The scrape of the chair is abrupt. Boots clicking against stone as Aemond stalks toward the map like it’s a battlefield — and maybe it is, for him. His hand moves, long fingers gliding over painted lines and carved rivers, cutting off Dragonstone with precision.

The island would be isolated by land once Ser Criston strikes Rook's Rest.

Aegon follows, finger jabbing over and over at a point farther west. "No! Have him turn about. I want Harrenhal back," he demands, though there's a hitch in his tone. A flicker of something panicked behind his eyes. Like he’s trying to command, but the fear slips out through the cracks.

"Cole is already preparing his attack," Aemond states coolly.

"Uh, how do you know that?”

“He sent word to me," Aemond replies, meeting his brother's gaze.

A beat.

“To you?” Aegon’s voice spikes, cracked with disbelief. “The two of you have been — plotting? Without my authority?" There’s betrayal in it, but it’s laced with something bitterer. Powerless. Like he already knows the answer. And then, without warning, he switches tongues.

“Gaoma oznehurkta mīrēbagon aō bēvules,” he begins, the High Valyrian fluid. He’s showboating — he always does when he speaks it. Every word a flex. A reminder of what Aegon lacks. "Lo koston, qurdalbri pradagon, brōziapot aōle iderēbagon, se īlvo Dāromīsȳrto mittiri piktī ivēttegon. Sylvikton kȳvanon emā, dārys ñuhys? Lo iksos, aōho sytiotāpȳnto ūī vestragon avy sytilības. Aōhon udlinon gierī jumbi."

You don’t understand all of it. Not really. The words feel heavy, but their full meaning slips through your fingers. Still — you know it’s cruel. You can hear it in the edge of Aemond’s voice, in the way he sits back and savours it.

Aegon's mouth twists. He throws out a reply that’s barely stitched together. “Nyke koston ... bēvilus ... sētegon bīlīvāzmi?”

It’s bad. You know it’s bad. The sentence stumbles, the words mispronounced.

Aemond’s lips twitch. “Hm.” It’s a sound of amusement.