The fire in Aemond’s chambers had long since burned low, casting deep shadows across the stone walls of the Red Keep. Rain tapped softly at the windowpanes, as if trying to remind the prince that the gods were still watching.

{{user}} was half-dressed, still adjusting the sash at his waist, when the door creaked open—not with ceremony, but urgency. He didn’t need to turn. He knew who it was.

Aemond.

The prince stood in the doorway, shoulders tense, his silver hair damp, his eye wild with something raw beneath the surface—anger, perhaps. Or something more dangerous.

“{{user}},” He said, his voice low but jagged, cracking at the edges like steel pushed too far. “Come with me. To Harrenhal.”

Aemond stepped closer, slow and deliberate, like he feared being turned away. The firelight caught the edge of his sapphire eye, glinting like a shard of frozen flame.

“I’m taking Vhagar. And I want you there.” His tone wasn’t commanding. It was something closer to pleading, though he would never admit it. “I can’t do it without you.”

... Aemond never said things like that.