Pity, too, that you think my mother comely only as a man might see a painting. Your interests lie elsewhere, as you've said.

[ and he does have a decent shade of brown.

whatever it is, aemond feels himself move before he realises it, pulling tim to him and kissing him properly on the mouth. there is nothing brotherly about it; there is a pained hunger in his restraint, a roiling heat in the way aemond slips his hand to the base of tim's nape to hold him steady.

what's a little kiss between family? they're brothers now. he makes it so. ]