The world tilted as Aemond carried her to the broad oak table near the window, its surface strewn with maps and parchment that crinkled beneath her weight. He set her down hard, the edge biting into her thighs, and she gasped—a sound swallowed by his mouth as he pressed himself between her legs. The silk of her robe parted like water, sliding from her shoulders to pool at her elbows, baring her to the cool night air and the heat of his gaze. His hands roamed her skin, fingertips tracing the curve of her hips, the dip of her spine, as though mapping a new conquest.
Aliandra arched into him, her nails digging into the taut muscle of his shoulders through the thin linen of his tunic. She could feel the coiled strength in him, the barely leashed violence that simmered beneath his composure, and it thrilled her. Her lips found his throat, tasting salt and steel, and she bit down—not gently. A low sound rumbled in his chest, half-growl, half-sigh, and his grip tightened, bruising.
With a swift, brutal motion, he shoved the maps aside, sending quills and inkpots clattering to the floor. The table groaned as he pushed her back, her spine meeting the wood, her hair fanning out like spilled ink. He loomed over her, a shadow carved from moonlight and menace, and for a moment she thought he might refuse her still—might turn away and leave her wanting.
But then his hands were on her again, rough and certain, parting her thighs wider. The air was thick with the scent of him—smoke and leather and something darker, something that made her pulse race. He shed the last of his restraint like a snake sloughing skin, and when he tore into her, it was with a force that stole her breath. She cried out, a sharp, wild sound that echoed off the stone walls, and he stilled for a heartbeat, watching her with that unreadable gaze.
"Too much?" he asked, voice low, mocking, though there was a flicker of something else beneath it.
She laughed, breathless, her legs wrapping around his hips to pull him deeper. "Not enough." Her hands clawed at his back, urging him on, and he obliged with a ferocity that matched her own. The table rocked beneath them, its legs scraping the floor, a rhythm as old as the dunes and as relentless as the sea.
There was no gentleness here, no courtly pretense. It was raw, primal—a clash of wills as much as bodies. Aliandra felt the heat of him, the weight, the way he filled her until there was nothing else, no thought of Dorne or Targaryens or the consequences that would surely follow. Only this—only him, his breath ragged against her throat, his hands bruising her flesh, his silver hair falling into her eyes as he drove into her again and again.
When the end came, it was sudden, shattering. She arched beneath him, a cry tearing from her lips as the world dissolved into white-hot sparks. He followed a moment later, a guttural sound escaping him as he buried his face in the crook of her neck, his body shuddering against hers. For a long, suspended moment, they were still—two beings caught in the aftermath, breath mingling, sweat cooling on their skin.
Then he pulled away, abrupt and cold, leaving her sprawled across the table. He straightened, running his hands through his hair with precise, unhurried movements, his face once more a mask of indifference. Aliandra propped herself up on her elbows, her chest still heaving, her robe a tangled ruin around her. She watched him, a slow smile curling her lips.
"Will you send me away now, Butcher?" she asked, her voice husky, teasing.
Aemond glanced at her, his sapphire eye glinting in the dim light. "You've had what you came for," he said flatly, turning to retrieve his goblet from the desk. "Go."
She slid off the table, her legs unsteady but her pride intact. Gathering the remnants of her robe, she crossed the room with the same grace she'd entered, pausing at the door to look back at him. "I will come again tomorrow," she said, her tone a promise, a threat.
He didn't answer, only watched her go. The door closed behind her, and the night swallowed her footsteps, leaving the chamber to its shadows and the faint, lingering scent of oranges and smoke.