Everyone in the platoon leaned very quickly that Aemond wasn’t the kind of officer you wanted to test.

He was strict, cold, and relentless.

But with you it was different—worse.

He never let a single mistake slip. A misplaced step, a second too slow, a hesitation in your stance—he was on you immediately, sharp commands cutting through the air.

It almost seemed like he had a personal grudge against you.

You hated it. Hated the way he always made an example of you, hated how his gaze always found you first in formation. But under all that hate, there was something you couldn’t shake.

He noticed everything. When your boots were worn down, when your rifle was overdue for maintenance, when you were dragging more then you should. He never softened his tone, but he was always there.

As much as you despised how he always seemed to pick on you more then the rest, you knew one thing for certain: if anything went wrong out there, he’d be the one to drag you out alive.

You were in the bunks, tugging your uniform jacket over your shoulders, when you heard him. The quiet scrape of boots on the floor was enough to make you pause.

“Figured I’d find you here,” Aemond said, voice low, carrying that familiar edge. He leaned against the ladder, arms crossed, eyes focused on you.