It was the eve of Aemond’s rut — the first in over a year — and the court, as always, chose to prepare her needs rather than ask her will.

The chamber lay in half-light, caught between the glow of the fire and the dying orange of dusk bleeding through the high windows. Blood-red curtains hung halfway drawn, slicing the fading sun into narrow ribbons that fell across the black stone floor.

Heavy Targaryen tapestries were joined by gauzy silks strung from the bedposts, their pale folds stirring faintly in the draft. The massive bed was layered with furs atop crimson velvet, its sheets crisp and fresh, scented faintly of lavender steeped in musk. A scatter of gold-edged pillows created an almost ceremonial display of comfort. Near the hearth, a low table offered a silver tray: decanters of wine dark as fresh blood, figs split to reveal their glistening flesh, sugared almonds, and a vial of oil thick with sandalwood and myrrh.

A bronze brazier smouldered on the far side of the room, releasing slow curls of scented steam. Vetiver, rose, and crushed amber coiled into the air, thickening it until each breath tasted faintly of skin.

The door opened without ceremony. No titles. No greetings. Only the scrape of boots against stone and the delicate chime of tiny bells.

Three omegas stepped inside. They wore translucent silks that caught the firelight and left the shape of their bodies in shifting shadow. Loose shifts gaped at the sides, baring the curve of hip, the pale inside of a thigh, the hint of breasts beneath thin cloth. Gold chains circled their ankles, whispering with each step. Their wrists were bound loosely in white silk cords — a mark, not a restraint. Veils covered the lower halves of their faces, leaving their throats exposed in a wordless invitation.

Oil gleamed across their skin; their perfume thickened the room’s heat. Lilac, crushed fig, and warm milk blended with the first threads of heat already curling from them.

Aemond did not move.

She sat in a black high-backed chair carved with dragon heads. One leg crossed over the other, elbow resting on the armrest, gloved fingers coiled lazily around the pommel of her sword. Her clothing was dark leather, fitted close and buttoned high at the throat, the buckles at her waist gleaming dully in the firelight. Her hair fell loose over one shoulder, silver catching the dim glow in fine strands.

Her single violet eye followed the omegas with the fixed precision of a hawk measuring distance. Still. Silent. Unreadable.

The silence stretched until it felt weighted. A log in the hearth split with a low crack.

When she finally spoke, her voice cut through the haze — low, even, edged with frost.

"Leave them. And close the door."

The guards paused for a heartbeat, then bowed sharply and withdrew. The latch caught with a metallic click, sealing the warmth.

Aemond’s head tilted, the smallest shift, her gaze narrowing. She did not rise. There was no hunger in her expression, no visible desire.

Only the measured stillness of calculation.