Stitch by stitch, thread by thread. The gold embroidery that once sparkled is now a shadow of its former glory. A cut left by a sword, jagged like a wound in a heart, divides their portraits forever

Each stitch is a kiss he will never give. Each thread is a word he will not say.

The needle plunges into the fabric as if into flesh, and she feels the tears finally break through. They fall onto the tapestry, dissolving into the patterns. The candles around her trembled, as if afraid of the silence that weighed on her more heavily than her royal duties. Her fingers, graceful and accustomed to the finest patterns, trembled as she brought the gold thread to the torn tapestry. Where once her image had been inextricably linked to her husband's figure, there was now a black chasm: on one side there was her, gentle, with a tressoir on her head, smiling as she stood next to him, and on the other there was him, the Prince of Dragonblood, his face long and sharp-featured, giving him as majestic an appearance as possible, embroidered with such skill that it seemed as if he were about to speak. The sword's cut passed along their joined hands, as if it wanted to destroy not only the fabric, but also her childish idea that there had once been something more between them than cold treaties and quiet reproaches.

«…Threads cannot bind what was never there. — Aemond's voice was cold, his shadow seemed even larger in the right fall of candlelight; a long pale finger touches the chest, which contained various skeins of silk threads for the finest patterns and linen to fasten the cut.»