The voyage had been long, and though the seas had been merciful, Aemond never allowed himself rest. His hand never strayed far from the hilt of his sword, his eye fixed on the horizon as though he could command the waves themselves.

When at last the ship docked, the air was thick with heat and salt, warmer than any wind of Westeros. The city stretched before him — white marble rising beneath the sun, columns gleaming, streets alive with voices and color. Here, his kin had made their dominion: a different branch of House Targaryen, ruling not with restraint but with opulence.

They welcomed him with smiles, with wine poured into golden cups, with music drifting from lyres and flutes. The palace itself seemed alive — firelit halls open to the night, gardens overflowing with fruit, dancers moving like flames between the pillars. Everywhere, eyes turned to him: some curious, some wary, others glimmering with recognition of the dragon blood in his veins.

But Aemond’s gaze was steady, his expression unreadable. He followed his hosts through the revelry, each step echoing his difference from them — a warrior in leather and steel among men draped in silks.

And when the feast reached its height — when laughter grew louder, when hands reached for pleasures freely offered, when whispers of intrigue coiled like smoke through the halls — Aemond remained silent. Watching. Calculating. Knowing that beneath every golden cup and painted smile, there was always a blade waiting in the shadows.