.
Surely there were some far more experienced in life than you, those that had seen miracles beyond your own little realm here, inside these walls of stone, always by the Princess’ side like the worthy help that you were made to be. But by Gods, you’re sure, that Aemond’s quiet yet fierce beauty should be deemed a wonder of the Seven Kingdoms.
He’s even watching, as soon as his feet touch the ground after hopping from his mighty Vhagar, and lifting an eye towards the pillar that’s hiding your form, as you’d sneak away from Helaena’s attention the moment you’d heard the roar of his dragon approaching. How he’d been able to sense your presence is beyond you, though you reason he’s just that receptive of his surroundings, as a great assassin should be.
Tonight, it goes a little differently.
Tonight, change is in the air.
You’re wandering the corridors, hiding within the shadows that stretch along the castle for sleep had never come, and like a phantom in the night, sleek and silent, he manifests before you – silver hair a beacon in the darkness, and one uncovered eye glistening like the sapphire that took the place of the other.
“Evening, my lady.” His voice is grave, yet calm in its cadence.
You timidly bow, gulping down with surprise, before whispering, “My Prince.”
His lips twitch in a faint smirk, as they never really curved into a full smile, but you take it gladly. “What is a proper lady like yourself doing up and alone at this time of the night?”
Emboldened by forces unknown to you, you reply, “I could ask the same thing” and nearly wince at the sudden spike of courage, hoping you hadn’t upset the Prince.
Yet the effect is the opposite, to your relief and doom, because the way in which his eye darkens does nothing but empower the flames burning at the pit of your belly.
“My lady, don’t you hold back. I think it’s time we take the next step in this dance we’ve got going between us. Don’t you think so?”
He steps closer to you, until every intricate ridge of his scar is made visible to you, by the way in which he holds a candle to illuminate yourselves.
“Your grace, I – I can’t. What you imply…I’m not worthy. It wouldn’t be right, I’m but a –”
“ – Not worthy?” he cuts your diatribe with that reserved but deadly manner of his, “Have I given you such an impression? Haven’t you noticed the way I admire you, so? Shall I say it explicitly, my lady?”
The sly man that he is, he mumbles something in High Valyrian that you cannot understand but it must be something truly sinful – must be a spell of some kind, working its magic– for you feel yourself dripping in between your legs, with every roll of his tongue.
He reaches a callused hand to your cheek and your intake of breath betrays your hesitation. “Shall I…show you?” His nose is but a whisker away from touching yours, his lips are a breath away from kissing you.
“My lord…” One more time, you meet his gaze, willing your eyes to project all that pent up desire, all that ardent want, all the feelings that you’re just not brave enough to articulate with spoken word for fear of exile, of beheading, of all the punishment that someone like you could be subjected to if an affair with a prince should unfold.
“Do as you wish,” You hoarsely plead.
“As I wish?” he raises one eyebrow and his chuckle is but a mere puff of air against your mouth. “Careful, my sweet. I just might.”
His eye scans your body from head to toe as he subtly licks his lips. “Is the color of your gown a symbol of your virtue?”
You swear you could combust at any moment, if one of Aemond’s hands hadn’t settled at your waist, if his grip weren’t tightening, bunching up your white nightgown and keeping you on your feet.
You’re all flushed and speechless, but sane of mind enough to keep the bite in your retort and watch his pupil turn into a wide obsidian, the second you say, “Why don’t you find out, my lord?”