You knew Larys Strong was not to be trusted. Not truly.

But in the Red Keep, there were few you could trust, and when he approached you with quiet urgency, murmuring that he had news of Aemond’s enemies—true, actionable intelligence—your heart skipped. You knew how hard your husband was fighting. How deeply the war weighed on him. If there was anything you could do to help lighten that burden, you’d do it.

The library was cloaked in shadows when you arrived, the glow of a few guttering candles barely reaching the corners of the vaulted space. Dust hung in the air, and the scent of old parchment wrapped around you like a veil. Larys greeted you with a shallow bow, his posture deferential but never truly humble.

He began with flattery, as he always did. A quiet reverence in his tone. He spoke of your loyalty to Aemond, of the depth of your devotion. He spoke as though he understood it, admired it.

Then, his tone shifted.

The cadence of his voice changed—too casual, too familiar. The glint in his eyes sharpened with something darker. He offered more information—more than you’d asked for. But he wanted something in return.

You hadn’t expected his request. Something so small, and yet so grotesque in context.

He wanted to see your feet.

Your stomach turned. The words hung between you, obscene in their simplicity.

There something about the hunger in his eyes—something about the quiet glee in the way he looked at you—made your stomach twist.

Your blood ran cold. You said nothing more. Just turned and left.

You didn’t walk—you ran.

By the time you reached your chambers, your breath was shallow, chest heaving, fingers trembling against the doorframe. You barely registered the cool air wafting in from the balcony—only the shape of Aemond, statuesque in black, head turning sharply at your entrance. His sword lay glinting beside him on the table.

He crossed the room in a few quick strides, his expression hardening as he caught the look in your eyes.

“What happened?” he asked, voice low, dangerous.