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Summary
Aemond tilted his chin up, meeting Lucerys’s heated gaze. A slow, deliberate smirk curled his lips, replacing fury with calculated mischief. He leaned in, his whisper a silken thread meant only for Luke’s ears. "Careful, my future husband," he breathed, his violet eye gleaming.
"Your bride wears nothing beneath these robes today... and I must admit, I shall wear nothing beneath my wedding gown when we wed either." He let the implication hang, watching Lucerys intently.
Lucerys froze mid-step.
“You wore nothing beneath your skirts while Ser Lycan stood behind you? While Ser Arax held your hand?”
Aemond smirks, “yes, my husband,” he replies.