tw: mention of rape and violence

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Disgusting and dirty: that's how Aemond felt in those moments, roaming through his chamber like an anxious child. He would never forget that night. It was engraved on his skin, he could still feel her touch. Something had been taken from him, something was missing. He wanted to flay his own skin. His thoughts were filled with self contempt and violent desires.

He wanted to go back to that brothel and strangle that bitch with her tangled, gross, long hair. He wanted to rip out her viscid tongue and carve out her depraved eyes, leaving her contorting in her own piss, blood and spittle.

He wanted to kill his brother too.

But most of all he wanted to curse himself.

Why didn't he do anything? Why did he stand there and let that wench do what she wanted?
He was a prince, a very strong one, stronger than that bitch and his brother together. He rode the largest dragon in the world.

What had gone wrong with him? Was he still that weak? Was he still that helpless? Was it his fault?

The most disgusting thing was the fear he had felt; last time he felt that kind of fear was years ago: a paralysing fear. He had felt tears forming in his eyes, and the urge to cry almost took over him. He still had that urge.

He wanted to go to his mother, but would she even have believed him? He was strong enough to defend himself, she probably would have thought he was lying to cover his dirtiness, but the truth was he had enjoyed it: he was now tainted and perverse like his brother. Dirty and disgusting like Aegon, that's what he was. He felt guilty for the pleasure he felt, he didn't want that, he would have rather felt pain.
He felt embarrassed, lonely and distressed.
He thought about calling Ser Criston, but that would have been even more humiliating.
His hands were still trembling, he couldn't bear to be alone, and yet the thought of being with anyone either disgusted him or made him uncomfortable.

He impulsively called the guard outside his room and ordered him to call his maid.
He didn't know why he did that. Perhaps he simply felt the urge to wash off his skin in a bath, or maybe he knew that the presence of his maid would have made him less uncomfortable than the presence of anyone else.

He thought about her pale sunken face, about her slightly big black eyes, about her small strong hands...yeah, maybe Nyla would have been okay. She would have been silent and discreet. She would have understood, maybe even comforted him. And even if she hadn't done any of that, perhaps her sole presence would have made him feel better, less lonely. After spending two years with her she had become a familiar presence in his life. She was the kind of person who could adapt and displace herself to make space for others.

The first time he met her he thought she was a dull presence, the kind of girl nobody would turn to look at twice. She didn't talk much, just the strictly necessary. He knew many in the castle didn't like him, he had heard the rumours about him: he had heard them whisper and laugh, tremble and sigh, complain and gossip. But she wasn't like them, he wouldn't have kept her for so long if she was. She didn't even seem to dislike him; after a while he noticed that she was like that with everyone: kind of matt, faded.
Really a boring person, that's what he thought back then. But after observing her for quite some time he came to understand that it was just a farce, a sort of survival strategy to avoid any kind of resentment or annoyance. She was actually more smart than she let out. And then, sometimes, when she thought he wasn't paying attention, she would show some sort of kindness, not the fake one many people had shown him, it was a spontaneous gentleness intrinsic in her being, in her gestures, a softness he had never really seen in anyone else.

Knock. knock. knock. Knock. The sudden sound brought him back to reality: it was her.

His breath seemed to slow down.

"Come in" He said, his voice was delivered in a rougher way than he intended to.

He then realised the condition his neck and face were in. He didn't want her to look at him in that state, so he quickly turned to the window.

She asked him how she could have helped him. The tone of her voice was formal yet comforting. He liked her voice.

"Prepare me a bath". She quickly did as he ordered.

She would always do everything he asked impeccably. But now he didn't want the perfect, impeccable, professional Nyla.
He wanted to see some sort of reaction, he needed attention.

Sometimes when he showed her his bare chest and torso she would look at him for longer than she was supposed to. Perhaps she was attracted to him; he wouldn't have minded that.

But what would she have said in such a situation if he had shown her his body? Would she have asked questions? What would have been her reaction? He was curious, he wanted her to ask, he wouldn't answer, but if she asked, wouldn't that have meant she cared?

Please care.

He entered the bathroom and took off his blouse.
He could feel her deep black eyes running on his skin.
But was she really looking at him?
It felt as if she was looking at something through him.
For a moment that unintelligible gaze was filled with affection.
But then the eyes went up, and met his own.
And once again they turned as empty, as apathetic as always.
She didn't care. She didn't care at all.

He felt hurt and averted his gaze, then proceeded to quickly enter the bathtub.

"You don't mind my touch, your grace?" So she understood what had happened to him, yeah, she did for sure. Was this her way to show she was sorry for him? Was this her being caring? Or was it only her self-preserving carefulness? He felt bothered. He ordered her to go on and closed his eye, resting his head on the brim of the bath. Maybe he had made a mistake calling her.

She gently took off his eyepatch and started washing his hair as if they were the most precious, delicate thing in the world.

He remembered when he first showed her his missing eye: he did it as a test, he wanted to see her reaction, but to his surprise she hadn't even flinched; he couldn't find any trace of pity nor fear or disgust in those unfathomable eyes. Maybe that's when his interest in her arose.

And now it had become natural: when it was just the two of them he could freely show his face without fear of judgement nor embarrassment.

Her hands were lightly stroking his scalp and neck in a hypnotising motion. To his surprise her touch didn't feel off-putting, on the contrary he wanted more, but she was being even more careful and gentler than usual. He tried to slightly move his body closer to her hands, to feel more, but in response she would move them further away, trying to maintain a constant light touch. He wondered if she found him repulsing.

He peeked at her while she was washing his hair.
She looked vaguely malnourished, he wondered if her pay was so low that she couldn't afford proper food. Her hands were also rough, it was evident she had worked her whole life. Despite that she was pretty, she couldn't compare to the sophisticated beauty of the ladies that roamed the court, but still, she was pretty. Her long black hair was beautiful, her thin lips looked so soft and warm, and he also liked the slight cavity of her white collarbones, barely visible from her modest ashen dress.
He liked the two small moles under her right eye, but most of all he liked those two pitch-black eyes, so black he could see his reflection in them during the day and the wavering flame of the candles at night.
Those eyes comforted him and tortured him at the same time, being so deeply engulfing and yet impenetrable.

As she finished washing his hair she got up, ready to exit the room. But he didn't want her to leave. He wished she could have stayed more: her presence brought him comfort and distracted him from his concerns; so he ordered her to stay. He knew he shouldn't have done that, he knew it wasn't proper, and for a moment he feared her rejection; but she complied to his request with no objections. She turned to the other side, but didn't leave nor move, she stood there beside him the whole time. The flow of destructive thoughts that had tormented him before seemed to have stopped now. Instead he felt a sort of tingle in his chest: maybe she cared for him, yeah, even just a little bit. A little bit was more than enough, at least for now.

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Author's note:
Hi guys <3
Thank you for reading this chapter, I hope you liked this soft Aemond! Things will change very soon.

Q: What do you think about their relationship?

      /)  /)
ପ (˶•-•˶) ଓ ♡
    /づ  づ [thank u for reading!]